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This fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone Away from the prying eyes of the cameras, the audience and the contestants, there was a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Black silk, asymmetrical hemline, chiffon train, off the shoulder, seductive, elusive, one of those items of clothing which would be worn with pride for no one,but the wearer themself. Oh the glamour and galore it produced, everyone was gasping when its wearer strutted down the halls, transforming every den into a cathedral of splendour and decadence. Seven rows of pearls unified to support one diamond framed sapphire brooch, like the kingsguard protecting the kingdom's most beloved uncrowned queen. Long legs cladded in black translucent tights, heels sharp up to the nines, ready to kick or dance to kingdom come. The embodiment of a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare, crisis and envy, the final kick to awaken desires brushed away for too long. Oblivion drowned by desire, care abandoned and overruled by lust. As the stars chase the sun, pearls are cast astray, master by title, king of the night unwrapped his gift, knowing it would please him right. Greg should have given Alex the stage to wear the dress and heels throughout the whole evening, should have paraded him around in it in the pub where they were celebrating with some mates after the recording had ended, to shove him into a taxi and the peel of every layer of that stunning outfit with the finesse it deserved but alas he was not a patient man. And every second he saw Alex in the dress was a test on how long he could hide his more and more obviously growing arousal, which if you're wearing tight black suit trousers will soon have you wishing for a snowball down your neck. Waiting to be demiked had him pray to the patreon saint of lost causes, the way Alex was bending over before him, made it almost impossible to stand still and focus on what was said. Uttered promises, odd agreements, shunned arrangements, the world had to wait as the heat in his stomach had produced smoke clouding all other commands urging him to act soon, or wardrobe will throw a fit over clothes being ruined, more than they will over the dress which Alex had in the prelude already booked for himself to keep. Alex was confident in those heels, nevertheless stumbled in them as Greg dragged him into his dressing room,slamming and locking the door behind them. They were engaged in a fast paced binary rhyme of kisses and touches one could compare to a passionate Pasodoble worthy of 10 points from even the most coldblooded critic. A snog against the wall, teeth against a neck which was far from a swan, yet decked with pearls galore till the choker was unceremoniously ripped away by hands made for great cruelty and gentle embraces alike. Alex lips escaped a depraved gasp when he was lifted up to the table, head dropping to the side in anticipation of another onslaught of kisses, marking him as Greg's possession, as he began to hitch up his skirt. "No..no.. I get to unwrap you… Hands to the side till I tell you otherwise." Greg commanded, tongue heavy with lust, yet still not tired of his authority. Master of his own right, while in these holy halls of glistering silver screen, armour tailored of black cotton finery, he could command his desire here at will. "Ofc…" Alex did as told, which Greg rewarded with more kisses while he took it upon himself to take as much time to part his legs, hands which were familiar with his skin like a sculptor working his craft, moved to reveal more and more of his tights cladded long legs. At the edge of sanity, all patience had been devoted to preserving and honouring the black silk dress till it was pooling around Alex middriff, Greg decided the M&S tights did not deserve such a treatment, ripping them apart at the crotch. "Oh wicked little thing… not wearing any underwear in this outfit." "Always prepared… Always ready for you…" "So you are clever little minx." Greg let his hand wands in adoration over Alex's backside, noticing the toy he had inserted to prep himself. Oh he really was ready for him. Greg nevertheless treated himself to applying some lubrication, the fancy type which promised a tantalising effect with a long lasting tingling effect, perfect to keep that mesmerising electric feeling between them going for as long as possible. Alex bit his hand in order not to raise his voice immediately when Greg replaced the toy with his first thrust. Oh the air was filled with cannons and fireworks within the first gasps of their lovemaking. Crossing his leg behind Greg's back, Alex truly fulfilled his true calling, acting like a champagne filled starlet with ambition, while being still in full control of the situation. "You drive me insane…. looking so good in a dress…" Greg panted, the heat between them was almost unbearable, feeling the lines blur between where he began and Alex ended with every thrust, while Alex took it, encouraging Greg to go faster with an almost impatient plea.	This fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone Away from the prying eyes of the cameras, the audience and the contestants, there was a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Black silk, asymmetrical hemline, chiffon train, off the shoulder, seductive, elusive, one of those items of clothing which would be worn with pride for no one,but the wearer themself. Oh the glamour and galore it produced, everyone was gasping when its wearer strutted down the halls, transforming every den into a cathedral of splendour and decadence. Seven rows of pearls unified to support one diamond framed sapphire brooch, like the kingsguard protecting the kingdom's most beloved uncrowned queen. Long legs cladded in black translucent tights, heels sharp up to the nines, ready to kick or dance to kingdom come. The embodiment of a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare, crisis and envy, the final kick to awaken desires brushed away for too long. Oblivion drowned by desire, care abandoned and overruled by lust. As the stars chase the sun, pearls are cast astray, master by title, king of the night unwrapped his gift, knowing it would please him right. Greg should have given Alex the stage to wear the dress and heels throughout the whole evening, should have paraded him around in it in the pub where they were celebrating with some mates after the recording had ended, to shove him into a taxi and the peel of every layer of that stunning outfit with the finesse it deserved but alas he was not a patient man. And every second he saw Alex in the dress was a test on how long he could hide his more and more obviously growing arousal, which if you're wearing tight black suit trousers will soon have you wishing for a snowball down your neck. Waiting to be demiked had him pray to the patreon saint of lost causes, the way Alex was bending over before him, made it almost impossible to stand still and focus on what was said. Uttered promises, odd agreements, shunned arrangements, the world had to wait as the heat in his stomach had produced smoke clouding all other commands urging him to act soon, or wardrobe will throw a fit over clothes being ruined, more than they will over the dress which Alex had in the prelude already booked for himself to keep. Alex was confident in those heels, nevertheless stumbled in them as Greg dragged him into his dressing room,slamming and locking the door behind them. They were engaged in a fast paced binary rhyme of kisses and touches one could compare to a passionate Pasodoble worthy of 10 points from even the most coldblooded critic. A snog against the wall, teeth against a neck which was far from a swan, yet decked with pearls galore till the choker was unceremoniously ripped away by hands made for great cruelty and gentle embraces alike. Alex lips escaped a depraved gasp when he was lifted up to the table, head dropping to the side in anticipation of another onslaught of kisses, marking him as Greg's possession, as he began to hitch up his skirt. "No..no.. I get to unwrap you… Hands to the side till I tell you otherwise." Greg commanded, tongue heavy with lust, yet still not tired of his authority. Master of his own right, while in these holy halls of glistering silver screen, armour tailored of black cotton finery, he could command his desire here at will. "Ofc…" Alex did as told, which Greg rewarded with more kisses while he took it upon himself to take as much time to part his legs, hands which were familiar with his skin like a sculptor working his craft, moved to reveal more and more of his tights cladded long legs. At the edge of sanity, all patience had been devoted to preserving and honouring the black silk dress till it was pooling around Alex middriff, Greg decided the M&S tights did not deserve such a treatment, ripping them apart at the crotch. "Oh wicked little thing… not wearing any underwear in this outfit." "Always prepared… Always ready for you…" "So you are clever little minx." Greg let his hand wands in adoration over Alex's backside, noticing the toy he had inserted to prep himself. Oh he really was ready for him. Greg nevertheless treated himself to applying some lubrication, the fancy type which promised a tantalising effect with a long lasting tingling effect, perfect to keep that mesmerising electric feeling between them going for as long as possible. Alex bit his hand in order not to raise his voice immediately when Greg replaced the toy with his first thrust. Oh the air was filled with cannons and fireworks within the first gasps of their lovemaking. Crossing his leg behind Greg's back, Alex truly fulfilled his true calling, acting like a champagne filled starlet with ambition, while being still in full control of the situation. "You drive me insane…. looking so good in a dress…" Greg panted, the heat between them was almost unbearable, feeling the lines blur between where he began and Alex ended with every thrust, while Alex took it, encouraging Greg to go faster with an almost impatient plea. Selfish prayer resolved with carnal absolution, tainting black silk with pearls carrying the ocean over Cardiff bay in its tragic sapidity, to be spilled on such finery. Alex let himself faint into Greg's embrace, let himself be sheltered like a selkie returning to the arms of the ocean after years of being landlocked, thrusts like waves gently carrying him on waves of pleasure to oblivion. "Oh… my beautiful boy…." enraptured by this blissed state of his assistant, overcome most ardently with adoration, Greg spared a breath to admire the scene captured in his arms. Drank in the almost mythical atmosphere before his vision was blurred in a cascading mist of lust and liberation,as he came with the intensity of a snowstorm over Yr Wyddfa. Catching their breaths, they began laughing, shuffling to clean themselves and fix their clothes. Compassionately Greg threw Alex one of his sweaters to cover up the crimson marks of a fierce battle line which had been fought from one shoulder blade across his collarbone to his neck. "Thank you…. now get changed and let's have a proper night out… I want to beat your pretty arse at darts." Greg ushered Alex towards the door with a kiss and a slap to the rear, which made Alex jump with his usual giddy. "I would like to see you try." "Oh you will… and Alex…" "Yes Greg?" "Good job." Greg pulled him in for a kiss before he let him leave.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75651976	{"authors": ["DalekLetoEndeavour"], "language": "English", "title": "This fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone"}
🐚6: You're Not Listening DECEMBER: JANE He's not eating. My stomach churns as I glance – yet again – down the table to check on Charlie. He's picking at his meagre portion, moving it around his plate, but all I see him actually put in his mouth is a tiny bite of pig-in-blanket. I look back at my own full plate, spearing a bite of roast potato a little too forcefully with my fork, the squeal of the cutlery against the ceramic setting my teeth on edge. My writhing insides protest at the idea of actually swallowing any food, so I just let it hover there – halfway to my mouth – for a lot longer than I clearly should have, since Julio leans in so close I can smell the wine on his breath. "He's okay, love,” he says into my ear, his voice barely above a whisper. I place my fork back down on my plate and pick up my wineglass instead, careful to take a delicate sip rather than the gulp I really want to take, painfully aware of my mother's eyes on me just to my right. “He's not eating,” I mumble from behind my glass, knowing that Julio is listening carefully and will hear every word I say, but no one else will be able to make it out. “Geoff said today would be hard for him, but it's only one day,” Julio says, his voice quiet and calm. “He's doing well, and one bad day is not the end of the world.” I nod, setting my glass carefully back down on the forest green table runner, angling it just-so against my plate. “No coasters this year, Jane?” Mum enquires, polite as you like, but I know her remark is barely concealing a criticism, as usual. I swallow and look at her, forcing my lips into a tight smile. “Didn't really think they were needed with the table runner, Mum.” My mother's face resembles a bulldog chewing a wasp. “Well, I would never lay a table without coasters,” she gripes. “You'll still end up with watermarks, darling, and then your table will be ruined.” I grit my teeth for what must be at least the tenth time today, my jaw twinging. “Yes, well, I'll bear that in mind for next year Mum, thanks.” I try my best to concentrate on my dinner, but my eyes are inexorably drawn back down the table to my son. His plate is still mostly full, and my stomach flips at the thought of him not eating today. Despite Julio's earlier attempt to soothe me, the dietician's strict instruction that it's very important that Charlie finishes all of his meals reverberates on a loop through my mind. Before I'm even fully aware of what I'm doing, my knife and fork are clattering onto my plate and I'm pushing my chair back from the table. “Jane?” Julio's quiet utterance of my name is at once a question and a warning, and I can feel his eyes on me as I walk the few steps across the room to where the children are sitting, but I don't look back. “How's everyone doing down here?” I ask. “Everything okay?” I address the whole group of kids, but I know I'm only really asking Charlie. Judging by his enormous sigh and the way he practically throws down his fork, he knows it too. Clara and Esther mutter affirmations, but Charlie's response is the only one I'm interested in right now. “I'm fine,” he snaps, his blue eyes flashing. I hear Tori voicing her agreement, too, but I can only seem to look at Charlie, who is radiating anger. Oh, God, I'm messing this up. Again. But he's my baby and I'm so worried about him. I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “Okay.” I'm going for easy-going, but my voice comes out strained. I don't know what else to say, and I'm clearly not welcome down here, so I turn on my heel and return to my seat. “Stop getting up,” Mum says as I sit back down. “They're fine down there.” I give another tight-lipped smile and curt nod. What do you know? I think, bitterly. You could never see when I wasn't fine. But I hold my tongue. Like always. I feel Julio's palm come to rest gently on the back of my left hand and gratefully grasp it with my right one, trapping his warm, solid hand between both of mine. God, I'm so grateful for him. He always knows just what I need. Julio knows how much I struggle with my mother. How critical she is. How much it hurts every time she questions the way I'm doing something – especially with the children. I already know I get things wrong far too often; having her point out my many flaws just feels like an extra slap in the face every time. So to feel that wordless reassurance of his hand in mine floods my chest with warmth. He's telling me he's here. I'm not alone in this. Somehow we get through dinner, Charlie eating around half of his small portion, while I manage even less. My stomach is twisted with anxiety and stress, and every further cut from my mother's sharp tongue knots it up even further, until I feel like I've swallowed a writhing mass of baby grass snakes, which constrict my gut and threaten to rise up my throat and choke me. I wordlessly begin clearing the table, some family members, like Julio and – unfortunately – my parents, staying to help me, others wandering off into the	🐚6: You're Not Listening DECEMBER: JANE He's not eating. My stomach churns as I glance – yet again – down the table to check on Charlie. He's picking at his meagre portion, moving it around his plate, but all I see him actually put in his mouth is a tiny bite of pig-in-blanket. I look back at my own full plate, spearing a bite of roast potato a little too forcefully with my fork, the squeal of the cutlery against the ceramic setting my teeth on edge. My writhing insides protest at the idea of actually swallowing any food, so I just let it hover there – halfway to my mouth – for a lot longer than I clearly should have, since Julio leans in so close I can smell the wine on his breath. "He's okay, love,” he says into my ear, his voice barely above a whisper. I place my fork back down on my plate and pick up my wineglass instead, careful to take a delicate sip rather than the gulp I really want to take, painfully aware of my mother's eyes on me just to my right. “He's not eating,” I mumble from behind my glass, knowing that Julio is listening carefully and will hear every word I say, but no one else will be able to make it out. “Geoff said today would be hard for him, but it's only one day,” Julio says, his voice quiet and calm. “He's doing well, and one bad day is not the end of the world.” I nod, setting my glass carefully back down on the forest green table runner, angling it just-so against my plate. “No coasters this year, Jane?” Mum enquires, polite as you like, but I know her remark is barely concealing a criticism, as usual. I swallow and look at her, forcing my lips into a tight smile. “Didn't really think they were needed with the table runner, Mum.” My mother's face resembles a bulldog chewing a wasp. “Well, I would never lay a table without coasters,” she gripes. “You'll still end up with watermarks, darling, and then your table will be ruined.” I grit my teeth for what must be at least the tenth time today, my jaw twinging. “Yes, well, I'll bear that in mind for next year Mum, thanks.” I try my best to concentrate on my dinner, but my eyes are inexorably drawn back down the table to my son. His plate is still mostly full, and my stomach flips at the thought of him not eating today. Despite Julio's earlier attempt to soothe me, the dietician's strict instruction that it's very important that Charlie finishes all of his meals reverberates on a loop through my mind. Before I'm even fully aware of what I'm doing, my knife and fork are clattering onto my plate and I'm pushing my chair back from the table. “Jane?” Julio's quiet utterance of my name is at once a question and a warning, and I can feel his eyes on me as I walk the few steps across the room to where the children are sitting, but I don't look back. “How's everyone doing down here?” I ask. “Everything okay?” I address the whole group of kids, but I know I'm only really asking Charlie. Judging by his enormous sigh and the way he practically throws down his fork, he knows it too. Clara and Esther mutter affirmations, but Charlie's response is the only one I'm interested in right now. “I'm fine,” he snaps, his blue eyes flashing. I hear Tori voicing her agreement, too, but I can only seem to look at Charlie, who is radiating anger. Oh, God, I'm messing this up. Again. But he's my baby and I'm so worried about him. I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “Okay.” I'm going for easy-going, but my voice comes out strained. I don't know what else to say, and I'm clearly not welcome down here, so I turn on my heel and return to my seat. “Stop getting up,” Mum says as I sit back down. “They're fine down there.” I give another tight-lipped smile and curt nod. What do you know? I think, bitterly. You could never see when I wasn't fine. But I hold my tongue. Like always. I feel Julio's palm come to rest gently on the back of my left hand and gratefully grasp it with my right one, trapping his warm, solid hand between both of mine. God, I'm so grateful for him. He always knows just what I need. Julio knows how much I struggle with my mother. How critical she is. How much it hurts every time she questions the way I'm doing something – especially with the children. I already know I get things wrong far too often; having her point out my many flaws just feels like an extra slap in the face every time. So to feel that wordless reassurance of his hand in mine floods my chest with warmth. He's telling me he's here. I'm not alone in this. Somehow we get through dinner, Charlie eating around half of his small portion, while I manage even less. My stomach is twisted with anxiety and stress, and every further cut from my mother's sharp tongue knots it up even further, until I feel like I've swallowed a writhing mass of baby grass snakes, which constrict my gut and threaten to rise up my throat and choke me. I wordlessly begin clearing the table, some family members, like Julio and – unfortunately – my parents, staying to help me, others wandering off into the living room. I watch, feeling utterly helpless, as Charlie's head of dark curls swiftly disappears, making my chest feel heavy. He hates me. I'm doing everything wrong today. I'm just finishing washing up when I hear footsteps – Charlie's – behind me. I turn and smile softly at him. He looks furious, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. “Hi, Charlie,” I greet him quietly, trying to stay calm, but inside my stomach is squirming again. “Are you okay?” “No, I'm not okay!” he hisses. “I'm so sick of everyone talking about me!” “I'm sorry, Charlie,” I try to placate him, as I throw the teatowel on the draining board and turn to face him. “Try to ignore.” He scoffs and rolls his eyes so hard his head goes with them. “Not everyone understands what you've been dealing with,” I remind him. “So I just have to put up with ignorant comments from my own family?” Charlie fumes. “We just need to get through the day,” I tell him soothingly. “We'll have some tea later, but that's not for a couple of hours. How about a snack? Is there a snack on your meal plan for today?” I turn and grab his meal plan from the bookshelf behind me and scan it. He really needs to eat more. It'll settle him. “I don't want– Can you stop pestering me about food right now?” Charlie's tone hurts my heart and I freeze. I'm messing this up. Again. I'm vaguely aware of Tori standing in the archway, saying something about Mario Kart, but I'm losing control of this conversation with Charlie, and I can't tune in to her right now. “I– I'm just aware that today has been a very difficult day for you, Charlie,” I say desperately. He has to eat, why can't he see that? “You only managed half your dinner, and the dietician said that's a concern.” “You're not helping,” Charlie spits, his eyes dark with anger. “You're making me feel worse.” This isn't working. He's not listening. “Fine!” I hear myself say, spinning around to throw the meal plan on the side. “I’m sorry I even tried.” I stalk off, back over to the table to pick up the last remnants of Christmas cracker debris to throw them away, my chest full of an inexplicable seething rage. It's only when I hear the door slam and Tori's quiet sob ringing through the hallway that the tears come. 🐚🐚🐚 Julio bundles me into his arms as soon as he re-enters the kitchen and sees the tear tracks on my face. “What happened, love?” he says into my hair. “I only went to the loo, and suddenly the door's slamming, Tori's stropping off upstairs and you're crying.” “Charlie,” I sob into Julio’s cosy Christmas cardigan. “What about him?” Julio asks softly, stroking my hair. I pull out of my husband's embrace and wring my hands together. “He just never listens to me. I– I feel like I'm doing everything wrong.” “Jane,” Julio says, his brow furrowed in thoughtful concern. “You're not doing everything wrong. This is just… hard.” I swallow and look at the floor. “I… I didn't listen to him,” I admit in a small voice, my throat thick. “He was trying to tell me how he felt and I just made it all about food, which I know I shouldn't have done, but I'm just so worried about him. I can't watch him get so unwell again, Julio, I just can't.” My breath hitches and I bury my face in my hands as the sobs escape my chest once again. Julio runs his hands soothingly up and down the tops of my arms. “Jane,” he breathes. “He won't. He's doing so well. Today is just… difficult for him.” I know he's right, logically. But God, I'm so scared I feel sick. Everything my boy has been through flashes like a slideshow through my mind and panic clutches at my chest. “I'm so scared, Julio,” I whisper. “I’m so scared, like, all the time.” Julio's arms come around me again. “I know, love,” he soothes. “Me, too.” I'm not sure how long we stand there, just holding each other, but the sound of the front door slamming again makes us both jump. I peer down the hallway, hoping to see my boy's dark curls and his battered Converse on the doormat, but there's no one there, and Tori's coat is gone from the rack by the door. Great. Now she probably hates me, too. I sigh. “This was so much easier when they were babies.” Julio huffs out a little laugh. “Well…” he muses, head cocked to one side thoughtfully. “I don't know about that.” He smiles at me, those deep brown eyes so full of warmth, a little more crinkled around the edges every year, but still just as beautiful as the day I met him. I rest my forehead against his. “Love you,” I whisper. “Love you, too.” The next two hours are torturous – I know the kids are at Nick's because Sarah Nelson sent me a text to fill me in, but I still make my bottom lip bleed with how much I'm worrying at it with my teeth. I hate it when they're angry with me, but I just don't seem to know how to do things any differently with them. I'm really hoping that the family therapy we're due to start in January will help. As I say a stiff goodbye to my mother, it finally dawns on me that she is the reason I keep messing up with Tori and Charlie. She taught me how to be a parent – all criticism and no warmth – and that can't be good. By the time the kids come home, I'm absolutely resolute that things will be different from now on. I see the ease with which Julio throws his arms around our son and feel the usual hesitation to show such physical intimacy, but pull Charlie into a hug anyway, however haltingly. I want to change. I want to be better. I want to listen.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75651981	{"authors": ["HS_Obsessed"], "language": "English", "title": "🐚6: You're Not Listening"}
You Won't Remember My Champagne Problems The chandelier lights in the restaurant sparkle so bright that Inspector Nate almost has trouble keeping his eyes open. Rosa sits in front of him, fumbling with her purse nervously, excitedly as she brings out her favourite burgundy lipstick despite never being very much of a make-up person. But today is clearly a important day. Detective Rosa had already called on her mother for her arrival, as well as her gazillion cousins, for the occasion. Her dad wasn't there because he'd never been. But now the Detective was clearly blushing, the heat rose up to her previously pale cheeks as she powdered her nose, the little mirror opening in her hand as they continued to wait for the waiter in one of their many booked tables. Nate liked to watch her like that. She was so beautiful. He turned his face away, however, the moment she set the makeup down and tried to direct him one of her many brilliant gazes. The sparkle and happiness in her eyes slowly dying out as Nate was unable to meet them. Nate's hand clasped around the stem of his wine glass, as he observed the little bubbles of gold in his champagne. "Come quickly, I'm tasting the stars!" Dom Pérignon had said, when he first invented this wine. And every time Rosa achingly flinched and took a sip (she was a rare drinker), the wonder clearly transported to her eyes in an ever so confusing moment, and the previous uncertainty was gone... And Nate hated himself for that. That he couldn't keep the feeling going. For his mentee. "Oh, my mom's coming!" Rosa almost lifted herself off the table and stood up, but barely, as the glass gold-rimmed doors opened to reveal her mom, and her many cousins and her sisters... "This is so exciting! Can you imagine, Inspector, that this could be happening in front of all of them?" Nate, or Inspector Blake, flinched, "Actually, Rosa, I..." "Don't worry, Inspector, I didn't tell anyone, actually, so far, what you were planning. After all, you know how my family can be and if you felt pressured so, just in case," she shyly looked up at him, "I didn't- so go easy on them, will you?" "I don't have to." Nate mumbled and Rosa's face dropped. "What do you mean?" Rosa's voice was shaky, but the note of trembling was almost disappearing from it like the bubbles on his champagne. A champagne he hadn't touched. "Rosa..." Finally, he took a sip from the glass, and set it down, before gazing at her with a pain deep in between his ribs that somehow threatened to get worse for every second he looked at her, and yet... Her mom, and her friends were here, and yet... "I'm breaking up with you." He couldn't subject her to the pain of being with himself.	You Won't Remember My Champagne Problems The chandelier lights in the restaurant sparkle so bright that Inspector Nate almost has trouble keeping his eyes open. Rosa sits in front of him, fumbling with her purse nervously, excitedly as she brings out her favourite burgundy lipstick despite never being very much of a make-up person. But today is clearly a important day. Detective Rosa had already called on her mother for her arrival, as well as her gazillion cousins, for the occasion. Her dad wasn't there because he'd never been. But now the Detective was clearly blushing, the heat rose up to her previously pale cheeks as she powdered her nose, the little mirror opening in her hand as they continued to wait for the waiter in one of their many booked tables. Nate liked to watch her like that. She was so beautiful. He turned his face away, however, the moment she set the makeup down and tried to direct him one of her many brilliant gazes. The sparkle and happiness in her eyes slowly dying out as Nate was unable to meet them. Nate's hand clasped around the stem of his wine glass, as he observed the little bubbles of gold in his champagne. "Come quickly, I'm tasting the stars!" Dom Pérignon had said, when he first invented this wine. And every time Rosa achingly flinched and took a sip (she was a rare drinker), the wonder clearly transported to her eyes in an ever so confusing moment, and the previous uncertainty was gone... And Nate hated himself for that. That he couldn't keep the feeling going. For his mentee. "Oh, my mom's coming!" Rosa almost lifted herself off the table and stood up, but barely, as the glass gold-rimmed doors opened to reveal her mom, and her many cousins and her sisters... "This is so exciting! Can you imagine, Inspector, that this could be happening in front of all of them?" Nate, or Inspector Blake, flinched, "Actually, Rosa, I..." "Don't worry, Inspector, I didn't tell anyone, actually, so far, what you were planning. After all, you know how my family can be and if you felt pressured so, just in case," she shyly looked up at him, "I didn't- so go easy on them, will you?" "I don't have to." Nate mumbled and Rosa's face dropped. "What do you mean?" Rosa's voice was shaky, but the note of trembling was almost disappearing from it like the bubbles on his champagne. A champagne he hadn't touched. "Rosa..." Finally, he took a sip from the glass, and set it down, before gazing at her with a pain deep in between his ribs that somehow threatened to get worse for every second he looked at her, and yet... Her mom, and her friends were here, and yet... "I'm breaking up with you." He couldn't subject her to the pain of being with himself.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75652006	{"authors": ["Leafpuff"], "language": "English", "title": "You Won't Remember My Champagne Problems"}
The Adventure of the Seven Emeralds October 14th, 1901. My dearest Watson, It is hard to believe an entire year has elapsed since you departed for Cape Town. I read daily of the brutality of the war in southern Africa. It is all the British press can talk about these days. I am glad you are on the front lines, helping to care for the wounded. There is nowhere else in the world that a peerless physician such as yourself ought to be. Still, if I may be entirely honest with you, I must admit that I miss you terribly. I do hope this dreadful conflict is resolved soon, so that you may return to London. You see, a most vexing case has come to my attention. Nightly, as I reflect upon the mystery at hand, I find myself wishing that you were at my side. Without your wisdom and guidance, I fear I am only half as great a detective as the papers claim. Where do I begin? Even the act of summarizing this most perplexing affair is difficult. I am sure someone of sound mind, such as yourself, will not readily believe what I am about to convey. Upon reading this letter, in fact, you will probably conclude that I have gone mad! I assure you, though, what I am about to write is no delusion or dream. You may confirm the facts with Inspector Lestrade or Mary. They can corroborate this most fantastical tale. Now then, before I delve into the truly outlandish aspects of this tale, I must provide an adequate amount of context. Over the past several months, my time has been chiefly occupied by investigations into numerous heists. Museums across Europe have reported that precious gemstones in their collections have gone missing. It began with the theft of a red gem from one of the finest museums in Paris. A purple gem housed in a Roman museum disappeared soon after. By September’s end, a total of six gems had vanished without a trace. The various governments of the victimized countries called upon me to investigate the matter. I conducted a whirlwind tour of the international crime scenes and, eventually, I realized that these heists could all be traced back to one man; a seldom-seen inventor of automata known only as “Dr. Robotnik.” I have reason to believe he is here in London, no doubt planning another robbery. However, he is a man so thoroughly shrouded in darkness and enigma that even I cannot track him down. I have been working on this case for weeks, Watson, yet no leads have emerged. Not a single one. Then, just the other day, as I was playing violin in my study to clear my mind, I heard a tremendous thud. Something had struck the roof of 221B Baker Street. Naturally, I rushed outside to see what had happened. That was when I saw something unbelievable. Two creatures; one cobalt blue, the other black as night. They are clearly mammals and possess a high level of intelligence, yet they are certainly not human. They wear gloves and shoes, yet have quills all over their bodies, pointy ears, and large eyes unlike any creature on Earth. Perhaps most peculiar of all is their ability to run at unfathomable speeds. On foot, they seem to travel a hundred times faster than even the world’s speediest locomotives. I know how absurd this sounds, Watson, but it’s all true. These creatures are real. They are here, with me, in London. Their names are Sonic and Shadow. Naturally, I was astonished when I first laid eyes upon them. When the blue one (Mr. Sonic) began to speak, I nearly fainted. But we got to chatting and they turned out to be quite gregarious fellows. ...Well, Mr. Sonic is, at least. The dark one, Mr. Shadow, has barely said a word to me. Apparently, they fell out of the sky and crash landed on my roof, sustaining some minor injuries. Naturally, I invited them inside. We continued to chat over tea. Mr. Sonic told me that he and his friend were “hedgehogs.” Having seen firsthand a few hedgehogs in the past, I had to heartily disagree with this assessment. But, apparently, these two come from another world, where hedgehogs can do many of the same things as humans; walk, talk, and so on. As for why these two hedgehogs dropped by for a visit, they themselves weren’t too certain, it seems. They had gone to sleep in their own homes the other night, only to wake up on my rooftop. A most harrowing experience, to be sure! We puzzled over how and why they might have come here...until Mr. Shadow noticed a notebook I left open on a nearby desk. I was recording the facts of the case I mentioned prior, regarding the theft of precious jewels across Europe. Mr. Shadow noticed the name “Robotnik” on one of the pages and recognized it. Mr. Sonic did as well and filled me in on what he knew. Apparently, this Dr. Robotnik fellow is from their world! The gems he is collecting are supposedly called “Chaos Emeralds.” If he obtains all seven, he shall gain unimaginable power, with which he could conquer the entire world! Not even the combined might of the land and naval forces of the entire British Empire would be able to stop him, I am told! It	The Adventure of the Seven Emeralds October 14th, 1901. My dearest Watson, It is hard to believe an entire year has elapsed since you departed for Cape Town. I read daily of the brutality of the war in southern Africa. It is all the British press can talk about these days. I am glad you are on the front lines, helping to care for the wounded. There is nowhere else in the world that a peerless physician such as yourself ought to be. Still, if I may be entirely honest with you, I must admit that I miss you terribly. I do hope this dreadful conflict is resolved soon, so that you may return to London. You see, a most vexing case has come to my attention. Nightly, as I reflect upon the mystery at hand, I find myself wishing that you were at my side. Without your wisdom and guidance, I fear I am only half as great a detective as the papers claim. Where do I begin? Even the act of summarizing this most perplexing affair is difficult. I am sure someone of sound mind, such as yourself, will not readily believe what I am about to convey. Upon reading this letter, in fact, you will probably conclude that I have gone mad! I assure you, though, what I am about to write is no delusion or dream. You may confirm the facts with Inspector Lestrade or Mary. They can corroborate this most fantastical tale. Now then, before I delve into the truly outlandish aspects of this tale, I must provide an adequate amount of context. Over the past several months, my time has been chiefly occupied by investigations into numerous heists. Museums across Europe have reported that precious gemstones in their collections have gone missing. It began with the theft of a red gem from one of the finest museums in Paris. A purple gem housed in a Roman museum disappeared soon after. By September’s end, a total of six gems had vanished without a trace. The various governments of the victimized countries called upon me to investigate the matter. I conducted a whirlwind tour of the international crime scenes and, eventually, I realized that these heists could all be traced back to one man; a seldom-seen inventor of automata known only as “Dr. Robotnik.” I have reason to believe he is here in London, no doubt planning another robbery. However, he is a man so thoroughly shrouded in darkness and enigma that even I cannot track him down. I have been working on this case for weeks, Watson, yet no leads have emerged. Not a single one. Then, just the other day, as I was playing violin in my study to clear my mind, I heard a tremendous thud. Something had struck the roof of 221B Baker Street. Naturally, I rushed outside to see what had happened. That was when I saw something unbelievable. Two creatures; one cobalt blue, the other black as night. They are clearly mammals and possess a high level of intelligence, yet they are certainly not human. They wear gloves and shoes, yet have quills all over their bodies, pointy ears, and large eyes unlike any creature on Earth. Perhaps most peculiar of all is their ability to run at unfathomable speeds. On foot, they seem to travel a hundred times faster than even the world’s speediest locomotives. I know how absurd this sounds, Watson, but it’s all true. These creatures are real. They are here, with me, in London. Their names are Sonic and Shadow. Naturally, I was astonished when I first laid eyes upon them. When the blue one (Mr. Sonic) began to speak, I nearly fainted. But we got to chatting and they turned out to be quite gregarious fellows. ...Well, Mr. Sonic is, at least. The dark one, Mr. Shadow, has barely said a word to me. Apparently, they fell out of the sky and crash landed on my roof, sustaining some minor injuries. Naturally, I invited them inside. We continued to chat over tea. Mr. Sonic told me that he and his friend were “hedgehogs.” Having seen firsthand a few hedgehogs in the past, I had to heartily disagree with this assessment. But, apparently, these two come from another world, where hedgehogs can do many of the same things as humans; walk, talk, and so on. As for why these two hedgehogs dropped by for a visit, they themselves weren’t too certain, it seems. They had gone to sleep in their own homes the other night, only to wake up on my rooftop. A most harrowing experience, to be sure! We puzzled over how and why they might have come here...until Mr. Shadow noticed a notebook I left open on a nearby desk. I was recording the facts of the case I mentioned prior, regarding the theft of precious jewels across Europe. Mr. Shadow noticed the name “Robotnik” on one of the pages and recognized it. Mr. Sonic did as well and filled me in on what he knew. Apparently, this Dr. Robotnik fellow is from their world! The gems he is collecting are supposedly called “Chaos Emeralds.” If he obtains all seven, he shall gain unimaginable power, with which he could conquer the entire world! Not even the combined might of the land and naval forces of the entire British Empire would be able to stop him, I am told! It seems an act of God has brought these two hedgehogs to London, for the purpose of cracking this case and stopping this mad doctor. Deus ex machina is the only suitable explanation that I can think of. You know, dear Watson, that I am not a terribly religious man. For me to concede so readily to divine intervention should impress upon you how unbelievable and otherworldly this entire experience has been. Nevertheless, I must assure you once more that the above is an entirely factual account. All I have written thus far, I witnessed with my own two eyes. Three days have passed since the arrival of these hedgehogs. I have agreed to house them here at 221B Baker Street, for they are still quite weak from their fall and have nowhere else to go. I think their insight into the nature of this “Robotnik” character might be invaluable. At last, with their guidance, I think I may be able to solve this case and foil the doctor before he gets his hands on the last of these “Chaos Emeralds.” I am sure you have a million and one questions, dear Watson. I wish I could furnish you with a longer, more thorough letter. However, I am terribly busy at the moment (as are you, undoubtedly). When I get the time, I shall write to you again. For now, though, I must end my message here and attend to more pressing matters. One of the hedgehogs, Mr. Sonic, is preparing a most unique dish he calls “chili dogs”, which (as far as I can tell) consists of sausage and a beefy Mexican stew. I plan to question the two hedgehogs further over supper. Perhaps having some food in his stomach will make my surly guest, Mr. Shadow, a tad more agreeable. Yours truly, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75652021?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["LazKoal"], "language": "English", "title": "The Adventure of the Seven Emeralds"}
By The Waiting Room It’s Mini who’s responsible for Dennis being nicknamed “Snow White” from the age of fourteen all the way up until he left home for medical school. Mini was a stray barn cat that one day had wandered onto the family farm. There were plenty of barn cats that would come and go, but it was that summer, after Dennis finished mucking the stalls and was stalling behind the barn doors for a little longer to avoid going back out under the sun, that Mini stalked up to Dennis and dropped a particularly large rat at his feet. They stared at each other–Dennis slowly blinked at her, trying to communicate his gratitude for her rat-killing endeavor, and she offered him a head tilt in response. When Dennis walked away, Mini trailed closely behind for the rest of the day as he finished his farm chores. That same day, she snuck into the house during dinner and glued herself to Dennis’ legs, screaming at anyone who tried to pull her away. Aaron, the oldest brother, called her Dennis’ “mini-me”—The name stuck, as did Mini. Whatever fascination she had with Dennis couldn’t really be deciphered. She stuck around Dennis even in the winter when the rest of the barn critters made shelter in the rafters. He was usually safe from her at the end of the day, when he finished up his work and went into the house for the night. That is, he was, until one night there was a sharp scratching at his window. Dennis wouldn’t have given it a second thought if his room wasn’t actually a drafty attic on the third floor of the house and far away from any trees with loose branches that would tap at the window. He knew who it was before he fully turned around–Mini, crouched right outside on the sliver of roof that hugged the window. Dennis let her in, and Mini became something of a pet. She didn’t like to be touched unless she shoved her face into Dennis’ palm first, and she only slept at the very bottom corner of his bed in the winter, but he thought of her as much of a companion as any other pet anyways. After that first night, Dennis slunk downstairs to get breakfast with Mini closely in tow, much to Aaron’s amusement; Thus, Dennis graduated to “Snow White”, and he still hasn’t lived it down. When he made the decision to go to medical school, leaving Mini behind was the first item on the cons side of his pro/con list. He knew she couldn’t go to Pittsburgh with him–Maybe she knew it too, because on his last night sleeping in that chilly, uninsulated attic, Mini slunk out his window with a long look behind her instead of sleeping in her corner that night, and Dennis never saw her again. — “Seems like you’ve got a shadow, Whitaker.” Trinity declares it a few months into their rotation at the PTMC, and Dennis has no idea what she was talking about–Mostly because he’s only half-listening while charting and is more focused on remembering how to spell arrhythmia. “Mhmm,” he hums, and Trinity scoffs at how obviously he’s tuning her out. She says, “Hey, Dr. Robby, what’s up?” Dennis’ head shoots up at that, but Robby’s nowhere to be seen and he glares at Trinity as she laughs at him. “That’s not fair,” Dennis gristles. “Actually, I think I saw Dr. Robby by pedes earlier if you want me to grab him,” Mel pipes up from somewhere behind them and it makes Dennis jump. His face gets warm at the possibility of someone overhearing Trinity’s comment and ascertaining something about Dennis’ feelings towards a certain senior attending, but he knows that out of anyone, Mel would not give it a second thought. Instead he coughs out, “No, it’s fine, but thanks.” Trinity’s still staring at him, eyes widening when she points to the side with her chin. It’s directed towards Mel, who doesn’t completely walk away but meanders to the other side of the PTMC Hub to sit at an unoccupied computer. “What?” Dennis whispers, fearing that he missed out on something important. “Shadow,” Trinity ominously stage-whispers before stalking off, leaving Dennis to glance between her and Mel with confusion. For the rest of the shift, Dennis is slightly more aware of just how many cases he and Mel seem to be put on. They’re always in the same place when a new patient is wheeled in and it’s the most convenient that they work on them together. Shadow. By the end of the shift Dennis is too exhausted to give it any more thought, but the word echoes around his head the next time he enters the Pitt for a shift with Mel. — “You remind me of my cat.” Dennis has to shout it over the roar of the crowded bar. Maybe it wasn’t even the bar that was loud, but rather the company that’s all squished into a single booth. Dennis is plastered against the wall and Mel might as well be too despite them only sitting next to one another. Trinity insisted they all sit together for the sake of unity, but Dennis thinks that it was the fourth shot of tequila that came up with that idea. The fifth would have to try to convince her it was a good one. Dennis isn’t too far behind though. He’s already had	By The Waiting Room It’s Mini who’s responsible for Dennis being nicknamed “Snow White” from the age of fourteen all the way up until he left home for medical school. Mini was a stray barn cat that one day had wandered onto the family farm. There were plenty of barn cats that would come and go, but it was that summer, after Dennis finished mucking the stalls and was stalling behind the barn doors for a little longer to avoid going back out under the sun, that Mini stalked up to Dennis and dropped a particularly large rat at his feet. They stared at each other–Dennis slowly blinked at her, trying to communicate his gratitude for her rat-killing endeavor, and she offered him a head tilt in response. When Dennis walked away, Mini trailed closely behind for the rest of the day as he finished his farm chores. That same day, she snuck into the house during dinner and glued herself to Dennis’ legs, screaming at anyone who tried to pull her away. Aaron, the oldest brother, called her Dennis’ “mini-me”—The name stuck, as did Mini. Whatever fascination she had with Dennis couldn’t really be deciphered. She stuck around Dennis even in the winter when the rest of the barn critters made shelter in the rafters. He was usually safe from her at the end of the day, when he finished up his work and went into the house for the night. That is, he was, until one night there was a sharp scratching at his window. Dennis wouldn’t have given it a second thought if his room wasn’t actually a drafty attic on the third floor of the house and far away from any trees with loose branches that would tap at the window. He knew who it was before he fully turned around–Mini, crouched right outside on the sliver of roof that hugged the window. Dennis let her in, and Mini became something of a pet. She didn’t like to be touched unless she shoved her face into Dennis’ palm first, and she only slept at the very bottom corner of his bed in the winter, but he thought of her as much of a companion as any other pet anyways. After that first night, Dennis slunk downstairs to get breakfast with Mini closely in tow, much to Aaron’s amusement; Thus, Dennis graduated to “Snow White”, and he still hasn’t lived it down. When he made the decision to go to medical school, leaving Mini behind was the first item on the cons side of his pro/con list. He knew she couldn’t go to Pittsburgh with him–Maybe she knew it too, because on his last night sleeping in that chilly, uninsulated attic, Mini slunk out his window with a long look behind her instead of sleeping in her corner that night, and Dennis never saw her again. — “Seems like you’ve got a shadow, Whitaker.” Trinity declares it a few months into their rotation at the PTMC, and Dennis has no idea what she was talking about–Mostly because he’s only half-listening while charting and is more focused on remembering how to spell arrhythmia. “Mhmm,” he hums, and Trinity scoffs at how obviously he’s tuning her out. She says, “Hey, Dr. Robby, what’s up?” Dennis’ head shoots up at that, but Robby’s nowhere to be seen and he glares at Trinity as she laughs at him. “That’s not fair,” Dennis gristles. “Actually, I think I saw Dr. Robby by pedes earlier if you want me to grab him,” Mel pipes up from somewhere behind them and it makes Dennis jump. His face gets warm at the possibility of someone overhearing Trinity’s comment and ascertaining something about Dennis’ feelings towards a certain senior attending, but he knows that out of anyone, Mel would not give it a second thought. Instead he coughs out, “No, it’s fine, but thanks.” Trinity’s still staring at him, eyes widening when she points to the side with her chin. It’s directed towards Mel, who doesn’t completely walk away but meanders to the other side of the PTMC Hub to sit at an unoccupied computer. “What?” Dennis whispers, fearing that he missed out on something important. “Shadow,” Trinity ominously stage-whispers before stalking off, leaving Dennis to glance between her and Mel with confusion. For the rest of the shift, Dennis is slightly more aware of just how many cases he and Mel seem to be put on. They’re always in the same place when a new patient is wheeled in and it’s the most convenient that they work on them together. Shadow. By the end of the shift Dennis is too exhausted to give it any more thought, but the word echoes around his head the next time he enters the Pitt for a shift with Mel. — “You remind me of my cat.” Dennis has to shout it over the roar of the crowded bar. Maybe it wasn’t even the bar that was loud, but rather the company that’s all squished into a single booth. Dennis is plastered against the wall and Mel might as well be too despite them only sitting next to one another. Trinity insisted they all sit together for the sake of unity, but Dennis thinks that it was the fourth shot of tequila that came up with that idea. The fifth would have to try to convince her it was a good one. Dennis isn’t too far behind though. He’s already had two beers, and his own fourth shot of tequila is glaring at him from the sticky wooden table. “You have a cat?” Mel says, and it snaps Dennis’ attention back to where he is. Between a Mel and a hard place. It takes him a moment to rewire the conversation in his head and remember what Mel is even responding to. All he had eaten on shift was a few protein bars and alcohol was very happy to take up the rest of the space in his stomach. “Used to,” he tries not to mumble, but his lips feel numb like they usually do when he’s drunk and he has to resist the urge to chew on them. He’s never actually described Mini as his cat. “On the farm. She was a barn cat, a stray I got really attached to. You’re blonde, like her.” Mel absentmindedly plays with a loose strand of hair when she tilts her head at him. Dennis’ heart lurches for a second, because even the head tilt is so much like Mini’s that it reminds him of how long it’s been since he’s thought of her. Mel repeats, “We’re both blonde,” and leaves it at that. Dennis wants to apologize for comparing her to a cat, but a longer look at her tells him that she may be just as far gone as he currently feels. She’s smushed so close to him he can see her eyes glaze over. Her fingers continue to occupy themselves with the ends of her hair, which is out of its usual braid and hanging loosely around her face. She’s turned towards him but her eyes are out of focus and directed towards the wall behind Dennis, giving him the opportunity to stare at her in some sort of drunken haze. He can’t help the impulse to access and diagnose, but quickly he becomes distracted by comparing the darkness of Mel’s brows to the Mini-colored blonde of her hair. An insane urge washes over him, willing him to reach out and pet her hair just to see what it would feel like. “Whitaker?” “Hm?” “Are you okay?” God, Dennis’ stomach growls and he’s reminded of just how little time he had to sneak a sandwich on that day’s shift. Samira ordered a basket of fries for the table that they’re still waiting on, but Dennis tries to think if he has any loose bills shoved in his wallet to place an order for something else, maybe some tater tots. He hasn’t had tater tots in what feels like years. “Dennis.” That makes Dennis blink his eyes hard, and he feels like he’s reborn into exactly where he was a few minutes ago. Squished and drunker than he thought. He feels more comfortable now though, readjusted so he could unpin his arm from where it was smushed onto his side and raised so that it rests around the back of the booth seat. He pauses what he’s doing. Which, now he realizes, is stroking the back of Mel’s head with his free hand. “Fuck,” is all that he has to offer, but his hand remains glued where it is as he blinks a few more times to reorient himself. Just as quickly the realization of what he’s been doing and the humiliation of it wash over him so quickly he thinks it might make him sick, and his body tries to respond just as strongly when he jerks backwards. Dennis only succeeds in jamming his shoulder and knocking his head against the wood panelled walls, which he doesn’t feel as much as he probably should. He’s too occupied with the embarrassment for acting so stupid, with a colleague no less, in front of a bunch of other colleagues who are probably all staring at this mess right now. He finally looks up to examine the rest of the table only to find everyone as occupied in their own conversations as they were before, but now Mel juts into his vision and her brows are knit impossibly tight. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head?” she asks earnestly, and her hand comes up to steady the side of Dennis’ head and access him for injury. “Yes, yeah, I’m so fine,” he quickly answers, but he can’t help but watch her eyes dart around his face. They land back on his, and Dennis is still at a loss for words. The part of his head telling him to stop acting stupid is losing against the other very drunk part of him–It’s strong and lords over all of his faculties, especially in the hand still hovering by the back of Mel’s head. Mel’s expression doesn’t budge, though. If anything, she looks more concerned and Dennis has the intense urge to be the one that relieves her of that worry. “I’m okay, really,” he doubles down, and the slight, slight slur in his words does not at all help his case. “I’m drunk. Definitely drunk. More drunk than I thought. Didn’t eat so much. But I’m fine.” It works to soften Mel’s face a bit, and as Dennis stares he sees how flushed her cheeks are. If the warmth of his face is any indication, he probably has a similar flush of his own. “Do you wanna step outside for a second, get some fresh air?” As much as Dennis thinks that it won’t be a good idea to move around too much in the current moment, the thought of cool air on his face makes him nod his head. They have to do the song and dance of asking everyone else to leave the booth so they can get out, and Dennis wills himself not to stumble when it’s his turn to shimmy out. “Where are you guys going!” Victoria asks, who may be the only person that’s more drunk than what Dennis is feeling right now. After all, the only reason they’re all out after work is because Samira found out it was Victoria’s twenty-first birthday last week and she insisted that they celebrate together. It was supposed to be a regular evening out for a round of trivia and a couple of drinks, but somehow they had won all five rounds of trivia and the tray of shots that they received from the bar as a reward had significantly kickstarted the night. “Bathroom,” Dennis says at the same time that Mel says, “Outside.” Dennis doesn’t know what made him say it, but it earns them a moment of silence from the group as they glance between the two of them. “And outside, I meant. I just remembered I have to–But we talked about going out–” he tries to remedy the situation by doubling-down, which is a bad idea. It only earns them more looks. After he cuts off his sentence in shame he all but scurries out the rest of the booth and tries not to look guilty while he does it. Guilty of what, he isn’t sure, but shame rises in his throat anyway. Mel tells the table they’ll be right back and Dennis has to concentrate very, very hard to walk as normally as possible when he trails right behind her. The dive is packed with residual trivia players and newcomers, so Mel reaches her hand backward in invitation for him to take it as they approach the crowd. There’s some dancers that jab a few elbows in their path, so Dennis loosely grabs Mel’s hand and lets her guide them through the throng of people. As expected, the relief of the night air helps refocus Dennis’ eyes. It was easy to let himself get dragged around, but Mel’s hand drops his as soon as they step out onto the sidewalk and he’s able to return to reality–For the most part. “Shit,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes hard so the feeling zaps some semblance of thought in his head. Now that it feels like his brain is being washed under cold water, he replays the memory of his caressing Mel’s hair and he feels hot all over again. “Fuck, I was petting you.” They’ve found a place to lean their backs against the bar’s exterior brick walls and Dennis turns to face Mel, who looks far less bothered than she has any right to be. “I’m so sorry, Mel,” Dennis says in genuine horror, mortification whisking together with all the tequila he’s had. “I really didn’t mean to, I was just…” Thinking about the stray cat that was probably my only best friend. Even Dennis knows not to say that out loud, so he shuts his mouth. He stares at the sidewalk to avoid the annoyed, angry, anxious face that Mel was definitely concentrating on him right now. Dennis hears it now, Mel telling him that they may be colleagues, they may have hung out several times outside of work, but they still work together and it’s unprofessional to touch her, especially in such an affectionate manner. Dennis is ready to fire off ten more apologies and promise it’ll never happen again, that he’ll vow to never drink again if he has to, but Mel doesn’t give him the chance. “Oh, it’s okay,” she says evenly, maybe with something of a smile ringing in her voice. He risks a look at her to find that she looks as pleasant as she sounds, no outward anger directed towards him. Still, she doesn’t make eye contact. “It’s…okay.” He says it in something like wonderment, mind too addled to effectively protest further. “Yeah,” Mel answers just as sunnily. “I’m drunk. It felt really nice.” Dennis completely forgot that Mel was keeping up in terms of drinks consumed, at least in comparison to Dennis. It helped that she had bought a couple of rounds for the table to be nice and was roped into taking more shots than she probably would have otherwise. Still, she seems to be doing considerably better than Dennis and he’s not sure how to feel about that. “Still, I shouldn’t…” Dennis trails off when the guilt returns. “Being drunk isn’t an excuse.” “Dennis,” Mel remarks, and she turns so she can place a reassuring hand on the side of Dennis’ bicep and give him a serious look. “I liked it. I would like it sober. I haven’t been touched by a non-patient in so long, so it was…it was nice.” The lingering eye contact is what finally helps Dennis relax, and he slumps back against the wall when Mel finally looks away. “Me too. Last week a patient tried to choke me and I almost leaned in because I thought he was giving me a hug.” Mel hums, partly understanding and partly amused. “I’d take my chances too.” It makes Dennis sad to think about Mel feeling as touch-starved as him, reminds him of the one winter that was so frigid Mini had actually gotten under his blanket at night. His body acts before his mind can catch up and convince him otherwise–He half raises the arm closest to Mel and tilts his head at her. “You wanna?” he asks, lifting his brows in question. Mel’s own expression brightens, but it becomes strained, like she’s trying to tone down the size of her smile. “Really?” “Yeah, of course.” Dennis nods at Mel’s worried expression and it melts into relief. Easily, Mel tucks herself into Dennis’ side. It helps that they’re closer in height so she can fully relax and fit her head comfortably on top of his shoulder. She lets out something like a sigh of relaxation as she does and in turn Dennis wants to melt. The nights aren’t too cold yet, but the new pool of heat at his side makes Dennis sigh too. Mel’s body is warm against him, slots against him so closely that he can feel the side of her stomach move against his when she breathes. This type of contact–so warm, easy, light–he hasn’t felt in a long while. He had grown completely numb to the physical contact he makes with patients, so feeling the warmth of another so closely without the background noise of a heart rate monitor was a soothing respite. “I like this too,” he murmurs, mostly an afterthought to himself. The breathiness of Mel’s voice matches his when she quietly replies, “Yeah.” Dennis keeps his shoulder around Mel’s but bends his forearm so he can pat a hand to the crown of her head. Her next breath is heavier when he does and she leans her head back into it, which Dennis takes as a good sign to continue petting her hair. There’s a muffled cheer that comes from the bar that’s loud enough to make it obvious to Dennis that it’s coming from their table of coworkers… Well, friends. He doesn’t worry himself about it just yet, and Mel doesn’t make any move to go back inside either. — Dennis becomes more aware of his shadow in the next few weeks–Maybe casts his own light to keep it around. He and Mel make a good team when they’re on cases, they find an easy rhythm working around each other where they don’t talk and just hand over what’s needed with a look or a nod. It’s not that Dennis never thought that Mel was nice, but they’re more similar than he could have ever expected. He likes that he can be straightforward with her, prefers it on days where his brain is too frazzled from work and he can’t bother second guessing someone’s intentions. He stands at the Hub, looking up at the screen for what case is up next. He already checked that no one was around to scold him for cherry-picking, especially since Age 5, nasal blockage, and lego? written in the notes section was not his idea of a good time. Thankfully, Mel sidles up next to him before he makes a decision. He nods at her in acknowledgement, but her eyes are squarely concentrated on the screen, not paying him any mind. “You okay?” he asks, even if it seems like Mel is ignoring him. The question snaps her out of it. “What?” She finally looks at him and Dennis can see how her lips are pressed together thinly, brows a little furrowed. “You okay?” he tries again. Her shoulders seem to drop a little at the question, but her eyes continue to dash around the room, looking at anywhere but Dennis. “I’m fine. It was just… Brother and sister. Brother might not make it.” Before another second of Mel looking so distressed passes, Dennis casts a long glance around the Pitt and lightly grabs her arm to lead her out of there. They’re able to use an incoming gurney as cover to sneak out through the ambulance bay and then outside, where the fall chill slaps him in the face and on his bare arms. When they’re off to the side, away from EMTs driving their rigs away from the bay, Dennis can take another good look at Mel. He still has a loose grip on one wrist, but her other arm is crossed over herself like a shield. Dennis has never been good at this, the whole comforting thing. He’s probably recounted his interaction with Dr. Robby after his first shift at the PTMC a million times in his head, going over what he could have done differently, if he made Robby feel worse or better. The look Robby gave him, after Dennis repeated his own advice back to him–It made Dennis feel young and naive, but also like they were sharing an illicit secret, something that made Dennis warm under the collar when he remembered the secrecy of it all. But, Dennis knows that all he can do is make himself available, someone safe and on the same level. “Would a hug help?” he asks, making sure they’re alone before outstretching his arms in invitation. Mel nods and doesn’t say a word as she settles into that warm spot against his chest, letting her arms loosely wind around Dennis’ waist but not doing much of the heavy lifting of hugging otherwise. She lets Dennis cocoon her in his arms, coming up against her back and using his splayed hands to cover her shoulder blades. He feels the long exhale of her breath against his neck and he knows it’s relief, the same feeling now coursing through him too. Dennis isn’t sure what this dynamic that they have is, but since that night of Victoria’s birthday celebration at the bar, they’ve begun to come together like this on harder shifts. The briefest of touches, physical check-ins that aren’t just the thrown punches from irate patients they sometimes get. They can read each other a little better, so when one is feeling overwhelmed, the other knows to bring them back to reality with a brief hand on the back or a soft hip check. It’s weird, and probably veering on the edge of very unprofessional, but Dennis enjoys how easy it is with no expectation for anything more. Mel mumbles something against his collar bone that he can’t hear. “Hm?” She adjusts her head down so her forehead rests on the crook of Dennis’ shoulder. She sounds less muffled, but Dennis has to strain himself to hear her when she says, “I miss Langdon.” He hopes that she can’t feel how hard he fights not to tense up at Langdon’s name. His mind flips through a million slides, trying to remember everything that Trinity had told him about the doctor since his untimely departure and the role she played in it. It was hard to level what he was told against the onslaught of rumors that tore their way through the entire department after that first shift, rumors that were less interesting to talk about now but were still brought up on occasion. Mel must sense his hesitation to respond, because she adds on, “I know. I know what he did, I heard it from everyone. B-But, it’s a disease, you know, just like anything else we treat, and he’s… away so he can work on it and get better.” Her arms tighten around Dennis’ waist and he knows now that what she needs is comfort, not a barrage of questions about why Langdon, of all people? It’s difficult for him to remember all the details of their first shift at the PTMC outside of the MCI and his first dead patient and trying to block out the memory of those two things as much as possible. But, Dennis always had the impression that Mel has always floated around the Pitt, never like she had as much of a guide as Dennis has in Robby. Maybe Langdon was her lighthouse for that day and it was hard to transition, after all this time, to someone else. “I’m sorry,” Dennis eventually replies, “He was a good doctor. Maybe he’ll be back.” Mel doesn’t feel the need to further defend Langdon at that, instead relaxes back in Dennis’ hold. They’re quickly interrupted, though. There’s a shuffle at the door and the sound of the automatic doors opening when they hear, “Hey, we need you two back in here.” They rip themselves away from each other as soon as they hear the voice. It’s Perlah, and when Dennis sees her eyes jump between him and Mel with more interest in their touching than is passive. He can see something like glee join her expression, but she’s already running back into the building before he can stutter out something embarrassing like It’s not what it looks like and make the situation look more suggestive. But, Mel begins to run back inside before Dennis can think about it any further and he’s quickly swept back into work-mode. In fact, he almost forgets about their foray outside entirely. It’s not until the end of the shift when he’s charting his final patient of the day that Mel idles by the desk, leaning against the counter. They chat about their highlights of the day, and during a lull in conversation Mel, suddenly quiet, mutters, “Thanks for before, by the way. I shouldn’t… I need to get better at managing my emotions in certain cases.” “It’s okay,” Dennis quickly replies. “You care about your patients, that’s not a crime. It would be worse if you didn’t care at all.” Mel offers him a small smile at that but it’s clear that there’s still a lot weighing on her mind. Dennis hates seeing her mind so occupied. From what little she’s told him about her sister it seems like the weight on her shoulders is never lighter than several tons. He wishes he could take some of it for himself–He imagines Atlas would have had an easier time if there was even just one person beside him helping him hold the weight of the world. He offers, “Besides, you have me, right? We can take breaks whenever we need.” Whenever we need, he says, because he thinks he needs the little touches, the brief moments of human connection just as much. And, he knows Mel would feel guilty if she thought all the burden fell onto him to look after her. Mel’s smile looks more genuine now and Dennis relaxes enough to look around. The stragglers of the day shift stick around to update the incoming night shift on various patients and cases, but the others have already left. Dennis spots Princess and Perlah on the other side of the Hub, wrapping up their work while rapidly whispering to each other in Tagalog. He watches them glance at Mel before they make eye contact with him, and then their whispers grow even faster when they pointedly avert their eyes. It makes Dennis feel indisposed, knowing that they’re probably gossiping about him and Mel and there will almost certainly be some rumors flying around the PTMC in the next couple of weeks about them. He tries not to panic too badly–It can’t be that bad, he thinks, it’s not like he and Mel were caught doing anything more than sharing a friendly, coworker-ly hug. He only worries about– “Are you finishing up at my station, Whitaker?” Dr. Robby, who surprises Dennis with a heavy hand on the shoulder that prevents him from jumping two feet into the air. “Y-yeah, finishing up this chart,” Dennis breathes and immediately wants to kick himself for sounding so affected. Robby’s hand stays on Dennis’ shoulder as he looks between him and Mel, and now Dennis’ heart drops into his ass for real. Does everyone already know? Has a coworker-ly hug been molded into something more by these gossip-obsessed doctors and nurses? How did any one of them even have the time for that? Robby doesn’t give any further indication of knowing anything. He says, “That’s good. Go home and get some rest, you two, great work today.” Even Mel bristles at Robby’s praise. When he walks away, Dennis misses the weight of the huge hand on his shoulder. He snaps back to reality and quickly finishes up the last detail of his chart before logging off. Mel waits for him, and when Dennis finally stands he catches her staring at him with a thoughtful look, like she’s mulling something over in her mind and not actually seeing him. “You ready to go?” Dennis asks. Exhaustion is quickly settling into his bones and all he can think about is a shower. Mel’s attention snaps back to him. “Yeah, definitely.” She casts a long look in the direction behind Dennis where Robby walked away. Dennis follows her line of sight but lands back on Princess and Perlah, who are still furiously whispering to each other. It’s as clear of a sign as any to get out of there.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656791/chapters/197859796	{"authors": ["drbearhead"], "language": "English", "title": "By The Waiting Room"}
The Man Moonlight Loved Hiccup Haddock had survived shareholders, mergers, hostile takeovers yet nothing in his CEO life prepared him for the sight waiting in the Swedish lobby. He saw him instantly. The man stood near the reception desk, speaking quietly, posture elegant and unhurried. Morning light streamed through the high windows, brushing against porcelain-pale skin marked with soft white vitiligo patches that traced along his neck and hands like fallen snow. But it was his face that stole Hiccup's breath. His hair was black, smooth and thick, but a single strand fell across his cheek in a bright, pure white streak framing him like a deliberate brushstroke on a masterpiece. Then his eyes lifted. One deep brown, warm and steady. The other... a pale reddish tone, almost translucent. Not artificial but the natural red of an eye with no pigment at all, catching the light as if glowing from within. Striking. Rare. Ethereal. Hiccup's heart left the building. He didn't just freeze — he forgot how to breathe. "Hiccup?" Astrid bumped him with a folder. "Are you having a stroke?" "No," Hiccup whispered, unable to look away. "I'm having... feelings." The stranger — Viggo Grimborn, according to the badge clipped to his coat turned slightly, the white strand shifting with the movement. His vitiligo patches peeked from beneath his collar, soft and moonlike. For one suspended moment, their eyes met. Brown and red locked with green. Something warm and dangerous rolled through Hiccup's chest like thunder. Viggo's lips curved into the faintest smile, subtle but devastating. A polite acknowledgment nothing more yet it struck Hiccup with the force of a falling star. Then Viggo turned to leave, black coat swaying behind him in a quiet sweep. Hiccup stared after him like a man witnessing a miracle walk out of his life. Astrid nudged him again. "Hiccup. You're staring." "I'm... appreciating," he corrected weakly. "Because that man? That man looks like he was kissed by the moon." "And you're in love with a stranger." Hiccup swallowed. "In love? Astrid, I fell head over heels the second he blinked." Four years later, Hiccup Haddock woke up next to the most unfairly gorgeous man on the planet. Viggo lay against him, cool morning light brushing over vitiligo patches on his shoulders and throat. He didn't hide them as much anymore not like he used to but Hiccup could still feel the tiny flicker of insecurity every time the topic came up. Not fear. Not fragility. Just that quiet, stubborn discomfort he never fully shook. His mismatched eyes blinked open warm brown and pale reddish and he hummed a soft "mmh" as he tucked closer. Then Hiccup's phone buzzed. Viggo lifted his head just enough to groan. "Oh please, not the press pictures. I'm not emotionally awake enough for that." Hiccup laughed. "You look incredible in them. You always do." "I look like someone forgot to adjust their camera settings," Viggo muttered, rubbing his face. "Red eye, white hair strand, spots everywhere—" Hiccup cut him off by tilting his chin up. "Viggo. You know you're hot as hell." Viggo's lips twitched embarrassed, but also amused. "Your standards are questionable." "My standards are excellent," Hiccup said, leaning in. "Want a confidence boost?" Viggo arched a brow. "Hiccup..." Hiccup smirked. "Should I fuck you in front of a mirror again to remind you you're gorgeous?" Viggo froze for half a second, then burst into a helpless laugh the low, breathless kind Hiccup loved. "You are unbelievable," Viggo said, hiding his smile behind his hand. "And you," Hiccup murmured, pulling his hand away so he could see the blush spreading beneath mismatched eyes, "are definitely more confident afterwards." Viggo tried to glare, failed completely, and shoved him lightly. "You're impossible." "And you're beautiful," Hiccup said simply. Viggo looked away, but his expression softened. "Fine," Viggo sighed dramatically. "Maybe the press pictures aren't that horrible." "That's the spirit," Hiccup teased, kissing his cheek. "But I'm still available for... confidence sessions." Viggo shot him a sideways look. "We're not using that phrase." "Too late," Hiccup grinned. "It's canon." Viggo groaned and kissed him anyway. Hiccup tossed his phone onto the bed between them with a sigh that was far too dramatic to be sincere. Viggo didn't look up yet. He sat beside him, legs crossed, glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through the press photos on his own screen. Every single one showed a giant Haddock & Co. banner in the background... ...and Viggo in the foreground. As usual. Perfect lighting on his porcelain-white vitiligo patches. The red eye catching the flash like a gemstone. The white strand of hair shining like moonlight. And Hiccup the actual CEO blurry behind him somewhere, often half-turned or mid-blink. Viggo exhaled slowly through his nose. "They did it again." "Yup," Hiccup said, leaning over so he could rest his chin on Viggo's shoulder. "It's okay. I'll survive	The Man Moonlight Loved Hiccup Haddock had survived shareholders, mergers, hostile takeovers yet nothing in his CEO life prepared him for the sight waiting in the Swedish lobby. He saw him instantly. The man stood near the reception desk, speaking quietly, posture elegant and unhurried. Morning light streamed through the high windows, brushing against porcelain-pale skin marked with soft white vitiligo patches that traced along his neck and hands like fallen snow. But it was his face that stole Hiccup's breath. His hair was black, smooth and thick, but a single strand fell across his cheek in a bright, pure white streak framing him like a deliberate brushstroke on a masterpiece. Then his eyes lifted. One deep brown, warm and steady. The other... a pale reddish tone, almost translucent. Not artificial but the natural red of an eye with no pigment at all, catching the light as if glowing from within. Striking. Rare. Ethereal. Hiccup's heart left the building. He didn't just freeze — he forgot how to breathe. "Hiccup?" Astrid bumped him with a folder. "Are you having a stroke?" "No," Hiccup whispered, unable to look away. "I'm having... feelings." The stranger — Viggo Grimborn, according to the badge clipped to his coat turned slightly, the white strand shifting with the movement. His vitiligo patches peeked from beneath his collar, soft and moonlike. For one suspended moment, their eyes met. Brown and red locked with green. Something warm and dangerous rolled through Hiccup's chest like thunder. Viggo's lips curved into the faintest smile, subtle but devastating. A polite acknowledgment nothing more yet it struck Hiccup with the force of a falling star. Then Viggo turned to leave, black coat swaying behind him in a quiet sweep. Hiccup stared after him like a man witnessing a miracle walk out of his life. Astrid nudged him again. "Hiccup. You're staring." "I'm... appreciating," he corrected weakly. "Because that man? That man looks like he was kissed by the moon." "And you're in love with a stranger." Hiccup swallowed. "In love? Astrid, I fell head over heels the second he blinked." Four years later, Hiccup Haddock woke up next to the most unfairly gorgeous man on the planet. Viggo lay against him, cool morning light brushing over vitiligo patches on his shoulders and throat. He didn't hide them as much anymore not like he used to but Hiccup could still feel the tiny flicker of insecurity every time the topic came up. Not fear. Not fragility. Just that quiet, stubborn discomfort he never fully shook. His mismatched eyes blinked open warm brown and pale reddish and he hummed a soft "mmh" as he tucked closer. Then Hiccup's phone buzzed. Viggo lifted his head just enough to groan. "Oh please, not the press pictures. I'm not emotionally awake enough for that." Hiccup laughed. "You look incredible in them. You always do." "I look like someone forgot to adjust their camera settings," Viggo muttered, rubbing his face. "Red eye, white hair strand, spots everywhere—" Hiccup cut him off by tilting his chin up. "Viggo. You know you're hot as hell." Viggo's lips twitched embarrassed, but also amused. "Your standards are questionable." "My standards are excellent," Hiccup said, leaning in. "Want a confidence boost?" Viggo arched a brow. "Hiccup..." Hiccup smirked. "Should I fuck you in front of a mirror again to remind you you're gorgeous?" Viggo froze for half a second, then burst into a helpless laugh the low, breathless kind Hiccup loved. "You are unbelievable," Viggo said, hiding his smile behind his hand. "And you," Hiccup murmured, pulling his hand away so he could see the blush spreading beneath mismatched eyes, "are definitely more confident afterwards." Viggo tried to glare, failed completely, and shoved him lightly. "You're impossible." "And you're beautiful," Hiccup said simply. Viggo looked away, but his expression softened. "Fine," Viggo sighed dramatically. "Maybe the press pictures aren't that horrible." "That's the spirit," Hiccup teased, kissing his cheek. "But I'm still available for... confidence sessions." Viggo shot him a sideways look. "We're not using that phrase." "Too late," Hiccup grinned. "It's canon." Viggo groaned and kissed him anyway. Hiccup tossed his phone onto the bed between them with a sigh that was far too dramatic to be sincere. Viggo didn't look up yet. He sat beside him, legs crossed, glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through the press photos on his own screen. Every single one showed a giant Haddock & Co. banner in the background... ...and Viggo in the foreground. As usual. Perfect lighting on his porcelain-white vitiligo patches. The red eye catching the flash like a gemstone. The white strand of hair shining like moonlight. And Hiccup the actual CEO blurry behind him somewhere, often half-turned or mid-blink. Viggo exhaled slowly through his nose. "They did it again." "Yup," Hiccup said, leaning over so he could rest his chin on Viggo's shoulder. "It's okay. I'll survive always being upstaged by my ridiculously attractive fiancé." Viggo clicked his tongue softly. "It is supposed to be a business conference. Not a photoshoot of... whatever they think I am." "A celestial being," Hiccup supplied. "A moon-kissed deity. A man sculpted by fate to torment the rest of us mortals." Viggo nudged him with his elbow — a firm nudge, not a shy one. "You're impossible." "And you're gorgeous," Hiccup said, already unlocking his phone again with mischief written across his face. "Which is why I'm going to help boost your confidence." Viggo narrowed his eyes immediately. "Hiccup. No." "Hiccup YES." He scrolled down the comments section at frightening speed. "Hiccup," Viggo warned again. "I don't need—" "Oh look, here's one!" Hiccup announced loudly. "I'm down on my knees, step on me, Grimborn." Viggo's ears went red. "Hiccup— stop reading coments!" "Wait wait, here's an even better one," Hiccup continued, delighted with himself, "Sir I would let you crush my soul under your designer boot, please and thank you." He paused. "Oh wow. Detailed." "Haddock." Viggo pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is unnecessary." Hiccup scrolled further. "I disagree." Viggo attempted to snatch the phone; Hiccup dodged easily and leaned just out of reach. "Oh here's a classic," Hiccup said sweetly. "I volunteer as tribute to be sat on." Viggo groaned and covered his face with one hand but he was definitely smiling behind it. "And HERE—" Hiccup announced triumphantly, "is the one that won the internet today." He cleared his throat. "Spit on me, marry me, ruin my life, sir." Viggo's hand slid down his face slowly, revealing a flat, unimpressed stare that fooled nobody. "...you are doing this on purpose." "Absolutely," Hiccup said cheerfully. "It's called exposure therapy." "Hiccup, I do not need—" "Yes you do," Hiccup countered, leaning in close enough to brush his lips against Viggo's ear. "Because every time you say you hate how you look in photos, I swear I'm two seconds from bending you over in front of the nearest mirror until you remember how many people would sell their souls to be in my place." Viggo inhaled sharply — but his voice stayed steady, low. "Language, Mr. Haddock." "Hot, Mr. Future Haddock" Hiccup said instantly. Viggo pushed him lightly, failing to hide a smile threatening to break through. "Also," Hiccup went on, "I have a plan." "Oh no." "Oh yes." Hiccup tossed the phone onto the table with theatrical flair. "Next press event? I'm showing up in a trash bag. No haircut. No makeup. I'll look like a sleep-deprived raccoon. THEN the world will stop calling you the Greek god." Viggo's brows lifted. "Greek god?" "That's what one of the fashion blogs called you," Hiccup said, trying not to sound jealous. "Meanwhile they called me 'the man standing next to the Greek god.'" "...I see." "So," Hiccup said smugly, "if I look like trash, they'll assume you're single." "Hiccup." "And then," Hiccup continued, "I'll swoop in dramatically and kiss you senseless on camera so everyone knows you're very, very taken." Viggo bit the inside of his cheek — a telltale sign he was holding back amusement. "You're unhinged." "Maybe," Hiccup said, sliding a hand to Viggo's waist, "but you're mine." Viggo finally gave up on pretending to be annoyed. He leaned into Hiccup's touch, the faintest softness crossing his features. "...read the rest of the comments to me," he murmured. Hiccup gasped theatrically. "Oh? Oh? Someone's ENJOYING this now?" Viggo flicked his white strand over one shoulder. "I never said that." "You didn't have to," Hiccup whispered, grinning. "Your red eye is glowing." Viggo shoved him off the bed. Hiccup hit the carpet laughing. Viggo was still pretending to be irritated, scrolling the last of the cursed comments, but Hiccup could see the tension in his shoulders the kind that only came when he'd been photographed too many times in one day. He set his phone down and stepped behind Viggo silently. Viggo barely lifted his eyes. "Hiccup. Whatever you're planning—" Hiccup cut him off by sliding his hands slowly around Viggo's waist and pulling him back against his chest. "Planning?" Hiccup murmured. "I told you exactly what I'd do." He pressed a kiss just below Viggo's ear, right where a pale vitiligo patch curved beneath the hairline. Viggo's breath caught — barely, but Hiccup felt it. "You are impossible," Viggo said softly. "And you," Hiccup's voice dropped lower, "keep forgetting what you look like to me." Before Viggo could reply, Hiccup guided him forward a step toward the tall mirror by the wardrobe. The one Viggo rarely lingered in front of. The one Hiccup put there for a reason. Viggo stiffened a little. "Hiccup." "Relax," Hiccup whispered, resting his chin on Viggo's shoulder so their reflections aligned. "I'm not doing anything you don't want." Viggo swallowed, but he didn't pull away. Hiccup's hands slid to Viggo's hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles just above the waistband. "Look," Hiccup murmured, voice warm and husky. "Just... look." Viggo's eyes lifted to the mirror reluctantly. Hiccup watched his expression not fear, just that old flicker of discomfort whenever his patches caught the light, whenever that reddish eye gleamed too brightly. Hiccup tightened his hold. "See what I see?" Viggo huffed. "I see a man who needs a haircut." Hiccup bit his neck. "That's not what I meant." His lips brushed across Viggo's shoulder, trailing over pale and dark skin alike, reverent and slow. "You have no idea," Hiccup whispered, "how hard it is to behave when you look like this." Viggo met his gaze in the mirror. "Hiccup..." "That's why I said it earlier," Hiccup murmured, breath ghosting over his skin. "If I have to fuck you in front of a mirror again to make you believe you're breathtaking—" Viggo's breath hitched sharply but he grabbed Hiccup's wrist, stopping the sentence there. "...you really shouldn't say things like that," Viggo said, voice low, trying for composure and failing beautifully. "Why not?" Hiccup smirked against his neck. "You like when I say things like that." Viggo's fingers tightened on Hiccup's wrist. "Because," Viggo said slowly, "you make it hard to pretend I'm not... affected." Hiccup grinned. "Oh, I know." He slid one hand under Viggo's shirt, palm splayed against warm skin. "And that's the point." Viggo met his eyes in the mirror again this time without hesitation, without deflection. A flush rose at his cheekbones, subtle but unmistakable. "You're cruel," he murmured. "No," Hiccup answered, kissing that white strand where it fell over Viggo's brow. "I'm yours." The last of Viggo's tension melted. He leaned back fully into Hiccup's hold, eyes half-lidded and trusting. "Hiccup," he said quietly, "kiss me." Hiccup did.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75652041	{"authors": ["Katsotoru"], "language": "English", "title": "The Man Moonlight Loved"}
She's Perfect for the Role Joanna sits in the makeup tent, eyes closed, letting the nice but overly talkative woman touch up her foundation while chattering away with her mom. She applied her own makeup for this of course, her mom has been bringing her to things like this for years now, but she knows the routine, everyone has to make sure everything is done to their standards, and she sits in the chair without complaint. “How many girls are you looking for?” Her mother asks, hovering as she always does, so very concerned with Joanna’s putative career. The woman doing her makeup is clearly used to stage parents, and doesn’t even miss a beat when answering. “We’re a scouting unit, so we’re looking for as many girls as show promise. The ones who match what we’re looking for will shoot a screen test today; we’ll shop those around internally and the ones who we like will get a call back in a couple months. We’ll give a fee for the screen test though, and you can definitely put us on a resume if you want.” That’s generous, and makes Joanna perk up a little. She’s done paid gigs before, all commercials, and won some pageants. Most of the money gets added to a savings account, but the bits she gets to keep, spending just on her, are always a treat. She isn’t sure she likes acting exactly, but there are times it’s her favorite thing, the lights shining and her soul flying. She wishes she got to do more of that, and less of whatever her mother dragged her to. She waits around for her turn, sitting in the provided chairs on the lawn outside the large rented house with the other girls. Most of them she recognizes, some from her dance studio, or rivals on the pageant circuit, or from commercial auditions. They aren’t all friends, exactly, but there’s a sense of camaraderie almost, the knowledge that they’re all in this together. Plus, they all follow each other in Instagram. It’s not a bad wait, just a bit long, seeing girls trickle in, and most coming out again shortly thereafter. A number of those that do look uncomfortable, which is interesting, but not always uncommon. Plenty of directors are creeps, Joanna knows that perfectly well, but that’s just part of the business. Her turn comes soon enough, her number called by the man by the door. She leaves her phone with her mom in the tent outside, and heads into the house. The man guides her through, into a living room that’s been set up for a screen test, lights and grips and cameras and crew milling about. One man steps forward, offering her his hand. “Hello there! My name’s Rob, and I’m the director here.” Joanna takes his hand, shaking politely and firmly, as she’s been taught. “I’m Joanna. It’s very good to meet you.” “Pleased to meet you Joanna, we’re just going to be doing a bit of a screen test, one small scene to see if you fit with the vibe we’re going for. Your lines will be on the teleprompter there, and you’re going to be working opposite Gavin.” He waves another man forward, who introduces himself. Gavin is handsome in a kind of generic Hollywood way, maybe 30, and on the shorter side, only 5’6 or so, with sandy blonde hair and green eyes. Joanna shakes his hand as well. Rob continues. “Now, for the scene in question, Gavin is playing your mother’s new boyfriend, and you’re trying to get to know him better, to see if he has what it takes. We’d like you to play this a little bit flirty, okay?” Joanna nods, considering Gavin, as she takes her place on the couch in front of the cameras. He is cute, and she knows well enough that men like her body; you can only be in so many beauty pageants before realizing what men like. It does give her a thrill at times, seeing some of the comments when her mom posts a clip of her on Instagram, all those older men complimenting her. Most of them are sadly kind of gross, but Gavin seems a reasonable sort; she doesn’t think she’ll mind pretending to flirt with him very much. “Action!” comes the call from Rob, and Joanna locks in. “Soooo.” She says, extending the vowel, stretching out on the couch. “You’re my mom’s new boyfriend huh?” She kicks off one of her shoes, tracing her foot up Gavin’s shin. Gavin grins at her, expression guileless. “Yeah. I hope that’s okay with you; your mom’s a very special lady, and I really do want to make her happy, and you too.” This isn’t the best dialogue Joanna’s ever had to work with, but it’s not the worst either. “Do you?” She asks, dropping her foot, and scooting closer to him on the couch, inches away now, looking up at him. “Most of mom’s boyfriends think I’m nothing but a little pest, something to get rid of. Just an annoying kid.” She gives a little pout as she says that, even as her hand settles on the couch, grazing Gavin’s thigh. “I don’t think that at all!” Gavin protests, taking her hand in his. “You’re just like your mother, a very special girl, and I want you to be happy that I’m here.” Joanna’s heart gives a little thrill at that, and she has to remind herself that this is	She's Perfect for the Role Joanna sits in the makeup tent, eyes closed, letting the nice but overly talkative woman touch up her foundation while chattering away with her mom. She applied her own makeup for this of course, her mom has been bringing her to things like this for years now, but she knows the routine, everyone has to make sure everything is done to their standards, and she sits in the chair without complaint. “How many girls are you looking for?” Her mother asks, hovering as she always does, so very concerned with Joanna’s putative career. The woman doing her makeup is clearly used to stage parents, and doesn’t even miss a beat when answering. “We’re a scouting unit, so we’re looking for as many girls as show promise. The ones who match what we’re looking for will shoot a screen test today; we’ll shop those around internally and the ones who we like will get a call back in a couple months. We’ll give a fee for the screen test though, and you can definitely put us on a resume if you want.” That’s generous, and makes Joanna perk up a little. She’s done paid gigs before, all commercials, and won some pageants. Most of the money gets added to a savings account, but the bits she gets to keep, spending just on her, are always a treat. She isn’t sure she likes acting exactly, but there are times it’s her favorite thing, the lights shining and her soul flying. She wishes she got to do more of that, and less of whatever her mother dragged her to. She waits around for her turn, sitting in the provided chairs on the lawn outside the large rented house with the other girls. Most of them she recognizes, some from her dance studio, or rivals on the pageant circuit, or from commercial auditions. They aren’t all friends, exactly, but there’s a sense of camaraderie almost, the knowledge that they’re all in this together. Plus, they all follow each other in Instagram. It’s not a bad wait, just a bit long, seeing girls trickle in, and most coming out again shortly thereafter. A number of those that do look uncomfortable, which is interesting, but not always uncommon. Plenty of directors are creeps, Joanna knows that perfectly well, but that’s just part of the business. Her turn comes soon enough, her number called by the man by the door. She leaves her phone with her mom in the tent outside, and heads into the house. The man guides her through, into a living room that’s been set up for a screen test, lights and grips and cameras and crew milling about. One man steps forward, offering her his hand. “Hello there! My name’s Rob, and I’m the director here.” Joanna takes his hand, shaking politely and firmly, as she’s been taught. “I’m Joanna. It’s very good to meet you.” “Pleased to meet you Joanna, we’re just going to be doing a bit of a screen test, one small scene to see if you fit with the vibe we’re going for. Your lines will be on the teleprompter there, and you’re going to be working opposite Gavin.” He waves another man forward, who introduces himself. Gavin is handsome in a kind of generic Hollywood way, maybe 30, and on the shorter side, only 5’6 or so, with sandy blonde hair and green eyes. Joanna shakes his hand as well. Rob continues. “Now, for the scene in question, Gavin is playing your mother’s new boyfriend, and you’re trying to get to know him better, to see if he has what it takes. We’d like you to play this a little bit flirty, okay?” Joanna nods, considering Gavin, as she takes her place on the couch in front of the cameras. He is cute, and she knows well enough that men like her body; you can only be in so many beauty pageants before realizing what men like. It does give her a thrill at times, seeing some of the comments when her mom posts a clip of her on Instagram, all those older men complimenting her. Most of them are sadly kind of gross, but Gavin seems a reasonable sort; she doesn’t think she’ll mind pretending to flirt with him very much. “Action!” comes the call from Rob, and Joanna locks in. “Soooo.” She says, extending the vowel, stretching out on the couch. “You’re my mom’s new boyfriend huh?” She kicks off one of her shoes, tracing her foot up Gavin’s shin. Gavin grins at her, expression guileless. “Yeah. I hope that’s okay with you; your mom’s a very special lady, and I really do want to make her happy, and you too.” This isn’t the best dialogue Joanna’s ever had to work with, but it’s not the worst either. “Do you?” She asks, dropping her foot, and scooting closer to him on the couch, inches away now, looking up at him. “Most of mom’s boyfriends think I’m nothing but a little pest, something to get rid of. Just an annoying kid.” She gives a little pout as she says that, even as her hand settles on the couch, grazing Gavin’s thigh. “I don’t think that at all!” Gavin protests, taking her hand in his. “You’re just like your mother, a very special girl, and I want you to be happy that I’m here.” Joanna’s heart gives a little thrill at that, and she has to remind herself that this is just acting, she’s not really flirting with this man. “I’d like to be, I really would.” She says, setting her other hand on his thigh. “Cut!” Shouts Rob, and Joanna jerks back as if startled. “That was perfect Joanna, one of the best we’ve seen today! You’re a natural at this, exactly what we’re looking for.” He’s smiling broadly, clearly very pleased, and Gavin pats her on the back as well, encouragingly. “Oh, thanks! Thanks so much!” Joanna says. “I think we’re going to move you right to the next phase of the screen tests, if that’s okay with you?” He checks, and Joanna nods eagerly. “Excellent! For this one, you’ll be filming a promo tape with Gavin, in one of the studios we have set up upstairs. We’ll pay you $500, and we’ll shop the tape around to the producers we work with, to see if you’re right for any of our upcoming projects. Does that sound good to you?” “Yes!” Joanna says, already excited. This is moving fast, sure, faster than most, but the promise of money is intoxicating, and she’s still excited by Gavin, especially since his hand is still resting casually on her back. “Great, we’ll just run the paperwork out to your mother to sign, but I doubt there’ll be a problem there, do you?” Joanna shakes her head; her mother would sign or do anything to get Joanna a shot at the big leagues, she knows that well enough, and Rob grins again. “Alright, you go on upstairs with Gavin, and he’ll get you settled; I’ll send up the crew once the paperwork is in order.” Joanna nods happily, and follows Gavin through the house, picking through the tangles of cables and people. She meets another girl on the stairs, Eugenie, one of the girls in her dance classes. She’s staggering slightly, with an odd look on her face, glazed and happy. It looks like she took a shower though, her makeup washed away. “Joanna! Hi! Are you doing the screen test too?” She asks, excited to see her friend. “Yeah! Did you do it? How is it?” Joanna asks, not noticing Gavin gesturing frantically at a man further up the stairs. Eugenie goes to answer, but is cut off by the arrival of another man, dressed similarly to Gavin. “Hey Eugenie, you forgot your cash back in the room, come on!” He takes her by the hand, leading her up, while Joanna watches. There’s something different about her, her movement holding a tenor it didn’t have before, but it isn’t something she can put her finger on exactly. Gavin takes her by the hand though, drawing her along quickly, up the stairs and past a number of closed doors. There are sounds coming from within, some of which invite further investigation, but they pass in a blur, Gavin hurrying her, until they come at last to another bedroom. It’s nothing particularly special, bed and dresser and desk and windows with an excellent mountain view. The camera setup and lights are atypical for a standard bedroom perhaps, but are something Joanna is well used to. Gavin closes the door, and then turns to face her, looking kind of awkward. Joanna feels it to, wondering what to say, wanting to ask about her friend, but a knock comes immediately thereafter. Gavin opens the door, and a woman walks in, short and sweet, with a bob haircut and many tattoos. “Hello there, you must be Joanna! I’m Stacy, and I’ll be running the cameras for this shoot and directing. Now, has Gavin given you the rundown for what you’ll be doing yet?” Joanna shakes her head, and Stacy grins. “Okay, no worries. We’re going for a natural audition feel, so we’ll be asking you some questions, and then Gavin will begin a scenario, an improv type deal. We want to see how well you can ‘yes, and’ in a safe setting. Sound good? Any questions?” “No, no, I think I’ve got this.” Joanna says, though she feels the butterflies in her stomach, the nerves that only come sometimes, but threaten to overwhelm her when they do. Gavin seems to sense this, laying one hand on her shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. “Alright, just sit on the bed there, right, that’s it. Now Gavin, you move out of frame, right, just sit there until I need you. Okay, and three, two…” Stacy fiddles with the cameras, and the light comes on. Joanna turns on her grin effortlessly, beaming with the ease of practice, feeling her nerves melt. It’s the anticipation that’s the problem; once you’re here, in the thick of it, you just grab on and ride it to the end. “Hello Everyone!” Stacy speaks from behind the camera, to an audience far removed in time and space. “I’m here today with Joanna, who’s going to be auditioning for us. Joanna, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself.” Joanna nods, tucking a strand of her brown hair behind one ear. “My name is Joanna, I’m 13, and I go to Eastside middle school. I dance, ballet and jazz, and I do modeling and acting. My dream is to become an actor, especially on stage. I love musical theatre, dinosaurs, and history.” It’s a little blurb she’s practiced many times, falling into the pattern of it, and it’s quite easy to relax once she does. “That’s amazing Joanna! What’s your favorite role you’ve done so far?” Joanna takes a moment to think about this before answering. “I was Annie in my school’s production of Annie two years ago, and that was a lot of fun. I also got to be Clara in the Nutcracker last year, which was amazing.” “Oooh, Clara is an excellent role. Did you like dancing with the prince?” Stacy’s tone is still light, though this isn’t quite the kind of question Joanna has been asked before. “I did.” She answers honestly. “We didn’t really do any partnering, but he did lift me a few times, and that was a lot of fun, it felt like I was flying, so high up there.” She giggles, remembering the feeling. “Now that is fun. Gavin here has lifted girls a few times, haven’t you Gavin?” Gavin steps forward then, into the view of the camera, standing by the bed. “Sure, though I don’t think we can do many big lifts in here, don’t want to run Joanna into the ceiling after all. That doesn’t sound like it’s be much fun.” Gavin quips, making Joanna giggle again. “No, but I’m sure we can do a smaller one; here, stand up Joanna, let’s see if Gavin is strong enough to pick you up.” It said as a joke, and clearly is one. Joanna stand 5’3, so only a bit shorter than Gavin, but he out-masses her by at least 50 pounds, and that’s pretty clearly all muscle. She stands up from the bed though, facing him, and then he steps in close, only inches away. She’s been lifted before of course, many times, but this feels different somehow, more intimate. “Ready?” He asks, and she nods, biting her lip, not intentionally, just a nervous reflex. He bends his legs, reaching about her, then lifts her up and in quickly, drawing her to him. “Wrap your legs around me.” He commands, and she obeys without thinking, finding herself with her arms and legs wrapped around him, her face inches from his, one of his arms wrapped around her waist, the other under her bum. She’s there, looking into his eyes, her breathing quickening, and then he’s moving in, and she is too, and his lips are on hers, and he’s moaning slightly, and so is she, her arms tightening around his back, and it’s so so so good, so much, too much! Joanna pulls back, gasping, eyes wide, looking from him to the camera and back. Her arms still around him, but clutching, locked, as if uncertain whether to pull him tighter or shove him away. “What’s the matter Joanna, is everything okay? Was that your first kiss?” Stacy asks from behind the camera. “Yeah, yeah it was.” Joanna says, blushing, feeling nervous and awkward. “Was that...okay? Is this part of the screen test?” “It is.” Gavin says, his voice low and soft. “Are you okay with that Joanna? Can I keep going?” “I...I don’t know. I’m not sure if this…” She isn’t sure what to say, and Gavin kisses her again, his lips crashing into hers. She tenses in his grip, her hands knotting into fists, balled in his shirt, then relaxing, leaning in, letting her passion sweep through her. He is cute, and he’s quite a good kisser, and she lets herself just enjoy it, even as part of her is screaming that this isn’t right, that he’s too old. This kiss goes on for longer, his hands caressing her as it does, his tongue poking at and entering her mouth, encountering her own, wrestling back and forth. She starts in surprise when he does, but then moans again, overwhelmed by the sensations but finding herself enjoying them. It feels right somehow, like this is where she’s meant to be, safe and secure in his arms, held and cared for and wanted by such a handsome man, like the girls of the silver screen she’s dreamed of being for so long. Gavin is the one who breaks the kiss, moving her over to the bed and setting her down. He steps back, looking down at her, grinning at her dazed expression, seeing her come to terms with just how much she enjoyed that. “It’s time to take your clothes off Joanna.” He says, his own hands reaching for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. “What? Wait, no, I, what?” Joanna says, trying to process quickly, but not keeping up with what’s happening. Gavin’s shirt is off now, and his body is just as nice as it felt under her hands, well toned; not quite a Marvel actor, not so severely dehydrated, but in good shape, with well formed muscles, and no extra flab. He is attractive, quite, but taking her clothes off, here, in front of the camera. “I...I can’t do that.” “You can. Here, I’ll help you.” Gavin pulls her to her feet, and she follows. His hands come down, taking hold of her shirt, and drawing it over her head. She lets him, her body moving as he directs it, even as she doesn’t quite think this is right. She glances over at Stacy, at the camera, eyes wide with alarm, but Stacy just nods and smiles, giving her a big thumbs up. “Now the bra.” Gavin says, arms circling her again, reaching expertly for the clasp on it. “No, wait, hold on.” Joanna says, even though her voice is quiet. Her hands are on Gavin’s chest, feeling the heat of his muscles under her hands, pushing on him slightly, but not hard, not really fighting it, torn between fear and a growing sense of desire, a newfound lust and excitement. Her bra comes off too, falling to the floor, and then Gavin steps back. It should be a reprieve, a break, but his hands move to his pants, and she watches, unable to look away, as he undoes them and lowers them to the floor. He’s not wearing boxers. His isn’t the first cock she’s seen; she has watched porn of course. It’s definitely the first she’s seen in person though, long and hard and menacing and oh so fascinating. She stares at it, she doesn’t want to, but she can’t look away, feeling as if she’s in some kind of trance. He reaches out, takes her hand, and moves it closer, putting it on his cock. It’s warm and hard and oddly soft feeling, skin like silk, a texture unlike anything else she’s felt before. “What, what are you doing? What are you going to do to me?” Joanna’s voice is quiet, small, tinged with fear, but she doesn’t pull away, leaving her hand on Gavin’s cock. “I’m going to fuck you Joanna. I’m going to fill you with my cock and cum until you beg for more, turn you into the little thirteen year old whore you were born to be. And you’re going to love it. Now, take off your pants.” His voice is calm, matter of fact. This isn’t a threat, not meant to scare her; he’s simply stating the way the world will be, as if he can see the future already. “No, no please, please don’t. I don’t want you to.” Joanna says, as she feels like she has to, though she only half means it, feeling another swell of lust growing within herself. She leaves her hand on Gavin’s cock, not resisting as he reaches for her jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding them down her long toned legs, well toned muscles from hours of ballet. Her panties get removed too, and she blushes. Men have touched her before of course; that’s part of dancing, of being lifted. But not like this, never like this. She’s not supposed to like it, she knows that, but oh how she does. Gavin moves to the bed, lying back, drawing Joanna with him, picking her up as if she weighs nothing, making her sit astride him. She looks down at him, eyes wide, not noticing as Stacy moves, taking a handheld, coming around so she can capture every expression on the girl’s face as she loses her virginity. “Feel that? That’s my cock. I’m about to stick it in you now Joanna, are you ready?” Gavin asks, his hands firm on her hips, his pelvis rocking back and forth, gliding his cock up and down her slit, feeling the heat of her, building her excitement and his. Joanna shakes her head, uncertain and paralyzed. She should shout, and run, and fight, and scream, but she just freezes. In part, this is just fear, but far more powerful and insidious is the desire deep within her. She wants this, she realizes, even as she doesn’t. She wars with herself internally, despite knowing that what she says next won’t matter, not really. His cock, so long and hard and hot, is going to be inside her, and the thought at once excites and terrifies her more than anything. “Please no.” She says, a final plea, though less than heartfelt. Gavin laughs, lifting her slightly, bringing his cock on line with her hole. “That’s right girl, just relax now. Now, Look at the camera as I go inside you, okay? Let the audience see what you’re feeling when I take your virginity.” Joanna does as she’s told, a trained thespian, following the mandates of the scene. His cock is hard and firm and pressing, and there’s a sense of pain, of tearing and pushing before a sudden release; followed by fullness as he’s inside her for the first time, so full so very full in a way she’s never felt before. Her eyes widen as she gets slowly filled with more and more of Gavin’s cock, face contorting and shifting through a wide variety of expressions, pain and fear and hate and lust and regret and desire, flickering and passing, until at last she comes to rest upon his hips, all of his hard cock buried to the hilt in her young snatch. “There you go Joanna. You aren’t a virgin anymore. How’s it feel? What’s it like having my cock inside you?” The enjoyment is clear in Gavin’s voice, enjoying the tight young hole around his cock, so warm and wet and welcoming. She’s not the first little girl he’s fucked, and she won’t be the last; you can see a thousand sunsets though, and each will still be special and lovely and worth savoring for their own beauty and merits. “It...hurts.” Joanna says, her voice strained. “You’re, you’re so big. I feel so full.” It does hurt, though now that the sharp pain fo the initial intrusion has passed it’s more of a dull ache, a stretch as muscles are forced to move in ways they never have before to accommodate the new presence in their midst. Mostly, it’s a feeling of fullness, terribly wrong and yet desperately right. “Don’t worry Joanna, it’s just a new thing. Once you’re used to it, you’ll love it. Trust me.” Gavin’s hand moves on her waist, circling from her hip, one of his thumbs coming down to tease at her clit as he slowly rocks back and forth with his hips. He’s not thrusting, just moving her back and forth on his cock, letting her get used to it, to come to enjoy the sensation of being filled, teasing her to help her adjust faster, to learn to feel pleasure from being filled and used and fucked. Joanna cringes when his thumb brushes against her, then moans unbidden. She’s tried masturbating before of course, and had mixed results, but this is different somehow. His cock is moving in her, deep and shifting and pressing on so many different things, and now his thumb is too, gently tapping at her, a whole new sensation added in on top. It feels good, so very good, an odd fire through her veins, and she moans, eyes wide but unseeing, mouth falling open. “That’s, that’s…” she stutters, unable to articulate clearly, her mind short circuiting. “That’s right, it feels good, doesn’t it?” Gavin says, filling in for the struggling child. He’s seen this before, the moment when fear and apprehension get replaced by dawning pleasure, the moment a good and innocent little girl takes her first step to being a beautiful little slut. He begins to rock his hips faster, actually thrusting slightly now, withdrawing maybe an inch and then sinking back in, leaving most of his cock within the tight embrace of her young cunt. He can feel her growing wetter as her pleasure increases, her body reacting naturally, giving in, taking him, doing what it’s designed to do. “It’s, it’s, oooooohhhh!” Joanna moans, her thoughts overwhelmed, her words turning into a desperate sound of need. She begins to move, unintentionally, rocking her hips back and forth in time with Gavin, eager, desperate for more of his cock, to feel it in her, to feel the fullness of it increase. There’s some part of her still insisting that this is wrong, but it’s been drowned out now, lost in waves of pleasure and lust and unbridled need. Her hands fall, landing on Gavin’s broad chest, anchoring herself to him. “Yes, please, yes!” She cries, giving in and letting go. Gavin grins, and begins to fuck the girl in earnest, drawing her up and then slamming his hips up after her, finding and matching her rhythm, filling her again and again with his cock, giving her what she needs, what she wants. She’s lost in the pleasure of it, fully absorbed, and Gavin moans in his own joy, feeling her cunt contract around him. It’s the same way every time, the girls scared and nervous and uncertain until they get a proper dick for the first time, and then they can’t get enough. “That’s right Joanna, tell the audience how old you are again.” “I’m, I’m, oh, oh ohhhhhh, I’m thirteen,” she says, voice shaky, cut off by squeaks as she’s filled with Gavin’s cock. “And how does it feel, your little thirteen year old hole, getting filled with a grown man’s cock?” “It’s, it’s good! Oh, oh, yesyesyesyes, oh, oh, oh you’re so good, oh fuck!” Joanna’s a bit embarrassed to be talking like this, but there’s hardly room to feel that, her emotional centers occupied by other, more pressing concerns, like the cock filling her oh so well. “You’re a little slut, aren’t you? Go on, say it!” “Yes, yes, oh yes! I’m a slut, a little, oh fuck, thirteen year old slut! Fuck me, harder, please, yes!” Gavin laughs, thrusting fully now, slamming his cock deep into Joanna’s warm and welcoming cunt without need of restraint. She’s fully adapted to it now, welcoming him in, warm and wet and ready to be pounded into a good and proper whore. He can feel her orgasm building, see it in the glaze of her eyes and feel it in the quivering of her thighs. She’s close, so close, and he brings his thumb back to her clit, urging her on. “Go on then, good girl. Cum for me, cum on this cock!” Joanna moans, feeling new sensations flood through her, as each nerve ending seems to come alive in ways it never has before. She lets out a low and throaty moan, desperate with need, and then she’s cumming, back arching, a wordless cry escaping her lips as she grinds back and forth frantically on the cock inside her. It’s her whole world for a moment, one single point of pure pleasure, before slowly oozing, softening, mellowing into a golden glow that settles through her, warm and comfortable and good. A heady feeling. “Oh, wow.” She says, looking down at Gavin, meeting his eyes and smiling, suddenly a bit shy again, realizing he’s still inside her, still fucking her, the cameras having recorded all of that. He stills then, stopping his thrusts, buried deep within her, and smiles back. “Are you ready to try something else now?” Gavin asks, and she nods, unable to say no, still wrapped in the post orgasmic bliss. He lifts her off, carefully, and moves her onto the bed, setting her down gently. “Get up on your hands and knees, facing the camera. I’m going to put it in your ass now.” Joanna is already moving to do what he says when his words sink in. “In, in my ass? Why? Won’t that hurt?” She doesn’t know much about anal, beyond a few videos watched here or there. It seems...off somehow, not something the girls enjoy, even if the guys clearly do. Gavin shrugs, moving behind her on the bed. “It’ll hurt a bit at first, sure, but then it’ll feel really good. You want to know how I know that?” She looks at him, questioningly. “It’s because you’re a little slut Joanna, and I’m about to turn you into a butt-slut too. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.” It might be at that, though as Stacy passes him the lube, he can see Joanna still has her doubts. “I, I don’t really want to do this. Can’t you just stick it back in my pussy instead? That felt amazing.” She asks, even as she takes the position he assigned her, looking back at him and forward to the camera in turn. “Don’t worry Joanna, I’m going to get you all lubed up, and it’ll feel fine. Now, this might be a bit cold, but that’ll pass.” Gavin puts a generous dollop of lube on her cute little hole, seeing it wink at him and hearing her yelp as the cold goo hits it. He massages it in with his thumb, pressing at but not entering her anal hole. He drops another generous dollop on his cock, adding to her earlier juices, getting himself well lubed. It is cold, but only for a minute. The pressure of his thumb against her hole is strange and alien, but that passes quickly enough. Then his hands are on her hips once more, and she feels him shifting behind her. “Look at the camera now, okay? Look right at it as I go inside you. Just relax now, and let me in.” He says, and she feels something pressing against her hole, hard and slick, the head of his cock. “No, please, please!” She says, her voice rising into a shriek as the head of his cock pushes through her anal ring. It’s the same burning stretch as when it first went into her pussy, but worse somehow, more and deeper and harsher, without the same release that came from her body adjusting to it. Each inch he slides in brings new pain, and she begins to cry. “No, wait, stop! That hurts! Stop! Take it out, please, please take it out! Please! Gavin! Pleaaaaase…!” Gavin slowly finishes inserting his cock into the crying girl, feeling her hole clamp down on him, trying to drive him out. He rubs her back, softly, and then reaches forward, gently lifting up her chin so she’s looking at the camera once more. “Breathe now Joanna, just breathe, that’s it. It’ll hurt as first, but breathe, try to relax. Relax into the stretch. Feel how full you are, feel how good it is, just like having me in your cunt. This is what you’re for Joanna, every one of your holes is made to be filled with cock.” Joanna sobs again, but the pain is receding, the sharp stab reduced to a dull ache, a stretch and burn she’s sued to feeling during dance when forcing a stretch. These muscles aren’t used to stretching this way, and it does hurt, deep into her guts. Then, one of his hands finds her clit again, the gentle rub from before, and she lets out a gasp. The pleasure from that doesn’t cancel out the pain of course, doesn’t immediately make it go away, but it adds a new layer, a current of pleasure to the experience, helping her relax, to breathe, to stop clenching down. As she relaxes, the pain does yield, just slightly, her muscles allowing the cock to make its home inside her. There’s still the after-ache, the soreness and stretch; it’s not comfortable, but it’s no longer screaming agony. “It, it still hurts a bit…” She says, her voice scratchy from earlier tears. “Yes, but it’s starting to feel good too, isn’t it?” It’s certainly feeling good for him. Joanna’s ass is even tighter than her little cunt was, the way it always is with these girls. They don’t all turn into anal whores, but the speed with which she stopped crying makes Gavin think she might be a natural. He doesn’t start moving in her quite yet, giving her more time to adjust as his hands caress her, trying to get her to relax further. “It is.” Joanna says, her voice soft. Gavin laughs, leaving his hand on her clit, and she feels his cock begin to slide out of her ass, agonizingly slowly. It’s an odd feeling, uncomfortable and foreign yes, but with an odd pleasure to it. That comes both from the physical sensation, his hands on her mostly, but much more from the mental experience. She’s fully at his mercy, under his control, being used by him for his pleasure alone. That’s not something she’s used to, but as his cock begins to push back in, and he lets out a growling moan, she responds, echoing his tone, realizing she’s enjoying it. “You like that girl? You like my cock in your ass?” He asks, and she feels a shudder run through her. She doesn’t, shouldn’t, but oh yes she does, in some deep and sinful way. It’s a different feeling from when he was fucking her earlier, pain merging with pleasure, and a new thrill, that of submission. Earlier, she’d been fucking him as much as he was fucking her. Now he’s using her, taking his pleasure from her, and there’s a new kind of thrill in that, one she doesn’t fully grasp yet, but finds herself enjoying. “I, I do. I like your cock in my ass.” She says, hardly believing it. “That’s good Joanna, now look right in the camera and say that. Tell them you’re a good little anal whore.” Joanna looks at the camera, eyes bright, makeup smudged, hurt, but glowing. “I like having your cock in my ass. I’m a good little anal whore. Do you like that Gavin? Like sticking your cock in little girl’s asses? Do you like turning me into a whore?” Gavin laughs, and thrusts harder, making Joanna squeak then moan. “Yes I do Joanna. I’m a mentor like that. Right now I’m teaching you to bend over and take a grown man’s cock. That your holes are made to be filled with men’s cocks. How are you liking the lesson?” “I, I love it!” Joanna says, voice surprised, but genuine. “What do you think Joanna, are you going to be a good little whore after this, bend over for more men, beg them to fill your holes with cock?” “Yes! Yes! Ohhhhhhhh yessss….” Joanna says, not even hesitating now, her mind melting into the swirl of pleasure and ache and need as Gavin uses her. She’s not quite reaching another orgasm, but his pressure on her clit is keeping her at a high plateau, extending her earlier pleasure, making her eager and willing to say or do whatever he asks. Gavin can feel his own orgasm building, driven on by the little slut’s eager need to serve him, to please him. The tight warmth of her ass only contributes, and he knows he’ll blow soon. “I’m going to cum Joanna, and I’m going to cum on your face. Do you want that? Do you want me to ruin your pretty makeup with my cum?” “Yes, yes, do it! Do it!” Joanna says, not even processing most of what Gavin is saying anymore, overwhelmed by the hammering of her ass. The cock is gone suddenly, leading to another whirl of sensations, both relief in the sudden lack, and a sense of loss, emptiness, that some integral part of her was taken away. She moans, and then he’s suddenly next to her, one hand cupping the back of her head, his cock filling her vision. She flinches back, stopped by his waiting hand, and then his cock erupts. She knows about orgasms of course, but she never expected to receive a facial like this, to be painted like this, spurt after spurt of warm white cum coating her face. She shuts her eyes tight against it, feeling it covering her face and landing in her hair. Gavin looks on, panting and gasping in delight as he paints her, his orgasm finally petering out, leaving her absolutely splattered with his cum, gobs and streaks of it all over her young face. He wipes the last drop on her cheek, then collapses back onto the bed, sitting with a well earned groan of release, full of post orgasmic bliss. Joanna goes to wipe at her face, but he puts a hand on her shoulder, stilling her. “Leave it, go on, look at the camera, show the audience how pretty you are covered in cum.” She does as she’s told, blinking her eyes open carefully, looking at the camera with a somewhat bemused expression. She’s blushing slightly, both embarrassed by and proud of what she’s done, the evidence of how well she pleased him splattered across her face. She looks up at him, then back at the camera, seeing Stacy grinning behind it as well, giving her a big thumbs up. “So Joanna, how did taking your first ever cock feel?” Stacy asks, smiling at her. Joanna blushes again, even redder. “Good. It felt...really good.” “And do you think you’ll be looking to do something like this again?” Joanna looks up at Gavin, his grinning face, his softening cock, and knows the answer instinctively. “Yes. Definitely, definitely, yes.”	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75652051	{"authors": ["SenatorSins"], "language": "English", "title": "She's Perfect for the Role"}
Blank Life happens. Sometimes, it feels like my life is boring. Like nothing has ever happened or will ever happen to me. I have no friends, I’m not close to my family, and even my co-workers keep their distance. I’ve been on one date in the past three years, and it never went anywhere. I’m floating in a meaningless void, and…in all honesty, I’m close to ending even that. Maybe it’s a mistake to start my new diary with the declaration of my suicidal tendencies, but my therapist told me I should be totally honest and, well, while I’m still fresh and co-operative, why not follow that advice? Anyway, life happens; just not to me. I’m a blank slate, I think. My therapist asked me to think of my childhood memories, but nothing really stood out. I went to a middle-of-the-road school. I was never bullied. My parents loved me, loved each other. I never excelled in sports, or art, or music, or even studying. I had few friends, and none of them ever asked me to hang out with them after school. We lost contact after graduating. I’m not especially ugly or good-looking. I have few hobbies, and the ones I do have seem to me rather…common. I like to read, but nothing especially interesting, and I never get very excited or passionate about them. They mostly just pass the time. I listen to lots of music, but only the popular radio songs, and even if I sometimes hum along, I don’t know any of the words off by heart or anything. I’ve never been in an accident. I work a regular job as a barista in a café I live just around the corner from. I stay at home most nights, in bed by 6PM, eat regular meals and just…exist. The one thing that might be especially unique about me is that I love to collect mugs. My house is a treasure-trove of mugs. Old ones, new ones, red ones, blue ones, yellow ones, ones with cars or motorcycles stamped on the front, ones with witty sayings…I just like them. Even so, if I lose one or break one, I throw it away or forget about it quickly enough. So yeah, life happens to everyone but me. “Hmm…” My therapist said, looking at my diary entry. She’d told me I didn’t have to show her, but what was the point of the thing, if not to show her? “Do you think you might have depression?” She’d asked me immediately about the suicidal tendencies – if I had a plan, if I’d told anyone, how serious I was about it. I’d answered. No, no, not very. It’s funny. I can’t even garner up enough energy to even be serious about my own death. Is that funny? I don’t like comedies very much. Laughing…tends to hurt. “What do you mean, laughing tends to hurt?” I’d told her directly, but I suppose this diary feels enough like a different entity that I’ll write it down, too. I can’t remember a time when I laughed. It must have happened, surely, but…when I try to remember, I can’t. I do remember the first time I watched someone else laugh. Their face scrunched up, and their body heaved, and that noise. It was grating. Others joined in, but I couldn’t stand it. Then, I’d heard someone say that it hurt, telling the others to ‘stop’. They were wheezing, struggling to get air in. I’d been glad when it stopped. When they had all gotten their breath back. I think I remember being about ten, then. Ever since, I haven’t been able to hear laughter without cringing. Maybe I thought they were laughing at me? I don’t think that’s it, though. It just looks…painful. I don’t want to laugh. I think it would hurt. My therapist told me to go out and do something. “Whatever interests you.” She’d said. I wandered. There was nothing I really wanted to do, so I just left my house and walked. There had been a lot of things on my way, but I didn’t pay any attention to anything. There was a coffee shop. It had bags of coffee grounds. I’d seen it put in a few months ago, and put it out of my mind as just another shop that probably wouldn’t last all that long. On the door, there was a sign saying they needed a new employee. I opened the door and went to the front counter. There was a young man serving the front. He was just a little shorter than me, and had soft, kind eyes. His long, brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His lips curled up into a smile when he greeted me. I told him I wanted a job. Even with my job at the café, I had plenty of spare time. He’d continued to smile while giving me a form to fill out. I did. I gave it back to him. He kept smiling. How can anyone smile so much and not get tired? Don’t his cheeks hurt? He looked down at the paper. “How soon can you start?” I’d shrugged. “Tomorrow?” He looked me up and down. “Today?” “Sure.” It’s not what she had in mind. My therapist had frowned and pursed her lips when I’d informed her of the results of her task. “But I hope this new job is good for you.” I could tell she didn’t mean it. But Joshua – that’s his name. He said he doesn’t like anyone calling him ‘Josh’, so I didn’t, and don’t. But Joshua, he laughs a lot. I asked him if he liked people calling him ‘Ua’ instead, and he’d laughed. It	Blank Life happens. Sometimes, it feels like my life is boring. Like nothing has ever happened or will ever happen to me. I have no friends, I’m not close to my family, and even my co-workers keep their distance. I’ve been on one date in the past three years, and it never went anywhere. I’m floating in a meaningless void, and…in all honesty, I’m close to ending even that. Maybe it’s a mistake to start my new diary with the declaration of my suicidal tendencies, but my therapist told me I should be totally honest and, well, while I’m still fresh and co-operative, why not follow that advice? Anyway, life happens; just not to me. I’m a blank slate, I think. My therapist asked me to think of my childhood memories, but nothing really stood out. I went to a middle-of-the-road school. I was never bullied. My parents loved me, loved each other. I never excelled in sports, or art, or music, or even studying. I had few friends, and none of them ever asked me to hang out with them after school. We lost contact after graduating. I’m not especially ugly or good-looking. I have few hobbies, and the ones I do have seem to me rather…common. I like to read, but nothing especially interesting, and I never get very excited or passionate about them. They mostly just pass the time. I listen to lots of music, but only the popular radio songs, and even if I sometimes hum along, I don’t know any of the words off by heart or anything. I’ve never been in an accident. I work a regular job as a barista in a café I live just around the corner from. I stay at home most nights, in bed by 6PM, eat regular meals and just…exist. The one thing that might be especially unique about me is that I love to collect mugs. My house is a treasure-trove of mugs. Old ones, new ones, red ones, blue ones, yellow ones, ones with cars or motorcycles stamped on the front, ones with witty sayings…I just like them. Even so, if I lose one or break one, I throw it away or forget about it quickly enough. So yeah, life happens to everyone but me. “Hmm…” My therapist said, looking at my diary entry. She’d told me I didn’t have to show her, but what was the point of the thing, if not to show her? “Do you think you might have depression?” She’d asked me immediately about the suicidal tendencies – if I had a plan, if I’d told anyone, how serious I was about it. I’d answered. No, no, not very. It’s funny. I can’t even garner up enough energy to even be serious about my own death. Is that funny? I don’t like comedies very much. Laughing…tends to hurt. “What do you mean, laughing tends to hurt?” I’d told her directly, but I suppose this diary feels enough like a different entity that I’ll write it down, too. I can’t remember a time when I laughed. It must have happened, surely, but…when I try to remember, I can’t. I do remember the first time I watched someone else laugh. Their face scrunched up, and their body heaved, and that noise. It was grating. Others joined in, but I couldn’t stand it. Then, I’d heard someone say that it hurt, telling the others to ‘stop’. They were wheezing, struggling to get air in. I’d been glad when it stopped. When they had all gotten their breath back. I think I remember being about ten, then. Ever since, I haven’t been able to hear laughter without cringing. Maybe I thought they were laughing at me? I don’t think that’s it, though. It just looks…painful. I don’t want to laugh. I think it would hurt. My therapist told me to go out and do something. “Whatever interests you.” She’d said. I wandered. There was nothing I really wanted to do, so I just left my house and walked. There had been a lot of things on my way, but I didn’t pay any attention to anything. There was a coffee shop. It had bags of coffee grounds. I’d seen it put in a few months ago, and put it out of my mind as just another shop that probably wouldn’t last all that long. On the door, there was a sign saying they needed a new employee. I opened the door and went to the front counter. There was a young man serving the front. He was just a little shorter than me, and had soft, kind eyes. His long, brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His lips curled up into a smile when he greeted me. I told him I wanted a job. Even with my job at the café, I had plenty of spare time. He’d continued to smile while giving me a form to fill out. I did. I gave it back to him. He kept smiling. How can anyone smile so much and not get tired? Don’t his cheeks hurt? He looked down at the paper. “How soon can you start?” I’d shrugged. “Tomorrow?” He looked me up and down. “Today?” “Sure.” It’s not what she had in mind. My therapist had frowned and pursed her lips when I’d informed her of the results of her task. “But I hope this new job is good for you.” I could tell she didn’t mean it. But Joshua – that’s his name. He said he doesn’t like anyone calling him ‘Josh’, so I didn’t, and don’t. But Joshua, he laughs a lot. I asked him if he liked people calling him ‘Ua’ instead, and he’d laughed. It didn’t look like it hurt him. He says I’m funny. I disagree. He thought that was funny, too. He asked me to help him stock the shelves. I told him I worked for the café down the road. He asked if I would ask the manager to buy from him instead. I’d shrugged, but I’ve been avoiding asking. I tend to keep my head down wherever I am. Joshua talks a lot. He wants me to talk a lot, too He says he wants me to smile at our customers and talk to them. To be ‘friendly’. I told him I don’t have any friends. He told me he was my friend. That…makes me sad. I lied to Yuka. My therapist. I told her I didn’t have a plan for suicide. I do. I haven’t told anyone. But I heard about someone who jumped into the river a year or so ago. They’d hit the surface like it had been made of concrete. Instant death, they’d said, and then her body had floated away. She’d done it at 3AM, when no one was out. It had been moonless. It had all sounded perfect, to me. Especially if I could avoid reaching the bank for as long as possible. Then, no one who knew me would ever have to worry. I wonder…how long it would take anyone to notice that I was gone. Before, the answer to that would make me sad, too. Mum only calls once a month. Dad never. My therapist appointments are now once every two weeks. My job would just schedule someone else on. But Joshua would notice. I work there every day I can, and when I can’t, he texts me. If I don’t text him back, he gets worried and scolds me the next day. That makes me happy. That he cares. Maybe…I should tell Joshua? That makes me scared. What would he say? Joshua wanted me to have a coffee with him. “You’re a barista, aren’t you? I should have one of your coffees.” I made him one. He told me to make another one and sit with him. I told him I don’t drink coffee. I refused him until I was sitting opposite him with a glass of water. It was only then that he took a sip. “Ah, this is really good.” Strangely, I felt something when he said that. It was a warm feeling. I don’t know what to call it. “Have you tried coffee before?” “No. My mum told me it was bad for you, so…” Joshua had laughed. “How can you know you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?” He’d given me his cup, the one I’d made for him. I’d hesitated, but eventually given it a sip. I choked. It was bitter. He’d laughed at me again. I pushed the coffee away. “Joshua…does laughing…hurt?” He’d frowned. “No. Of course not. It feels good. Don’t tell me you’ve never laughed before?” I shook my head. “Not even when you were a baby?” For some reason, I was embarrassed. “Mum said…I didn’t.” “That’s…that’s sad.” He shook it off easily. “We should watch something funny. What do you like?” “I…” Suddenly, I was feeling lots of things. I realized that, for the first time in a long time, I actually felt sad. “Joshua, I…” I sat on my hands, hoping that it would hurt more than it did. “I don’t…there’s nothing that I…” His face softened, and he reached over the table, brushing away the few tears that had slipped down my cheeks. “It’s okay.” “I want…” I couldn’t go any further than that. Joshua just sat with me. “I’ve been planning to throw myself off a bridge.” I finally said, very quietly. Joshua’s expression didn’t change. He blinked. “Okay.” “Okay?” “Are you going to?” “I…used to think so.” “But you don’t anymore?” I shook my head again. Slowly, a smile came back to his face. “I don’t think you will, either.” He took the coffee back and finished it. “Why did you want to?” “Because I…” Suddenly, all my reasons felt ridiculous. I thought no one cared about me? I didn’t care about myself? Had there been something else? “I…” What was I doing? Why did I tell him? His hands came back to my cheeks, but he was standing over me this time. “Colin. Breathe.” I took a deep breath in. “I wanted to, as well. A few years ago. It was…I felt empty. I’d just come out to my family, and they…weren’t good about it. My boyfriend dumped me not long after, even though he was the one who pushed me to come out, reassured me that he’d be there for me. I had pushed all my other friends away. I thought…I would die of heartbreak, before I could do anything to help the process along. I felt worthless. Like no one cared. I didn’t care.” “What helped?” He smiled again. “Coffee.” “Coffee?” “There was a place downstairs from my apartment. It was run by an old Turkish woman. It smelled so good. Every day, I would get up just to smell her coffee. I would be at the window, day and night. And then one morning, it stopped. I waited. Sometimes, she was a bit late to start. But after half an hour, I knew something had happened. I rushed down there. She’d…had a heart attack. She was barely still breathing when I got there. “After she came back from the hospital, I checked on her every morning. She taught me how to smile again. It was so surprising to me that when she did die, she left everything to me. She talked about her son, back in Türkiye still, about a granddaughter and grandson he’d had. I heard he caused quite the fuss when he heard about it. But she left me a letter, telling me never to give up. To take the money and make something of myself. I could never make the coffee as good as her, but I kept her shipment of coffee beans over from Türkiye. So I bought this place.” He let go of my cheeks and sat back down. “So, why did you want to?” “I was lonely. I thought…who would even miss me? I’m too boring. I don’t do anything. I don’t like anything. I felt like I was just…a waste of space.” “What changed?” “I went to therapy.” “Why?” I didn’t answer for a long time. It wasn’t that I forgot why. It was just embarrassing. “One of my co-workers…told me to just do it. They said that they could tell I was thinking about it. They said I was weird and gross and I should just off myself. And I…I went to the bridge. I was there for about an hour, just looking at the water. When…I just…left.” “Did you get scared?” “No.” “Angry?” “No.” He frowned slightly. “Then…why did you leave?” “I don’t know. I felt…awkward. It didn’t feel like my place, somehow.” Joshua nodded. “I think I get you. You don’t really want to do it at home, right? It would be too…private, when people found you. But out there, it wasn’t somewhere you’d usually go.” “Yeah.” “I’m glad you didn’t jump, Colin.” “I think…I’m glad, too.” “That’s good. That’s really good. I’m glad you feel you can talk to…um…Jas…Just…uh…ah, here, Josh.” “Joshua.” “Yeah.” “He doesn’t like being called Josh.” “Right. Sorry. Joshua.” “Yeah.” “Anything else going on?” “I…think I’m actually better, now.” “It’s…certainly a step in the right direction, Colin, but I wouldn’t-“ “I think I’m done. I…thanks for your help.” “I want to advise against-“ “Thank you, Yuka, for your help, but I’m finished with therapy.” “Okay. Have a good day, Colin.” “You quit?” “Yeah, I…I found another job.” “It’s typical to give some warning before you leave a job. Courteous, even.” I shrugged. “I can come in for a few more shifts if you want. I’m just letting you know that I quit.” My old boss sighed. “Well, good luck, I guess. Give your apron back to Amy.” “Okay.” I saw Joshua right after I quit my café job. He welcomed me in with a smile, the one he always had on. “Hey, I thought it was your day off?” “I quit my other job. I only work for you now.” He looked shocked. “Why…would you do that?” “I don’t want to be with anyone else.” He was quiet for another few moments. “We’ve really got to get you some more friends. It’s bad to rely on just one person.” I decided not to tell him that I’d also quit therapy. Later that night, he took me out for drinks with his friends. I didn’t and don’t drink alcohol, but I didn’t tell anyone that. Joshua had six friends – two girls, four boys. Ash, Meg, Cam, Terry, Sam and Ralph. I was introduced to everyone quickly, and then faded into the background. Joshua kept trying to get me involved in the conversation, but it was clear that no one was particularly interested in getting to know me. On the way home, Joshua shook his head. “Sorry, they’re usually a lot more friendly. I don’t know why-“ “I’m a ghost. I told you. I have no hobbies. I’m not interesting. It’s not their fault. It’s mine.” Joshua sighed. “Then, we should find you a hobby.” “I promise, I’ve tried everything. My parents forced me to do all the sports at least once, I’ve tried card games. I’ve tried video games. Nothing seems worth the effort.” He looked at me for a few moments. “Am I worth the effort?” He asked quietly. “Yes.” I replied without even thinking. “Why?” I didn’t really have to think about the answer to that, either. “When you smile, when you laugh, it doesn’t seem like it hurts.” For the next few weeks, I went to work at the coffee shop, and Joshua would try to introduce me to new activities. We went rock climbing. We visited a few different museums. We went to a book club. We even booked a horse-riding lesson, but had to abandon it last minute when we discovered way too late that I’m allergic to horses. Each activity felt more like a date than the last. Part of me hoped our relationship didn’t change. A bigger part wanted him to kiss me. “I like writing.” Joshua looked surprised for a moment, before he smiled. “Really? What do you write about?” “For now, just this. Us. I write about what we do together.” “That’s really sweet. Would you want to write anything else?” “Maybe.” “Well, today, I have some cards for us to play with. Maybe you’re a poker savant?” “Can I read it? What you write?” We were sitting on the couch in my living room. I hesitated. “You don’t have to let me. I’m just curious. Could you read me some?” I nodded at that and went to get one of my notebooks. “Ooh, by hand? That’s even sweeter.” I felt my face flush, and I must have smiled, because Joshua’s widened. ‘Joshua took me to a cooking lesson today. We were going to be learning how to bake and decorate cupcakes. There were a lot of mums. Some of them seemed to have no idea what they were doing, but seemed to be having fun anyway. I never had fun when I didn’t know what I was doing. I would usually just give up. I’m happy we came. I think I learned that it’s okay to not know what you’re doing.’ “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I find it hard to tell, sometimes.” “I enjoy just being with you.” He laughed. “Even when we had to take you to the hospital with your allergies?” “Even then.” His smile faded. “I still haven’t heard you laugh. I thought we could watch some comedies-“ “No.” He looked surprised. “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ “It’s just…they always feel so forced, and I feel bad for not joining in. And…it seems like…everyone’s just hurting.” “Okay. What do you want to do instead?” An image flashed through my mind of us kissing. I wanted it. But I thought I might not be ready yet. And I felt Joshua wasn’t, either. “We could go out to eat?” “You’re still hungry?” I forgot we’d already had dinner. “Oh. Um, no. I just meant…” I folded my lips over my teeth. “Don’t go.” I whispered. He stood up and hugged me. He did this a lot. He would hug me when I came in to work every morning. He would hug me when he left. He would hug me while we hung out together. “I’m not.” “I’m sorry.” “Why?” “I don’t…we still haven’t found anything I want to do. And I still can’t laugh.” “It’s okay. It’ll take time.” “Will you…stay here tonight?” “Okay.” I didn’t think about it, but I only had the one mattress. It was a queen, so there was enough room for both of us, but I still felt bad for asking him to stay when I essentially didn’t have anywhere for him to sleep. There were no other options, at least. “It’s okay.” Joshua said, already climbing in. “I don’t mind.” I couldn’t deny that the idea of sleeping next to him was appealing. So I just climbed in beside him. He smiled at me again. “Goodnight, Colin.” “Goodnight, Joshua.” Joshua was touching me when I woke up. He had his arm draped over my chest. I looked over and felt myself smile. He looked so cute. I took another moment to breathe him in before I got up to start my morning routine. He came out to join me just as I was finishing making us breakfast. He slumped sleepily into one of the dining room chairs. I handed him my favourite mug, the coffee almost spilling over the lip. He smiled at me and thanked me. I sat beside him and drank from my own, second favourite mug. One of the most wonderful things about Joshua is that he always smells like coffee. I’ve always loved the smell. On that morning, I just wanted more of it, more of him. I leaned in closer and inhaled deeply. “Joshua…what am I going to do…if you’re the only thing that makes me happy?” He looked over to me and his lips created an even bigger smile. “I guess I’d never be able to leave, then.” I wanted to tell him I loved him, then. But I didn’t. “We should get ready to go to work. We’re probably late already.” For the next few weeks, we kept going out together. It got harder to not say anything. It got harder to leave him every night. It got harder to not kiss him. It got harder to not keep holding him every morning and night, every random hug during the day. Finally, it seemed like he’d exhausted all his ideas for fun things to do together. I decided it was time for me to make a suggestion. “Can I read to you?” His smile was so bright. I swear, he’d started smiling even more, enough for the both of us. “Of course.” I got my diary again. Not this one, for my more private thoughts. My activity diary. I’d been scribbling hearts in the margins, in the empty space, over every ‘I’, as every full stop. The notebook itself had a heart on the front. “It was just what was left. I got it after Valentines. It was on sale,” I lied. I’d gone the week before the holiday, hoping to find the one that would suit best. I’d written ‘happy Valentine’s day, Joshua’ on the inside of the cover. ‘The ideas are getting more and more obscure. Joshua offered to take me skydiving, but I told him I would never, ever go up there. So we went to the beach instead. We’d been before, but I hadn’t told him that I didn’t like the sand, because the sea was so beautiful. The wash of the waves relaxed me, and the sight of all that blue…’ ‘A blue ocean melting into a blue sky, which just stretched on and on above our heads until meeting the skyline of the city behind us. It made me dizzy.’ ‘We didn’t swim that time, thankfully. Getting my hair back to its soft curls had been difficult after the first time. We just walked along the beach. We talked. We bought an ice cream.’ I paused, looked at Joshua, who was smiling at me. My heart was pounding. ‘I wanted to hold his hand.’ My eyes were locked onto his face, but he just kept smiling at me, his face serene. “I wanted to kiss you.” He tilted his head. “Why didn’t you?” “I…thought…you might not want me to.” Joshua stood and came over to me. “Are you going to ask…to kiss me now?” I placed my hands on his waist. “Before I do, I want to ask you something else.” “Mm?” “Is it bad that I have no hobbies? I still can’t laugh. We still haven’t found anything that-“ He placed a finger on my lips. “It’s okay. I fell in love with you despite all that, didn’t I?” “I guess…you did.” I swallowed. “Well…Joshua…may I kiss you?” “Yes.” The kiss we shared was soft and sweet. It was my first. It clearly wasn’t his. He pulled me closer and deepened the kiss. It felt amazing. I lost myself in it. I honestly forget the details. I just allowed myself to feel whatever I was feeling. Later, we were cuddled together in bed. His hand absently stroked my hair. “I love you.” I said. I wasn’t thinking about how soon it was. It felt like we’d already been dating for months, anyway. He smiled at me. “I love you, too.” His expression slipped, and I saw a serious thought. He always got that expression when he was thinking something serious. I could tell he didn’t like serious thoughts as much as he liked his usual ones. “Colin…” “Yeah?” He paused for a long moment. “Never mind. I’ll tell you later.” If I were someone else, someone with hopes and dreams and hobbies and worries, I would have probably asked what he meant. But I wasn’t that person. Instead, I was a person who trusted Joshua completely. So I just lay down next to him and cuddled against him. “Okay.” It took another few weeks for that serious thought to come back. We were taking inventory in the stock room when he turned to me. “I want to get a proper coffee-making station. And I…” He put his pen and notepad down. I looked at him curiously. He took my hips and made me face him. “Colin, I want to make you my business partner.” My first emotion was, strangely, happiness. Then, I worried. “Are you sure? It’s a big risk.” “I trust you.” He said, smiling again. “I’ve already thought about it long and hard. All you need to do is sign a few documents.” “We…should get married first.” I wanted to give myself more time to think about it. “Okay. I’ll buy a ring tomorrow.” “What? But-“ He suddenly seemed to realise what he’d just said. “Sorry, I…it’s moving too fast. I-forget what I said.” His face was flushed. It was the first time I’d ever seen him embarrassed. I smiled at him and pulled him in for a hug. “Don’t make me wait too long, though.” I forgot about this therapy journal. I still write in my regular, day-to-day journals, but after the move, this was lost in all the boxes. I only ever half-filled it. Now that we’re moving again, I dug through the old boxes and stumbled upon it. I think I’m writing better these days. I’m definitely feeling better. I can laugh now, without it hurting. I can be around other people who are laughing without cringing. I don’t think everyone who’s laughing is only doing it to cover up their pain. Joshua has helped me so much with that. He also helped me find a few hobbies I like doing. I go on runs in the nearby park, but it’s mostly an excuse to look at all the cute dogs. I’m a teacher, now, for younger students. And I’m taking parenting classes so that, in the new year, I’ll be able to adopt a baby. We’ll be able to adopt a baby. Joshua and I got married last winter. It was just at home. We asked the efficient to come to us, which he did. We had one of Joshua’s friends there as a witness. We then spent the rest of the day curled up together, drinking wine and coffee and being…happy. There’s no one and nothing I love more than coming home and cuddling into his arms. He’s always sweet and gentle, but importantly, always, always smiling. Even when we kiss, he smiles. I no longer think I’m blank. My life has gotten so much colour, and it was all thanks to him. To my beautiful husband Joshua. I love you.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75652056	{"authors": ["leonheart2012"], "language": "English", "title": "Blank"}
I Like Your Soul When It’s Shirtless Rose didn’t bother to close the door behind her as she shrugged off her jacket. Bart was lying on the ground in front of their bed with his legs pressed to the bed frame and his feet sticking up in the air. Mia and Cassie were propped up on the bed talking down to him. “Hey,” Cassie rolled onto her back and looked up at her, “where have you been?” “Just ran into town to grab something… wanna see?” The wicked grin on her face somehow didn’t tip Cassie off. Cassie nodded and Rose threw her hair up before stripping off her shirt and revealing two fresh piercings on her breasts. She chuckled at the strangled, coughing noise that Cassie made. “Come here, lemme see!” Mia excitedly scooted to the edge of the bed as Rose walked closer. “Cool,” Bart said as he rolled out of her way. “Do they still hurt?” “Nah, they stopped hurting a few minutes after I left the shop.” “That’s hot.” Bart nudged Cassie with his foot when she still hadn’t spoken. Rose crossed her arms, making her breasts bounce slightly. Cassie finally cleared her throat and all three of them fought not to laugh. “Get out.” She kept perfect eye contact with Rose as she pointed the other two out the door. They might have argued or teased her more but she couldn’t hear it if they did. Cassie scrambled out of her shirt so quickly that it ripped and threw herself against Rose so hard that it actually hurt. Not that Rose was complaining. Rose grabbed her tightly by her hips and opened her mouth to her tongue. Cassie stumbled and reached for the curtains behind her, too distracted to care that a small bit of them were still open. She pulled away just enough to undo Rose’s belt and pull her pants down past her hips. Rose pulled them down the rest of the way, still taking time to appreciate the view of Cassie wiggling out of her boxers. She fell backwards onto the bed and pulled Cassie down with her. Cassie straddled her waist and stared down at her newly adorned nipples. She ran her fingers over them and squeezed her breasts and pressed them together and tugged lightly on the piercings. Rose’s eye had already rolled to the back of her head by the time Cassie finally sucked one into her mouth. “Fuck,” Cassie didn’t bother to pull away until every inch of Rose’s chest was covered with a truly obscene amount of saliva, “holy shit.” Rose chuckled at the panting mess she’d become. She rubbed her thumbs in circles on her hips as Cassie started gradually grinding against her. Cassie wasn’t usually on top, but she was still more than comfortable. How could she not be with Rose looking up at her like that? She ducked her head back down and left a trail of hickeys along her collarbone. She kissed slowly down to her naval, expecting Rose to casually redirect her down one of her thighs like she always did. Only, that’s not what happened. Rose instead opened her legs wider and pulled Cassie closer by her hair. Cassie kissed even further down and paused apprehensively until Rose gently lifted her hips towards her. Even with the low light in the room, Rose could see Cassie’s eyes go almost completely dark when she looked up at her. Cassie licked a gentle, cautious stripe along the curve of Rose’s body, ready to stop at any second. Rose threw her head back and moaned unrestrainedly. It’d been so long since she felt someone’s mouth against her, and it’d never been someone she cared about like this before. She tugged encouragingly on Cassie’s hair and heard her moan. It was desperate and needy and it took the air from Rose’s lungs. Cassie tried to replicate what Rose had done on her countless times before. She didn’t really know what she was doing, but she was very familiar with what felt good to her and wanted to make Rose feel even better. To be able to feel her like this, to finally taste her… she definitely understood why Rose loved doing this so much. Rose brought her knees as high as she could and pulled encouragingly on Cassie’s hair. Shameless noises spilled from her mouth as Cassie licked slow circles from her opening to her clit. She alternated between that motion and lapping directly at her clit, trying her best to copy what always drove her crazy. “Good,” Rose sighed, “good, baby, just like that.” Cassie moaned at the praise and Rose could feel the vibrations through her entire body. Rose got louder and louder as Cassie was determined to make her finish. She would happily stay between her legs all day if needed. She notoriously didn’t like being told what to do, but Rose’s occasional instructions were more than appreciated. “Fuck,” Rose gasped and pulled Cassie’s hair tighter. “Right there, right there… a little faster.” Cassie fought against her instincts, worried that she’d hurt her if she reacted as enthusiastically as she wanted. She instead sped up her tongue and swirled it directly around her clit. She wanted to pull away and smile when Rose’s legs started shaking and struggled to keep the right amount of pressure. Rose	I Like Your Soul When It’s Shirtless Rose didn’t bother to close the door behind her as she shrugged off her jacket. Bart was lying on the ground in front of their bed with his legs pressed to the bed frame and his feet sticking up in the air. Mia and Cassie were propped up on the bed talking down to him. “Hey,” Cassie rolled onto her back and looked up at her, “where have you been?” “Just ran into town to grab something… wanna see?” The wicked grin on her face somehow didn’t tip Cassie off. Cassie nodded and Rose threw her hair up before stripping off her shirt and revealing two fresh piercings on her breasts. She chuckled at the strangled, coughing noise that Cassie made. “Come here, lemme see!” Mia excitedly scooted to the edge of the bed as Rose walked closer. “Cool,” Bart said as he rolled out of her way. “Do they still hurt?” “Nah, they stopped hurting a few minutes after I left the shop.” “That’s hot.” Bart nudged Cassie with his foot when she still hadn’t spoken. Rose crossed her arms, making her breasts bounce slightly. Cassie finally cleared her throat and all three of them fought not to laugh. “Get out.” She kept perfect eye contact with Rose as she pointed the other two out the door. They might have argued or teased her more but she couldn’t hear it if they did. Cassie scrambled out of her shirt so quickly that it ripped and threw herself against Rose so hard that it actually hurt. Not that Rose was complaining. Rose grabbed her tightly by her hips and opened her mouth to her tongue. Cassie stumbled and reached for the curtains behind her, too distracted to care that a small bit of them were still open. She pulled away just enough to undo Rose’s belt and pull her pants down past her hips. Rose pulled them down the rest of the way, still taking time to appreciate the view of Cassie wiggling out of her boxers. She fell backwards onto the bed and pulled Cassie down with her. Cassie straddled her waist and stared down at her newly adorned nipples. She ran her fingers over them and squeezed her breasts and pressed them together and tugged lightly on the piercings. Rose’s eye had already rolled to the back of her head by the time Cassie finally sucked one into her mouth. “Fuck,” Cassie didn’t bother to pull away until every inch of Rose’s chest was covered with a truly obscene amount of saliva, “holy shit.” Rose chuckled at the panting mess she’d become. She rubbed her thumbs in circles on her hips as Cassie started gradually grinding against her. Cassie wasn’t usually on top, but she was still more than comfortable. How could she not be with Rose looking up at her like that? She ducked her head back down and left a trail of hickeys along her collarbone. She kissed slowly down to her naval, expecting Rose to casually redirect her down one of her thighs like she always did. Only, that’s not what happened. Rose instead opened her legs wider and pulled Cassie closer by her hair. Cassie kissed even further down and paused apprehensively until Rose gently lifted her hips towards her. Even with the low light in the room, Rose could see Cassie’s eyes go almost completely dark when she looked up at her. Cassie licked a gentle, cautious stripe along the curve of Rose’s body, ready to stop at any second. Rose threw her head back and moaned unrestrainedly. It’d been so long since she felt someone’s mouth against her, and it’d never been someone she cared about like this before. She tugged encouragingly on Cassie’s hair and heard her moan. It was desperate and needy and it took the air from Rose’s lungs. Cassie tried to replicate what Rose had done on her countless times before. She didn’t really know what she was doing, but she was very familiar with what felt good to her and wanted to make Rose feel even better. To be able to feel her like this, to finally taste her… she definitely understood why Rose loved doing this so much. Rose brought her knees as high as she could and pulled encouragingly on Cassie’s hair. Shameless noises spilled from her mouth as Cassie licked slow circles from her opening to her clit. She alternated between that motion and lapping directly at her clit, trying her best to copy what always drove her crazy. “Good,” Rose sighed, “good, baby, just like that.” Cassie moaned at the praise and Rose could feel the vibrations through her entire body. Rose got louder and louder as Cassie was determined to make her finish. She would happily stay between her legs all day if needed. She notoriously didn’t like being told what to do, but Rose’s occasional instructions were more than appreciated. “Fuck,” Rose gasped and pulled Cassie’s hair tighter. “Right there, right there… a little faster.” Cassie fought against her instincts, worried that she’d hurt her if she reacted as enthusiastically as she wanted. She instead sped up her tongue and swirled it directly around her clit. She wanted to pull away and smile when Rose’s legs started shaking and struggled to keep the right amount of pressure. Rose bucked her hips feverishly and squeezed Cassie’s head between her thighs as she came. Cassie moaned even louder than her as she took the time to savor every last drop. Cassie crawled back up her body until she was hovering over her face. Her cheeks were flushed and her pupil was dilated and Cassie was awestruck as she watched her catch her breath. She kissed her deeply once more before finally pulling away and brushing her hair out of her face. “Not too bad for your first try, princess,” Rose teased as she brushed a stray hair behind her ear. “I’ve got a pretty great teacher,” she laughed with a dorky smile. Rose chuckled and raised her eyebrow before flipping them over. “You want another lesson?”	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75652066	{"authors": ["canarys_bike"], "language": "English", "title": "I Like Your Soul When It’s Shirtless"}
A Mother's Protection "LILY TAKE HARRY AND RUN". James Potter shouted as the front door of the cottage was blown off its hinges. James didn't wait and began casting, putting Voldemort on the back foot, Voldemort for his part shielded successfully and began counter attacking, forcing James back. James' shield deflected a curse into a book case splintering it but the power of the curse threw James back and he tumbled over the sofa. James was up quickly hoping he could buy Lily time,he knew the wards being breached would bring Dumbledore and order to them he just needed time. "Honestly Potter give up and I'll let you live, you'll have to give up your Mudblood after all I've told Severus he can have her and with everything he's done for me he deserves a plaything". Voldemort taunted. "Go to hell". James roared and fired off everything he could think of, Voldemort staggered but still fought back. "Imagine what fun Severus will have with her". He continued to taunt. James ignored him but he was tiring and he knew he was going to die,he saw rather than heard the curse fly at him. It broke his shield and hit him hard in the chest and he felt the hex rip through him,he gasped but refused to fall. The Dark Lord walked to the dying man and smiled an evil malicious smile. "Well James Potter you get to die knowing that your brat will join you and your wife will be the toy of your old school nemesis, you failed". Voldemort walked past him as James collapsed lifelessly to the floor. Lily tried the back door but it wouldn't budge and as she'd felt the anti apparition and portkey wards go up she ran up the stairs not really sure what else to try, she could hear the fight downstairs and prayed that James would survive and then she heard the laugh as the fight came to an end. Tears ran down her face at the realisation that her husband was dead and she was sure she'd be next. "Lily Potter, leave the brat and walk away, you can have other children". Voldemort called as he walked up the stairs. Lily placed Harry in his cot and turned to face the darkest wizard Britain had ever known, knowing full well that she was going to die. He stepped into the room and raised his wand. "“Step aside, girl. My most devoted servant has taken an interest in you. I find his taste questionable, but it matters little. Personally I think he could do better than a filthy Mudblood". He said to her "Go to hell, you'll not hurt my son". She said and then cast a reducto at him. The surprise attack nearly worked but Voldemort managed to dodge aside just in time, but they were followed by several more hexes, two of which clipped him and drew blood. Angered, he retaliated by firing numerous curses which Lily managed to block or dodge. Her shield charm vibrated at the impacts as unlike Voldemort she couldn't dodge too much as it would expose her baby, there was a break in his casting and she took a breath preparing herself for what was to come. "I'll die before I let you hurt my baby". She told him waiting for the next attack. "You're very good Mudblood, such a waste really, Severus will have to choose another". He taunted and fired a killing curse. Lily managed to conjure a wall just in time but she knew she was tiring, then she heard noise downstairs. "Lily hold on we're coming". And with that Sirius Black and Remus Lupin came barrelling in through the door curses already firing. He couldn't believe what was happening first James Potter had fought hard and had actually landed with a few curses then Severus' Mudblood blood had really hurt him which shouldn't have been possible she was beneath him and now.....he was interrupted from his thoughts as more curses flew at him. Voldemort staggered as Sirius’ piercing hex tore through his shoulder. He reeled and Remus’ follow-up curse carved into his wand arm, sending his wand spinning across the room. Then a diffindo fired by Lily Potter hit him and for a moment everything stopped and Voldemort stood with a look of shock on his face and he dropped to his knees as the top of his head fell away. There was a scream as a black mist erupted from the body and went through the window, what was left of his body erupted into flame and when the body was consumed all that remained of the Dark Lord was a pile of ash. For a moment all was quiet, all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of the combatants and then the sound of her baby. "Mummy, mummy". Little Harry cried Lily spun around and lifted him from his cot and she collapsed to her knees clutching her son like a life line and then the tears came thick and fast. She sobbed as she held her son knowing that James was dead and she'd never get the chance to tell him that she was pregnant again. "Lily, we need to go, Remus and I had to cut through a couple of deatheaters to get in here". Sirius told her as gently as he could. "Sirius, you go out the front and see if the coasts clear, I'll bring Lily and Harry". He said but before Sirius could leave Remus pulled him to	A Mother's Protection "LILY TAKE HARRY AND RUN". James Potter shouted as the front door of the cottage was blown off its hinges. James didn't wait and began casting, putting Voldemort on the back foot, Voldemort for his part shielded successfully and began counter attacking, forcing James back. James' shield deflected a curse into a book case splintering it but the power of the curse threw James back and he tumbled over the sofa. James was up quickly hoping he could buy Lily time,he knew the wards being breached would bring Dumbledore and order to them he just needed time. "Honestly Potter give up and I'll let you live, you'll have to give up your Mudblood after all I've told Severus he can have her and with everything he's done for me he deserves a plaything". Voldemort taunted. "Go to hell". James roared and fired off everything he could think of, Voldemort staggered but still fought back. "Imagine what fun Severus will have with her". He continued to taunt. James ignored him but he was tiring and he knew he was going to die,he saw rather than heard the curse fly at him. It broke his shield and hit him hard in the chest and he felt the hex rip through him,he gasped but refused to fall. The Dark Lord walked to the dying man and smiled an evil malicious smile. "Well James Potter you get to die knowing that your brat will join you and your wife will be the toy of your old school nemesis, you failed". Voldemort walked past him as James collapsed lifelessly to the floor. Lily tried the back door but it wouldn't budge and as she'd felt the anti apparition and portkey wards go up she ran up the stairs not really sure what else to try, she could hear the fight downstairs and prayed that James would survive and then she heard the laugh as the fight came to an end. Tears ran down her face at the realisation that her husband was dead and she was sure she'd be next. "Lily Potter, leave the brat and walk away, you can have other children". Voldemort called as he walked up the stairs. Lily placed Harry in his cot and turned to face the darkest wizard Britain had ever known, knowing full well that she was going to die. He stepped into the room and raised his wand. "“Step aside, girl. My most devoted servant has taken an interest in you. I find his taste questionable, but it matters little. Personally I think he could do better than a filthy Mudblood". He said to her "Go to hell, you'll not hurt my son". She said and then cast a reducto at him. The surprise attack nearly worked but Voldemort managed to dodge aside just in time, but they were followed by several more hexes, two of which clipped him and drew blood. Angered, he retaliated by firing numerous curses which Lily managed to block or dodge. Her shield charm vibrated at the impacts as unlike Voldemort she couldn't dodge too much as it would expose her baby, there was a break in his casting and she took a breath preparing herself for what was to come. "I'll die before I let you hurt my baby". She told him waiting for the next attack. "You're very good Mudblood, such a waste really, Severus will have to choose another". He taunted and fired a killing curse. Lily managed to conjure a wall just in time but she knew she was tiring, then she heard noise downstairs. "Lily hold on we're coming". And with that Sirius Black and Remus Lupin came barrelling in through the door curses already firing. He couldn't believe what was happening first James Potter had fought hard and had actually landed with a few curses then Severus' Mudblood blood had really hurt him which shouldn't have been possible she was beneath him and now.....he was interrupted from his thoughts as more curses flew at him. Voldemort staggered as Sirius’ piercing hex tore through his shoulder. He reeled and Remus’ follow-up curse carved into his wand arm, sending his wand spinning across the room. Then a diffindo fired by Lily Potter hit him and for a moment everything stopped and Voldemort stood with a look of shock on his face and he dropped to his knees as the top of his head fell away. There was a scream as a black mist erupted from the body and went through the window, what was left of his body erupted into flame and when the body was consumed all that remained of the Dark Lord was a pile of ash. For a moment all was quiet, all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of the combatants and then the sound of her baby. "Mummy, mummy". Little Harry cried Lily spun around and lifted him from his cot and she collapsed to her knees clutching her son like a life line and then the tears came thick and fast. She sobbed as she held her son knowing that James was dead and she'd never get the chance to tell him that she was pregnant again. "Lily, we need to go, Remus and I had to cut through a couple of deatheaters to get in here". Sirius told her as gently as he could. "Sirius, you go out the front and see if the coasts clear, I'll bring Lily and Harry". He said but before Sirius could leave Remus pulled him to one side and whispered. "Cover up James, she doesn't need to see his body". Sirius nodded and Remus saw tears in his friends eyes,the events of the evening were starting to catch up with them but they'd grieve for their friend when they had Lily and Harry safe. Sirius called up that the coast was clear and Remus helped Lily up from the floor, while he waited for Sirius he grabbed a few things for Lily and Harry and now had a bag slung over his shoulder. Sirius heard the roar of his motorbike before he saw it being ridden by Hagrid, he called back to the others and told them to wait inside. Hagrid pulled up and stepped off the bike. "Evening Sirius, the Headmaster sent me to retrieve young Harry now if you'd step out of the.....". "No Hagrid, I won't. Why didn't Dumbledore come himself?". Sirius asked "Dumbledore was busy so he sent me". Hagrid replied, puffing out his chest as he did so. "So let me get this straight,the wards are triggered letting Dumbledore know that the cottage is under attack but Dumbledore in his infinite wisdom decided dinner was more important so he sent you instead". Sirius ranted. "But Dumbledore said......". Hagrid started to say confused. "Go back to Dumbledore and tell him that if he wants Harry he'll have to go through me". Sirius barked at him "And me". Said Remus as he stepped out of the remains of the door frame. Hagrid nodded but before he left he turned. "What about Lily and James?". He asked them. "James died trying to buy Lily time, Lily and Harry are upstairs". Remus told him. Hagrid nodded then with an insight that they didn't know the big groundskeeper had stopped. "It'll take me a while to get back to Hogwarts Sirius". He stepped back onto the bike. “You get her far away, yeah? Safe. Don’t let no one tell you different.” Then he roared away. Remus went back for Lily who was still upstairs, she looked exhausted. The events of the evening were catching up with her. Fortunately Harry looked like he had fallen asleep in his mum's arms. "Lily let's go, we need to get you and Harry somewhere safe". Remus said softly as he guided her down the stairs. "What about.......what about James". She asked, only just keeping it together. "Once we've got you safe Sirius and I will come back and take care of him Lily I promise". Remus said to her as he led her outside to Sirius. As they stepped outside Sirius walked to them and Remus could see tears in his friends eyes not realising that his own eyes were full of tears. Sirius walked over to them. "We get to Dover and go with the original plan and get out of Britain,we have that bolt hole we can go too". Lily didn't argue she was just numb. "Lily give me Harry I'll appara.......". Lily interrupted him. "No, I'm not letting go of him". She told him point blank. "I'm capable of apparating". With that she was gone with a loud pop. Sirius and Remus looked at each other and then followed suit. The rat skittered into the cottage and changed into his human form. Peter pulled the sheet from the body of James Potter and looked down at him, a tear ran down his cheek at the sight of the man who he'd known since he was a baby. They'd been best friends until Hogwarts when they'd met Sirius and Remus. "I'm sorry James but what choice did I have, he offered me so much and all you offered was friendship". He covered the body and then he ran up the stairs. He walked into the nursery and saw the scorch marks on the walls and the broken windows. Then he saw the pile of ash and his master's wand across the room, he couldn't believe that his master had lost but he'd told his followers that he had taken measures to survive so Peter grabbed the Dark Lord's wand and ran into the night. Hagrid arrived back at Hogwarts not really knowing what to tell Dumbledore but decided the truth was better than trying to lie to the headmaster, he walked to the gargoyle that guarded the stairs to Dumbledore's office muttered the password and went up the stairs. "Come in Hagrid". Dumbledore called before he'd even had the chance to knock. "Hagrid lad, I assume you left young Harry with Poppy?". He asked rhetorically. Hagrid sighed "Actually headmaster no I didn't, Harry is with Lily". Dumbledore stood alarmed at what he'd heard. "What do you mean with Lily". Hagrid took a step back. "Sirius and Remus were there and Lily was upstairs with Harry so there was no need to bring the lad here". He argued. "Black and Lupin have ruined everything, get out of my way I have to go to Godrics Hollow". He stormed past Hagrid and out of his office. They knew the bolt hole wasn't a safe place in the long run as Peter also knew its location but they could hide up there for a couple of hours while they got their thoughts together. "We need to get a message to Alice and Frank and let them know what's happened". Lily told them while holding her sleeping son. "Write a letter and I'll take it to Augusta but first we need to deal with things at Godrics Hollow". Sirius told her Lily just nodded, unable to speak and once again tears started to flow, her husband was dead and the more they talked the more she believed that Dumbledore had manipulated the whole situation. Dumbledore arrived at the scene and saw Remus Lupin step out of the cottage Dumbledore was fuming he'd made plans for the Potters boy, these two who had disobeyed his orders which would have kept them away had ruined his plans. He needed to salvage something from this mess. "Remus my boy,I thought I told you to see if you could rally the werewolf packs to our cause". "You did headmaster but something told me I should be here". Remus replied. "Where's Harry Remus?". Dumbledore asked him with clear menace in his voice. "He's safe with Lily, headmaster, I hope the wards falling didn't put you off your dinner old man". Came the voice of Sirius stepping out of the cottage with some bags. "I think you should leave Headmaster, you're not wanted here perhaps if you'd come when the wards fell James might still be alive". Remus told him "I insist that you tell me their whereabouts so that I can check on them". Dumbledore said, growing more angry. "This conversation is........". Sirius was cut off as a loud pop was heard and they turned to see Augusta Longbottom walking towards them. "What is going on Sirius Black". Her voice sounded like thunder as she strode to them. "Augusta I was just telling them.....". Albus tried to say. She shot him a look of venom. "I was talking to Black,Albus, not you". It was then that she saw the looks on the faces of Sirius and Remus. "What happened gentleman?". She asked softly. Sirius sighed. "Voldemort came here,Peter betrayed us, James was killed but we got Lily and Harry to safety after Lily killed the Dark Bastard". Dumbledore looked like he'd been hit by a stinging hex. "Surely it was Harry not Lily". Remus snorted and Sirius barked a mirthless laugh. "Really Dumbledore, a one year old boy defeating the darkest wizard this country has ever seen". "But the prophecy". Albus tried to say. "It was Lily, we saw her strike then a black mist rose from him screaming as it went and the rest of his body went up in flame". Remus told him. Dumbledore barged past them and then not the cottage and Sirius and Remus turned to Augusta. "Madam Longbottom, you need to get Alice and Frank to move hiding places, if they wish, they can join Lily and Harry". Remus said to her "Why, surely with him gone it'll be safe?". She asked Sirius gave a quick glance at the cottage. "Dumbledore didn't show when the wards were breached, he sent Hagrid instead. We suspect he wanted James and Lily out of the way so could have Harry". Sirius answered. She looked over as Dumbledore walked out of the cottage, Sirius passed her a note and she nodded. "I'll talk to them, tell Lily I'm sorry about James,if you're leaving I'll see to his burial in the Potter family plot but make sure Lily stays away, until we've dealt with Dumbledore she and Harry won't be safe". And with that she apparated away. Lily had up to that point been going on adrenaline alone and now she was struggling to keep her eyes open so she cast some wards on the room she and Harry were in and she laid down on the bed and cuddled her son and finally allowed the exhaustion to claim her. Sirius returned via portkey and started to panic when he didn't see Lily and Harry,he ran upstairs and calmed down when he saw Lily asleep on the bed with Harry. He pulled up a chair and sat by them with his wand in his hand,once Remus returned he'd get them out of the country and then once they were safe he'd hunt down Peter and make him regret the day he joined Voldemort.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647101	{"authors": ["Jimbo139"], "language": "English", "title": "A Mother's Protection"}
talk to you It’s been months since this game started. Jeongguk knows he is no saint, but to be completely fair, it was Yoongi who started pushing him first, trying to pick fights about the most insignificant things; he is just human, after all. The instinct to defend himself put him on high alert at the beginning, but Jeongguk has been mastering the situation; he knows his boyfriend very well, which means all his weaknesses too. Jeongguk would be stupid not to use his weapons to his advantage. He knows they are hanging from a thread. A fragile one, borderline translucent. But it won’t break, it will never break. Jeongguk will make sure of it. It’s always about little things, nothing too real. At first, Jeongguk was easily baited into Yoongi’s rage. But Jeongguk knew Yoongi best, so he was always one step ahead of his moves. The thing is, Jeongguk doesn’t want Yoongi to leave him. Jeongguk knows that’s what his boyfriend wants because he keeps messing up in tiny little things, and he is not getting better. Jeongguk knows that. Maybe he is doing it on purpose; he hasn’t had this much fun in a while. Yoongi is a patient man; he has been Jeongguk’s rock for five years already, and he is not about to give it up because his Hyung can’t stand that he forgets to wash some dishes. Sue him for not being the best roommate. He is the best lover, and that should be enough. And Jeongguk knows it is enough, because Yoongi doesn’t leave him. Because he’s found a way to avoid every one of his outbursts, and at this point, Yoongi has to know what Jeongguk is doing, and if he hasn’t left him yet, that’s because he just doesn’t want to do it. Or Jeongguk won’t ever let him. Besides, it’s not always bad. They have good streaks, because Jeongguk actually isn’t that bad. He does their laundry, folds their clothes perfectly (even when he likes to throw them off too) and he is also very good at cooking. It’s just, he forgets about things sometimes. Or he used to, now he is just doing it to keep this game going for a little while longer. “It’s your dog, Jeongguk,” Yoongi huffs, leaving his whiskey glass over the countertop. He is looking at Jeongguk as if he had just murdered someone instead of forgetting about buying extra jam to give Bam his pills. “Can’t you do things a little bit easier for me?” It makes Jeongguk feel slightly annoyed too, even if he does his best to push it back; he has just arrived from work. It’s not particularly nice getting jumped by your boyfriend before you can even take a glass of water from the fridge. And it’s not exactly something he did on purpose, like leaving his dirty mug on the sink or not picking up his cum-covered boxers from the floor. So Jeongguk decides to ignore him first, hiding the pill on a cube of cheese before going to the garden to greet Bam, calculatedly angling himself so Yoongi can see how easily the dog takes it off his palm. He flops his ears and kisses the crown of his head before reaching for the tennis ball, playing with him for a little longer than usual, knowing Yoongi’s anger is slowly boiling under the low heat. This has been going on for a couple of months already. Jeongguk started to notice when Yoongi’s behaviour started to turn colder, when he started to drop the word jagi out of his vocabulary, hell, he barely calls him baby. Jeongguk doesn’t exactly know what caused it, whether it was the monotony or just seeing every dirty part of the other that was pushing Jeongguk away, but he didn’t react well to conflict. Jeongguk isn’t great with fights, so he avoids them at all costs because he can’t let this end. He has to twist Yoongi to stay somehow, and he has to keep his pride on the way too. Jeongguk knows that Yoongi really doesn’t want to let him go, that he is frustrated and maybe, maybe he is exaggerating things just for the sake of whatever game this is. He doesn’t mind playing it on loop. He is the MVP after all. Yoongi knows he is at a loss, and yet— When he shuts the glass door behind his back, Yoongi is standing against the backrest of the couch already, feline gaze boring through Jeongguk with irritation. “He ate the pill,” Jeongguk shrugs, taking off his headband to let his mane free. “Problem solved.” Yoongi scoffs is charged with irritated disbelief, “You know he doesn’t let me feed him that easily,” he spits, because he always needs to fight back. Jeongguk knows, but he likes to see how far Yoongi will take it. Jeongguk likes to test him a little, to bring him to the verge before taking his ace from under his sleeve. “I just wish you listened to me. I told you we had to buy ham yesterday morning, and you went to the market after work.” There’s no need to answer. Jeongguk just gives him a hard eye roll before taking off his shirt, folding it properly as he walks closer to Yoongi, placing it over the couch right next to where he is standing. As a Pavlovian reflex, he sees Yoongi’s gaze dart to his chest. Jeongguk smiles, taking one step away so he doesn’t	talk to you It’s been months since this game started. Jeongguk knows he is no saint, but to be completely fair, it was Yoongi who started pushing him first, trying to pick fights about the most insignificant things; he is just human, after all. The instinct to defend himself put him on high alert at the beginning, but Jeongguk has been mastering the situation; he knows his boyfriend very well, which means all his weaknesses too. Jeongguk would be stupid not to use his weapons to his advantage. He knows they are hanging from a thread. A fragile one, borderline translucent. But it won’t break, it will never break. Jeongguk will make sure of it. It’s always about little things, nothing too real. At first, Jeongguk was easily baited into Yoongi’s rage. But Jeongguk knew Yoongi best, so he was always one step ahead of his moves. The thing is, Jeongguk doesn’t want Yoongi to leave him. Jeongguk knows that’s what his boyfriend wants because he keeps messing up in tiny little things, and he is not getting better. Jeongguk knows that. Maybe he is doing it on purpose; he hasn’t had this much fun in a while. Yoongi is a patient man; he has been Jeongguk’s rock for five years already, and he is not about to give it up because his Hyung can’t stand that he forgets to wash some dishes. Sue him for not being the best roommate. He is the best lover, and that should be enough. And Jeongguk knows it is enough, because Yoongi doesn’t leave him. Because he’s found a way to avoid every one of his outbursts, and at this point, Yoongi has to know what Jeongguk is doing, and if he hasn’t left him yet, that’s because he just doesn’t want to do it. Or Jeongguk won’t ever let him. Besides, it’s not always bad. They have good streaks, because Jeongguk actually isn’t that bad. He does their laundry, folds their clothes perfectly (even when he likes to throw them off too) and he is also very good at cooking. It’s just, he forgets about things sometimes. Or he used to, now he is just doing it to keep this game going for a little while longer. “It’s your dog, Jeongguk,” Yoongi huffs, leaving his whiskey glass over the countertop. He is looking at Jeongguk as if he had just murdered someone instead of forgetting about buying extra jam to give Bam his pills. “Can’t you do things a little bit easier for me?” It makes Jeongguk feel slightly annoyed too, even if he does his best to push it back; he has just arrived from work. It’s not particularly nice getting jumped by your boyfriend before you can even take a glass of water from the fridge. And it’s not exactly something he did on purpose, like leaving his dirty mug on the sink or not picking up his cum-covered boxers from the floor. So Jeongguk decides to ignore him first, hiding the pill on a cube of cheese before going to the garden to greet Bam, calculatedly angling himself so Yoongi can see how easily the dog takes it off his palm. He flops his ears and kisses the crown of his head before reaching for the tennis ball, playing with him for a little longer than usual, knowing Yoongi’s anger is slowly boiling under the low heat. This has been going on for a couple of months already. Jeongguk started to notice when Yoongi’s behaviour started to turn colder, when he started to drop the word jagi out of his vocabulary, hell, he barely calls him baby. Jeongguk doesn’t exactly know what caused it, whether it was the monotony or just seeing every dirty part of the other that was pushing Jeongguk away, but he didn’t react well to conflict. Jeongguk isn’t great with fights, so he avoids them at all costs because he can’t let this end. He has to twist Yoongi to stay somehow, and he has to keep his pride on the way too. Jeongguk knows that Yoongi really doesn’t want to let him go, that he is frustrated and maybe, maybe he is exaggerating things just for the sake of whatever game this is. He doesn’t mind playing it on loop. He is the MVP after all. Yoongi knows he is at a loss, and yet— When he shuts the glass door behind his back, Yoongi is standing against the backrest of the couch already, feline gaze boring through Jeongguk with irritation. “He ate the pill,” Jeongguk shrugs, taking off his headband to let his mane free. “Problem solved.” Yoongi scoffs is charged with irritated disbelief, “You know he doesn’t let me feed him that easily,” he spits, because he always needs to fight back. Jeongguk knows, but he likes to see how far Yoongi will take it. Jeongguk likes to test him a little, to bring him to the verge before taking his ace from under his sleeve. “I just wish you listened to me. I told you we had to buy ham yesterday morning, and you went to the market after work.” There’s no need to answer. Jeongguk just gives him a hard eye roll before taking off his shirt, folding it properly as he walks closer to Yoongi, placing it over the couch right next to where he is standing. As a Pavlovian reflex, he sees Yoongi’s gaze dart to his chest. Jeongguk smiles, taking one step away so he doesn’t have to crack his neck. He can’t help but huff in endearment at the visible way Yoongi’s brain haywires, gaping mouth and his eyes that lose all sense of depth as if Jeongguk was moving a pendulum right before his eyes. “I’m listening,” Jeongguk says cheekily, with a snarky tone that snaps Yoongi out a little bit. He furrows at him, but whatever anger was left in him faded off completely. “Liar.” Yoongi spits, but there’s no snark to it. His hands are already cupping his chest, squishing the meat as if he wanted his claws to give into the skin before sliding down to his waist to push him closer. “You never listen,” he mumbles, looking up at him for a second, but his eyes are glassy, and his pupils are so dilated that Jeongguk doubts he is even there. “What were you saying, Hyung? I was actually interested,” Jeongguk whispers teasingly, taking a step closer to hover over him, brushing his lips with his teeth playfully. “I don’t know,” Yoongi mumbles, his hands struggling to get to the button of his trousers. Jeongguk giggles, pressing his hips against Yoongi’s, ripping a deep groan out of him. “Baby,” he calls, half gone as Jeongguk toys with his weaknesses, “bedroom, now.” “Ah, Hyung,” Jeongguk sighs, biting from his underlip as Yoongi’s hands dig into the bare skin of his ass. “You always know what I need.” ; They have been fine for a couple of days already, which Jeongguk finds particularly odd since he knows he has been lacking. But Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind; he has been quiet, washing Jeongguk’s dishes without complaint, picking up the clothes he leaves over the floor without making any remarks, whispering dirty, sweet things into his ear as he fucks him to sleep every night. Is not that Jeongguk is complaining. It’s nice to have some peace, but it’s particularly weird when you’re in the middle of a war. Even when the war is harmless, Jeongguk has to be alert. He should have seen it coming, he should. But he doesn’t. After lazing all day with Yoongi, after they just finished watching a horror movie, after not doing anything but lose time all day—maybe Jeongguk should have seen this coming. “You ordered Bulgogi again?” Yoongi puffs a breath as he takes back his phone that Jeongguk used to order. Jeongguk’s belly tightens with excitement that he battles to hide. He is a sick individual, but he is so immensely happy he could cry. He wasn’t even trying this time, but he wouldn’t mind things getting a little bit spicier either. “We ate Bulgogi last night.” “You told me to order whatever I wanted,” he answers, taking the remote to put on some music instead. Or to avoid looking at Yoongi yet. “Because earlier you said you wanted pork belly,” Jeongguk did say that, but it wasn’t to deceive Yoongi at all. It was just a fleeting thought. Still, Yoongi sounds frustrated. Or he is pretending to. Jeongguk doesn’t know where the line blurs, he doesn’t know anymore when Yoongi is playing or when he is actually mad. But that’s what makes it more thrilling. He is shocked for a second when his hand fidgets to take his shirt off, but he is shirtless already. Fuck, he hasn’t thought about that. Being around Yoongi the entire day has made him lower his guard. He is wearing a pair of tight shorts too; he is basically naked already, so his body has lost all its shock value. He needs to do something to fix it soon. Jeongguk eyes Yoongi from the corner of his eyes to find him scrolling on his phone with resignation, thinking that maybe Jeongguk will let this one go ignored for a while longer until he picks up another thing to spike him. Casually, he rests comfortably into the back of the sofa, pressing both his palms behind his head before turning slightly to Yoongi. “What is it that you want, then?” “For you to give me an answer,” he sighs, still scrolling through Twitter mindlessly. “But it’s whatever. Today is the day I’ll have to give in on 90% of—” he looks back, but his eyes barely linger over his face, dropping down to his pumped chest as Jeongguk stretches further under his attention. It almost makes him laugh out loud, how easy it is to make him fold. Jeongguk feels stupid for even worrying about it. He can almost see the drool forming at the edge of his mouth, the tip of his tongue brushing the inner part of his lips as if he didn’t know Jeongguk was staring at his every move. He probably doesn’t care, too dumb and too gone to think about anything that isn’t his body. And Jeongguk is fine with it, he is delighted. There’s nothing that makes him feel more powerful than this, than knowing that he could get away with everything, snap his mind completely blank just by showing his boobs to him. Yoongi will never leave him, Jeongguk is sure. The phone drops from his hands as he leans closer with his mouth parting wider, his tongue falling over his under lip as his eyes glisten with just one single thought behind them. “See?” Jeongguk sighs, moving one hand down to scratch the back of Yoongi’s head as he sucks from his nipple, sending a shiver down his spine that makes him sigh in relaxation. “It was an easy choice.” ; “Jeongguk, what the fuck!” Jeongguk barely moves from his place on the couch, just turning his head around to look at Yoongi, who is coming from the kitchen with a death grip on his cellphone. Yoongi’s cheeks are red with anger, his stare sharp with a determination that shakes Jeongguk in his place. He looks definitely angrier than he thought he would be. Or maybe he is more than angry. Jeongguk has to bite off a smile just by thinking about it. “What did I do now?” He questions, sounding cheery enough that it makes Yoongi’s stare snap away from the screen. “You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?” His tone is cold, detached in a way that scares Jeongguk off. But he is not about to back down. “What?” He blinks, summoning his overly-perfected innocent Bambi eyes. “This!” He pushes the screen over his face, showing a screenshot of his last Instagram story. “What about it?” He questions with the same tone as before, struggling to bite off his smug smile, “Don’t I look good?” “Yeah, it’s basically a nude! Of course, you look good!” “Well, you screenshoted it,” he winks, but Yoongi’s redness has spread to his neck now, setting Jeongguk’s alarms off. “Me and a thousand other people!” He takes a step closer, but then stops himself on track, as if he was realising that he was stepping into a minefield. “Leaving dirty dishes is one thing! But this?” Yoongi is close enough now that Jeongguk is scared he will hear the way his heartbeat is threatening to crush his chest, “You’re basically telling the world you’re single! I can see your fucking bulge there, Jeongguk! What the fuck?” He takes a deep breath after spitting out the words, his crazed stare slowly tuning down. “I’m getting tired of all this bullshit.” Yoongi’s shoulders untense slightly, watching Jeongguk carefully as he sits over his knees, hands over his thighs as he watches Yoongi from under his lashes. “Then leave me,” Jeongguk tells him, voice coming out sultry as if his heart wasn’t rushing with fear. As if he was begging him to come closer instead. “Leave me, Yoongi-Hyung. Do it if that’s what you want so much.” “If that’s what I want?! You’re the one doing all these things to drive me crazy!” Jeongguk doesn’t answer, because Yoongi’s train of thought hasn’t seemed to finish and because that’s what he does, throw the stone and hide his hand behind his back after. “Maybe I should leave you,” Yoongi chuckles, sounding a bit crazed, but he doesn’t move from his place. “Do it then,” Jeongguk defies once again, doing his best to sound unaffected by the statement, not to give away his thrill, the rush of being so close to breaking the thread. Nor the fear, the one that he is pushing back into the deepest part of his brain because he won’t let that happen. Not in a million years. Gracefully, he lifts himself from sitting over his heels so he can take off his shirt in a movement so smooth that it could be missed by the blink of an eye. But Yoongi wasn’t, eyes wide and losing strength as soon as his skin was displayed. Jeongguk’s glad his chest looks particularly good today after spending two hours in the gym; he needs the extra help today. “Stop doing that,” Yoongi grunts in between his teeth, but his feet are stumbling closer. He stops himself a few feet away, watching as Jeongguk pops off his chest, licking the smile off his lips. “Jeongguk, you can’t do this every time,” he insists, but his eyes can’t stay put over his face, betraying all his will to fight it off. “I want to talk to you.” “You start it,” Jeongguk points out, making him look up from his chest. Yoongi looks confused for a second, and Jeongguk really shouldn’t find it so equally endearing and desperately hot. He wishes he could jump him right there, but he’d rather wait to be jumped in first. “You always do. I just have to defend myself.” “You’re driving me mad,” he whispers, taking one last clumsy step closer, fingers slightly digging over the side of his throat as his hands cup his chin. “Leave me, then,” he tries again, hoping that Yoongi will feel his desperate heartbeat, the fear that it holds. But Yoongi’s eyes snap back to his bare chest, and Jeongguk can’t help but giggle with relief at that. Yoongi doesn’t even seem to register his reaction, just pushing him back by the chest so he is lying back into the couch before straddling him. “If you keep insisting,” Yoongi states, but he sounds distracted as he watches Jeongguk’s body on display under him, his cock is pocking onto his lower belly, and it’s so hard already, Jeongguk wonders when he actually started to get turned on, the freak. “I’ll fuck you, and then I’ll leave you.” “You’re just too weak for that,” Jeongguk concludes, sighing in content as a pair of worshipping hands trail his sides before cupping his chest. He slides his hand into the back of Yoongi’s mane, bringing him closer. “You won’t ever leave me, Hyung.” Yoongi just stares at him for a second, completely unmoving. When he smiles, it’s cheeky and wildish, and his gums are showing, and Jeongguk can feel himself melt under him, fingers clutching tighter to his hair to bring him closer. “I won’t let you leave me, Hyung. So stop trying,” he defies, opening his legs wider for him. “You’ll get bored without me, anyway.” “Jagi,” Yoongi mumbles, the words blurt out of his lips so smoothly that Jeongguk can’t help but visibly beam. “Where else would I get such a ripped, deranged boyfriend?”	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647141	{"authors": ["plutosmist"], "language": "English", "title": "talk to you"}
Always and forever, one with you Jon had been unusually restless over the past few days. He continued to take his patrols seriously, of course, but whenever he got back to school or home, he would immediately crawl into bed. He kept shaking his head, trying not to think too seriously about what would happen over the weekend. Jon was torn between the resignation that he had said what he had said and the fact that there was no going back, and the worry that he would explode with embarrassment when the time came. It all started with the words Jon had said the other day. "I want you to tie me up." Damian had been looking straight at him at that moment. The video he'd accidentally played had had an impact, but more than anything, Jon wanted Damian to finish him. He wanted proof that Damian had personally taught him from start to finish. Maybe there was a little bit of a desire to be dominated by Damian mixed in there, too. He had been lightly "tied up" before, but it was always gentle. It felt like a prelude to becoming one. But this time was different. Jon wanted to be one with Damian while he was bound to him. Jon desired Damian from the bottom of his heart. And so, he wanted Damian to desire him more than he could ever desire. Aware of the involuntary swallowing sound he'd made, Jon waited for Damian's reply. "When you say you want to be tied up, does that mean you want bondage?" "Yes, that's right." "Do you want something external? Or something internal?" "Internal?" "There are many different meanings for tying up. If I give you an order and you obey, that would also fall under the definition of binding." "But isn't that no different from normal?" He immediately and firmly replied that it wasn't. "You must obey my words during the act, no matter what they are." His whole body felt like it was boiling. Just what he had just said had made him look forward to what they were going to do next. Trying to calm his pounding heart, Jon managed to reply. "Okay, I get it. But there's one condition." "That's unusual. What is it?" "Will you give me lots of compliments? Kisses? Hugs?" "You have quite a wide range of interests." Damian smiled gently and pulled John close. "Of course. I'll do it without you having to ask." After that, Jon only spoke to Damian as needed. He occasionally glanced up at him, but he seemed to be going about his days as usual. Jon never thought he'd miss Damian's passionate eyes. Jon took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. There was no point in overthinking it. All he could do now was prepare everything for the day to come. "I wish the day would come soon when I'd be tied down to Damian." His muttering dissolved into the air of the room. Wayne Manor has always been a luxurious mansion, Jon thought as he headed towards Damian's room. Aware that his body was trembling with nervousness, he stood in front of Damian's door. He hesitated for a moment about whether to knock, but he couldn't back out now that he'd come this far. He knocked modestly. As soon as he heard Damian answer, Jon opened the door. Damian was sitting on the edge of the bed in his neat and tidy room. When he saw the rope beside him, his body temperature rose instantly. He instinctively clenched his hands. He tried to call out cheerfully, but even simple words were suffocating. "You're here? I want to make a final confirmation. Come over here." He timidly sat down next to him. Damian gently patted his head. Feeling this for the first time in a long time, Jon's expression relaxed. "First, the schedule. You'll be spending today and tomorrow with me." "...Yes." "Don't worry, you'll get plenty of rest, sleep, and food. Next, you must obey my orders for the next two days." "Yes." "Finally, I'll confirm your intentions. From now on, you'll be bound to me in every way. Are you okay with that?" "...Yes. I want to be bound by you." Jon nodded, and Damian's lips were sealed around his at the same time. The kiss, which was just a quick peck, quickly deepened, and Jon melted into Damian's tongue. The slurping sounds of our tongues entwining echoed throughout the room, stimulating Jon's hearing. If Damian hadn't quickly wrapped his arms around his waist to support him, Jon would have collapsed long ago. "Uh, uh, ah, Damian." Damian didn't reply, but instead gently traced Jon's waist with his fingertips. Even through his clothes, his touch made his body jump. "Did you think I'd tie you up straight away? Too bad. If you're not loosened up yet, there's no point. I'll start with a massage." Damian whispered this in his ear as he caressed his upper body, making Jon shiver. I'd never heard Damian's voice sound so sweet, like honey. Perhaps he'd been waiting for this day, too. With that thought, Jon felt even more sensitive. At his urging, Jon raised his hands, and was quickly stripped of his clothes. The cool air against his skin was quickly transformed into heat by Damian's hands. Jon was going crazy watching Damian constantly kiss his lips,	Always and forever, one with you Jon had been unusually restless over the past few days. He continued to take his patrols seriously, of course, but whenever he got back to school or home, he would immediately crawl into bed. He kept shaking his head, trying not to think too seriously about what would happen over the weekend. Jon was torn between the resignation that he had said what he had said and the fact that there was no going back, and the worry that he would explode with embarrassment when the time came. It all started with the words Jon had said the other day. "I want you to tie me up." Damian had been looking straight at him at that moment. The video he'd accidentally played had had an impact, but more than anything, Jon wanted Damian to finish him. He wanted proof that Damian had personally taught him from start to finish. Maybe there was a little bit of a desire to be dominated by Damian mixed in there, too. He had been lightly "tied up" before, but it was always gentle. It felt like a prelude to becoming one. But this time was different. Jon wanted to be one with Damian while he was bound to him. Jon desired Damian from the bottom of his heart. And so, he wanted Damian to desire him more than he could ever desire. Aware of the involuntary swallowing sound he'd made, Jon waited for Damian's reply. "When you say you want to be tied up, does that mean you want bondage?" "Yes, that's right." "Do you want something external? Or something internal?" "Internal?" "There are many different meanings for tying up. If I give you an order and you obey, that would also fall under the definition of binding." "But isn't that no different from normal?" He immediately and firmly replied that it wasn't. "You must obey my words during the act, no matter what they are." His whole body felt like it was boiling. Just what he had just said had made him look forward to what they were going to do next. Trying to calm his pounding heart, Jon managed to reply. "Okay, I get it. But there's one condition." "That's unusual. What is it?" "Will you give me lots of compliments? Kisses? Hugs?" "You have quite a wide range of interests." Damian smiled gently and pulled John close. "Of course. I'll do it without you having to ask." After that, Jon only spoke to Damian as needed. He occasionally glanced up at him, but he seemed to be going about his days as usual. Jon never thought he'd miss Damian's passionate eyes. Jon took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. There was no point in overthinking it. All he could do now was prepare everything for the day to come. "I wish the day would come soon when I'd be tied down to Damian." His muttering dissolved into the air of the room. Wayne Manor has always been a luxurious mansion, Jon thought as he headed towards Damian's room. Aware that his body was trembling with nervousness, he stood in front of Damian's door. He hesitated for a moment about whether to knock, but he couldn't back out now that he'd come this far. He knocked modestly. As soon as he heard Damian answer, Jon opened the door. Damian was sitting on the edge of the bed in his neat and tidy room. When he saw the rope beside him, his body temperature rose instantly. He instinctively clenched his hands. He tried to call out cheerfully, but even simple words were suffocating. "You're here? I want to make a final confirmation. Come over here." He timidly sat down next to him. Damian gently patted his head. Feeling this for the first time in a long time, Jon's expression relaxed. "First, the schedule. You'll be spending today and tomorrow with me." "...Yes." "Don't worry, you'll get plenty of rest, sleep, and food. Next, you must obey my orders for the next two days." "Yes." "Finally, I'll confirm your intentions. From now on, you'll be bound to me in every way. Are you okay with that?" "...Yes. I want to be bound by you." Jon nodded, and Damian's lips were sealed around his at the same time. The kiss, which was just a quick peck, quickly deepened, and Jon melted into Damian's tongue. The slurping sounds of our tongues entwining echoed throughout the room, stimulating Jon's hearing. If Damian hadn't quickly wrapped his arms around his waist to support him, Jon would have collapsed long ago. "Uh, uh, ah, Damian." Damian didn't reply, but instead gently traced Jon's waist with his fingertips. Even through his clothes, his touch made his body jump. "Did you think I'd tie you up straight away? Too bad. If you're not loosened up yet, there's no point. I'll start with a massage." Damian whispered this in his ear as he caressed his upper body, making Jon shiver. I'd never heard Damian's voice sound so sweet, like honey. Perhaps he'd been waiting for this day, too. With that thought, Jon felt even more sensitive. At his urging, Jon raised his hands, and was quickly stripped of his clothes. The cool air against his skin was quickly transformed into heat by Damian's hands. Jon was going crazy watching Damian constantly kiss his lips, forehead, shoulders, stomach, and belly button. Perhaps it was the sweet, melting atmosphere that made Jon react, but Damian gently pinched the tip of his breast between his fingers. As he rubbed it, he couldn't help but moan. Likely liking Jon's reaction, Damian began to lick his chest. Every time his hot tongue touched his nipple, an electric current ran down his spine. "Dami, Ann...Damian...there...!" "Oh, I see. So you want me to do more? Sorry for not realizing." "Ah, ah! Mm...!!" His teeth lightly brushed against Jon's breast. Then, as he sucked all over his breast and rolled his tongue around the tip, a sweet numbness began to flow endlessly. Damian gently whispered to Jon, who was already feeling dizzy even though it had only just begun. "You're a good boy. You seem to have relaxed a lot, thanks to the release of tension. Are you okay, John?" "Yeah..." Perhaps because his chest was still being played with, Jon replied with a dazed head. Damian managed to get Jon to sing in his sweet voice to the fullest, then gently placed his lips on Jon's forehead. "Listen, Jon. I'm going to tie you up with rope now. Let me know if it feels a little uncomfortable. I'll adjust it as much as I can." "Hmm..." Damian's low voice reminded Jon of his original purpose. That's right, I came all the way here to be tied up by Damian. He took a deep breath and waited for him to act. The rope was sewn around Jon's arm with a smooth swirl. The way he tied up every part of his body with practiced hands reminded him of Damian on patrol. His heartbeat, which had started to quicken slightly, was probably already transmitted to him, as they were pressed together. The sound of him tightening the rope each time he adjusted it only heightened his hearing. The slight pressure he felt only reinforced the fact that he was tied up. The normally dangerous situation of being unable to move, where it was difficult to do so, was now filled with embarrassment and a slight sense of pleasure at being watched by Damian. Damian stared silently, watching as the rope dug into Jon's skin with every slight movement. "Damian... What are we going to do now?" He grabbed Jon's shoulders and urged him to look in the mirror behind him. He spun him around, turning him to face the mirror, and lightly grabbed his chin. His sudden action caused the rope around Jon's legs to creak. Seeing his reflection in the mirror, Jon's mind went blank. "Ah, ah..." There it was. A different me. After all, if it were the real me, I wouldn't be bright red with my whole body covered in rope. There's no way I'd be staring with feverish eyes at the rope that rose and fell with each breath. There's no way Damian's eyes, staring at me, could be feeling incredibly excited by the fact that they were the darkest they'd ever been. "Do you understand, Jon?" I startle as he breathes on my ear. Yes, Damian is just as excited as I am. "You're tied up right now. The red rope looks great on you. It really brings out your naked body, like a shining white pearl." Damien's palm traced the rope. He rubbed harder and harder, as if wanting to confirm the evidence of his restraints. "Ah, looking at you in the mirror makes me want to give in right now. But I'll save that for next time. Now is the time to admire you, to observe the you that I have created." Was Damian really this talkative? He glanced up at him, but only his sweet eyes stared back at him. "Don't you realize it? Look closely. Your breasts, ass, and private parts are so well-defined." Damian tugged on the rope, and all Jon could do was keep his spine taut. As the rope dug tightly into his skin, Jon became aware of the heat in his body. His plump nipples quivered repeatedly, his buttocks that seemed to have recently softened, and his already reacting bodies all peeked out from the gaps in the rope that wrapped around him. Oh, Jon thought. He'd do anything to make Damian happy, but this might actually be incredibly embarrassing. In an attempt to calm his seething body, he hurriedly tried to move away from the mirror. "Jon." Jon's body, which had been trying so hard to escape, suddenly lost all strength at Damian's word. Jon collapsed face down on the bed, and Damian gently embraced him. "That's an order. I'll make you feel what I said earlier, so feel it with every fiber of your being." A tingling, numb, and burning shock ran through Jon's body. "Ah, ah, uh, ha, oh, Damian... again...!!" "Are you coming again, Jon? That's great, feel as much as you want. You're really on a whole other level today." Every time his body twitched, the rope tightened around his entire body. Jon had experienced that sweet sensation countless times. He hadn't even become one with Damian yet, and yet he felt so happy. "You're so sensitive, it's a problem if you come just from a stroke on your butt." Damian murmured with pleasure, contrary to his words. Every time Jon realized he was bound, he pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Every time his hands slithered over his body, every time he left a mark on his neck, a surge of heat surged throughout his entire body. Breathing heavily on the bed, Jon could only accept the sensations. Damian once again pinched Joh's nipples, which were the color of strawberries. Damian continued to suck on Jon's nipples, watching him bounce and let out obscene moans. Jon could feel his nipples swelling with each stroke of his tongue. Jon was intoxicated by the constant tingling sensations that came over him again and again. "...Mmm, ah, Damian, that feels good..." "I'll do it as many times as you want. Feel it until you're satisfied." "But, this is nice, but I still want Damian's..." Damian stopped moving suddenly. Jon continued, pressed tightly against him, in a dreamlike state. "You know? It's so happy to be one... It's so warm and nice to be connected to each other..." Jon looked up at Damian with a gentle smile. He couldn't move properly because he was tied up, but he managed to kiss his cheek. Damian pushed hard against Jon's shoulder, as he smiled, feeling happy and delighted. The ropes rubbed against the sheets. "Damian, what are you doing...!" "Jon, you're doing really well." Hearing the emotionless voice, Jon looked up, wondering if he'd done something wrong. There, expressionlessly, was Damian, pulling out a container. "Eh, Damian... are you mad...?" "No way. I just can't help but find you cute." Jon's eyes widened in shock as a finger drenched in lubricant entered him. The moment he realized it was Damian's fingers, he melted instantly. Damian's fingers touched a sensitive spot with a tugging sound. Damian gently closed his lips around Jon's, his body trembling. The tip of his tongue began to move wildly, and Jon's legs nearly gave way. "Slurp, mmm, s, s, fu, mmm..." Jon's body jumped violently as the three fingers that had somehow entered his sensitive spot tapped against him. Jon gazed reluctantly at Damian's lips as he sucked on the tip of his tongue and then pulled away. "You don't have to look at me so pleadingly. I'll give it to you right away. It's a reward, a reward, Jon. I'll give you as much of what you crave as you want, so don't be shy, just show me everything you have." Without waiting for Jon's reply, Damian gave him more than his share of his heat. Somewhere in my heart, a light lit up in a place that I'd always thought was missing. This was it, Damian's heat. What I'd been waiting for so long. Warm, hot, and fluffy, I couldn't think of anything else. Even though I hadn't done anything, I felt the ropes digging in a little. "Ah...ah...!! Damian, inside of me...!!" "Y-You're so turned on, Jon...you've completely melted." "I want more...Damian, move...feel as deep inside me as you want...!!!" Before Jon could finish his sentence, Damian quickened his pace. With uncharacteristically hasty movements, he thrust deeply into Jon's depths. It was Damian who held Jon back, as he nearly went blank with pleasure. Just when you think he's pinched his nipples tightly, he gently caresses Jon's trembling member. The ropes bound Jon, holding him down as he felt the sweet pleasure and sweet restraint. The more Jon felt, the more absorbed he became in his bonds. Damian thrust roughly, trying not to let go of his deepest parts, and kissed Jon's lips as if he was devouring them. His greedy tongue intertwined with the tip of Jon's. No matter how hard he tried to pull back, he was quickly captured and enjoyed. He couldn't stop the sweet electric current from coursing through his entire body. Jon's eyes flickered, and at several moments he nearly went blank, Damian embraced Jon, engraving his proof. It was proof that they had become one, proof that Damian had held Jon, and proof that Damian loved Jon more than anything else. After what felt like an eternity, Damian gently kissed Jon. With his consciousness suddenly fading, Jon somehow managed to return the kiss. "Goodnight, Jon." It was the gentlest voice Damian had ever heard. Suddenly, his consciousness awoke from the white world. In his blurry vision, Jon became aware of someone constantly patting him on the back. He blinked rapidly. "Dami, Ann?" Jon was surprised. That's because the man's voice was incredibly hoarse. He was also shocked by the fact that he still couldn't move an inch. "Are you awake, Jon? Take today to rest. Let your body rest. I overdid it yesterday. I'm so sorry." Damian murmured, kissing the surprised Jon's cheek. He said he'd be back soon, stroking Jon's head as he rose from the bed. And true to his word, he was back in an instant, carrying a tray of chicken soup and fruit. Jon's eyes lit up as he instinctively tried to stand, but he couldn't muster the strength to do so and ended up sinking back into bed. "Just stay still. I'll feed you without any rush." Jon nodded his head vigorously and opened his mouth. Damian blew on the soup to cool it down, bringing the spoon to his mouth. The sweetness of the chicken bones and the delicious flavor of the broth slowly seeped into his body. Jon smiled and said it was delicious, and Alfred stroked his cheek, saying that Alfred and he made it. "That's why your heart and body feel so warm." Jon was gently kissed on the cheek. After that, they ate, somehow feeling even closer than before. After finishing the fruit and soup, Damian hugged Jon from behind and asked if there was anything he wanted to do. "I want to cuddle with you, Damian." Jon was the first to say, and he sighed and said maybe next time. As he puffed out his cheeks in response, Damian brushed his bangs aside. "I'll sleep with you, talk, and have as much light physical contact as you want, but no more than that." "Why? Last night felt so good. If I just rest for a bit, I'll be totally fine!" "Oh, I see. You hadn't noticed, had you?" As Jon tilted his head, Damian silently pointed to the mirror. Remembering last night, Jon couldn't help but blush. "No. Just gently unbutton it." Jon did as instructed and unbuttoned the buttons a little, then looked in the mirror. He immediately noticed something strange. His mouth was hanging open. In the mirror, Jon's body was clearly marked by the red rope, in addition to the countless marks Damian had made. Even though the rope had long since come undone, he was reminded of the feeling of being tightened again. "Do you understand? I was originally meant to tie you lightly, but I got it all wrong. This is the result. You did a great job. I can't praise you enough. Come on, just button it up." Jon hugged Damian. He was surprised by the force of his lunge, but he held Jon tightly. "What's the matter? I'll tell you all about yesterday." "I'm so happy." "Huh?" Damian's eyes were wide, and Jon rubbed his cheek against his. "Because you love me so much that you don't care about anything else, you forget everything and become so absorbed in me. That makes me so happy." The moment Jon finished speaking, Damian hugged him tightly. He kissed his forehead, cheeks, and lips over and over again. "Why are you so adorable and adorable?" Jon felt a warmth of happiness spread over him as he listened to his words. He answered with a smile as he clung to Damian. "Because I love you, Damian!" Before he knew it, he was feeling the soft touch of the bed. Jon was stunned, wondering what had just happened, something he couldn't see even with his supervision, when he met Damian's gaze looking down at him. When Jon realized that Damian's eyes were the exact same as they were yesterday, a shiver ran down his spine. "Me too, Jon." "Um, Damian." Damian took Jon's hand and pressed his lips to his palm. His heart skipped a beat. "I love you too. No matter how many times I think or say it, I can't put it into words, and every time I do, I want to prove it." Jon was transfixed by Damian's flickering eyes. Those emerald green eyes never let go, capturing his gaze. "Damian, there's no need to overthink it." Jon cupped Damian's cheeks with both hands. "I want you, Damian, to love me, and no one else." The temperature of his lips, which touched Jon's in an instant, was incredibly hot. Jon fully accepted Damian's deep, profound love.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647146	{"authors": ["hasipond"], "language": "English", "title": "Always and forever, one with you"}
communion It could’ve been any reason. Yunho knew this. He wasn’t waiting by the phone or expecting the world, in fact, he had been surprised to have gotten Hyungwon’s number at all. Hyungwon was five years his senior, ran in completely different circles, and practically spoke another language when it came down to shared humor. By some miracle, Yunho’s crush had earned him a few texts as it was; he considered himself lucky and tried not to let the disappointment mar his ego when Hyungwon’s last reply was from a month before. Again, it wasn’t like Yunho was waiting, not exactly. He was busy, he didn’t get out a lot, the apps were dry, his master’s thesis was due in no less than two months, and he had a mountain of lab research to sift through which meant all of his nights were usually spent hunched over sheets of microbial data and his indecipherable notes in the margins. These weren’t excuses. There were periods of activity for Yunho, that his flat mate would term less pathetic, and this was not one of them, but he was resigned to that. Wooyoung had a ridiculous idea of his social capacities on any given day to begin with. So when he checked his phone and saw that he had in fact received another text from Hyungwon, he tried not to get his hopes up. He set down the pamphlet of notes he had been holding and took a moment to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. The laboratory’s sterile lighting made Yunho feel like a specimen smeared against a Petri dish. He had almost convinced himself he was cool about it, uninterested actually, too busy– Hey. Are you free right now? Three dots hovering. Yunho waited. I know it’s sudden. It was. Yunho glanced down at the mountain of work he had to do and considered whether he could ditch it for the night. A looming deadline with his advisor in the morning warned him not to. I’m sort of free haha not really on campus Some time passed; Yunho was about to ask what Hyungwon had in mind, he didn’t care if he sounded pushy, but another text came in. Have you eaten? I could bring you something You can’t study on an empty stomach Yunho had, many times, but he’d accept the gesture. He shared his location. Now, there was the matter of logistics. The lab was empty, and as long as Yunho swiped Hyungwon in they’d have a place to sit. But was a lab really where Yunho wanted his first date with Hyungwon to be? Was it a date? No, he decided, it couldn’t be. What was he, fifteen? He considered the prospect. He supposed Hyungwon was aware of the low effort scenario he’d imposed, what with the sudden invitation. Regardless, Yunho tidied up his notes and tried to look like he hadn’t just been wringing his hands through his hair, as though the act would form better conclusions for his paper. Fifteen minutes later, Hyungwon texted him that he was outside. Yunho ran to the front door and tried to manage his nerves. The glass doors slid apart, and he could see Hyungwon standing outside, holding a plastic bag in one hand and his phone in the other. He flashed Yunho a big smile, eyes curling with the greeting. Yunho noted that his hair was wet. He looked edible. Yunho immediately felt self-conscious. Hyungwon held up the bag. "Is there anywhere we could go to eat?" Yunho nodded. "The roof." He held the door open for Hyungwon to slip past him. The smell of Hyungwon's cologne enveloped him in their brief and close proximity. Warm and spicy, with notes of currant. Hyungwon wasn't much taller than him, but he was broader. Yunho led them further into the building, then took a turn towards the elevator. He could hear Hyungwon’s soft steps behind him, hyper-aware as he was of where the other man was in proximity, so as to not accidentally bump into him or something else horrifically embarrassing. Yunho thought about his next words, thought about how to broach a topic they might have equal investment in, words that weren’t, “how have you been?” because he hated small talk — “You must be pulling long hours these days,” Hyungwon’s voice drifted over from beside him as they stopped in front of the elevator doors. Oh, god. Yunho’s hand shot out to press the up button. He must’ve looked like shit. “Yeah, can you tell from my eyebags?” Yunho figured he may as well play along. “They’re designer.” “No, no, you look good, even considering the timing. Isn’t your thesis due soon? I looked ten times worse than you ever could, believe me” Hyungwon shook his head and adjusted the bag he was carrying from one hand to the other, another smile curling at his eyes. “Thanks for making time for me.” Yunho let out a small, desperate noise, rushing to clear his throat. The doors slid open with a ding. You look good. “It’s fine, I needed the distraction.” Yunho pressed himself against the wall opposite to Hyungwon and tried not to breathe too hard. Hyungwon eyed him for a while, and the elevator doors slid shut without them moving, before Yunho realized he hadn’t pressed the button for their floor. “Oh, sorry—” “Do I make you	communion It could’ve been any reason. Yunho knew this. He wasn’t waiting by the phone or expecting the world, in fact, he had been surprised to have gotten Hyungwon’s number at all. Hyungwon was five years his senior, ran in completely different circles, and practically spoke another language when it came down to shared humor. By some miracle, Yunho’s crush had earned him a few texts as it was; he considered himself lucky and tried not to let the disappointment mar his ego when Hyungwon’s last reply was from a month before. Again, it wasn’t like Yunho was waiting, not exactly. He was busy, he didn’t get out a lot, the apps were dry, his master’s thesis was due in no less than two months, and he had a mountain of lab research to sift through which meant all of his nights were usually spent hunched over sheets of microbial data and his indecipherable notes in the margins. These weren’t excuses. There were periods of activity for Yunho, that his flat mate would term less pathetic, and this was not one of them, but he was resigned to that. Wooyoung had a ridiculous idea of his social capacities on any given day to begin with. So when he checked his phone and saw that he had in fact received another text from Hyungwon, he tried not to get his hopes up. He set down the pamphlet of notes he had been holding and took a moment to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. The laboratory’s sterile lighting made Yunho feel like a specimen smeared against a Petri dish. He had almost convinced himself he was cool about it, uninterested actually, too busy– Hey. Are you free right now? Three dots hovering. Yunho waited. I know it’s sudden. It was. Yunho glanced down at the mountain of work he had to do and considered whether he could ditch it for the night. A looming deadline with his advisor in the morning warned him not to. I’m sort of free haha not really on campus Some time passed; Yunho was about to ask what Hyungwon had in mind, he didn’t care if he sounded pushy, but another text came in. Have you eaten? I could bring you something You can’t study on an empty stomach Yunho had, many times, but he’d accept the gesture. He shared his location. Now, there was the matter of logistics. The lab was empty, and as long as Yunho swiped Hyungwon in they’d have a place to sit. But was a lab really where Yunho wanted his first date with Hyungwon to be? Was it a date? No, he decided, it couldn’t be. What was he, fifteen? He considered the prospect. He supposed Hyungwon was aware of the low effort scenario he’d imposed, what with the sudden invitation. Regardless, Yunho tidied up his notes and tried to look like he hadn’t just been wringing his hands through his hair, as though the act would form better conclusions for his paper. Fifteen minutes later, Hyungwon texted him that he was outside. Yunho ran to the front door and tried to manage his nerves. The glass doors slid apart, and he could see Hyungwon standing outside, holding a plastic bag in one hand and his phone in the other. He flashed Yunho a big smile, eyes curling with the greeting. Yunho noted that his hair was wet. He looked edible. Yunho immediately felt self-conscious. Hyungwon held up the bag. "Is there anywhere we could go to eat?" Yunho nodded. "The roof." He held the door open for Hyungwon to slip past him. The smell of Hyungwon's cologne enveloped him in their brief and close proximity. Warm and spicy, with notes of currant. Hyungwon wasn't much taller than him, but he was broader. Yunho led them further into the building, then took a turn towards the elevator. He could hear Hyungwon’s soft steps behind him, hyper-aware as he was of where the other man was in proximity, so as to not accidentally bump into him or something else horrifically embarrassing. Yunho thought about his next words, thought about how to broach a topic they might have equal investment in, words that weren’t, “how have you been?” because he hated small talk — “You must be pulling long hours these days,” Hyungwon’s voice drifted over from beside him as they stopped in front of the elevator doors. Oh, god. Yunho’s hand shot out to press the up button. He must’ve looked like shit. “Yeah, can you tell from my eyebags?” Yunho figured he may as well play along. “They’re designer.” “No, no, you look good, even considering the timing. Isn’t your thesis due soon? I looked ten times worse than you ever could, believe me” Hyungwon shook his head and adjusted the bag he was carrying from one hand to the other, another smile curling at his eyes. “Thanks for making time for me.” Yunho let out a small, desperate noise, rushing to clear his throat. The doors slid open with a ding. You look good. “It’s fine, I needed the distraction.” Yunho pressed himself against the wall opposite to Hyungwon and tried not to breathe too hard. Hyungwon eyed him for a while, and the elevator doors slid shut without them moving, before Yunho realized he hadn’t pressed the button for their floor. “Oh, sorry—” “Do I make you nervous?” Hyungwon leaned back against the wall, seeming like he had all the time in the world to wait for an answer. Yunho laughed too loudly. “No!” Then, at the look on Hyungwon’s face, he said, “Kinda. Is it that obvious?” Hyungwon crossed the small space; in one step he had Yunho pinned. “Very.” He looked as amused as a cat fattened on cream, plush lips curving at their middles with humor. He smelled good. “It’s cute.” In lieu of having anything else to say (and before he could make any more embarrassing noises), Yunho leaned in and kissed him. First, a noise of surprise, and then he heard the bag fall beside them as Hyungwon’s hands came up around the curves of his jaw, warm and large as they cupped his face, bringing Yunho in closer. Hyungwon’s mouth was heaven, was an oasis to his thirst, and when he tilted his head just so to slide their tongues together, Yunho tried not to come in his pants right then and there. He nearly failed, but Hyungwon broke them apart to establish room for his mouth against Yunho’s throat, and the gasp of air Yunho gained was enough to steady him. He brought his own hands up to lace through Hyungwon’s hair, the strands still slightly damp and cool against his heated skin. Hyungwon let out a noise of appreciation, and kissed a path along Yunho’s neck towards his jaw, then back to his mouth where the kiss deepened once more. Yunho’s fingers slid down and tangled in the soft hair at Hyungwon’s nape, his thumbs rubbing the spaces under Hyungwon’s ears. He felt oddly tender doing so, as though this were a vulnerability only he was privy to. As though he could sense Yunho’s thoughts, Hyungwon broke the kiss to meet Yunho’s gaze, brown eyes lidded and heavy. “Where are we headed?” The question broke the surface of their tenuous reality, Yunho suddenly aware of where they were and who could innocently happen upon them. He stared dumbly into Hyungwon’s waiting face, as though his mouth were suddenly full of cotton, not to mention his head, then mumbled thickly, “Bathroom.” Hyungwon peeled away from him, taking all of his warmth, and bent to grab the neglected bag. They exited the elevator, and Yunho led the way to the nearest bathroom, Hyungwon close behind him, an arm snaking around Yunho’s waist the moment the door swung shut behind them. Bag once again discarded somewhere Yunho did not have the wherewithal to care about, he found himself pressed against the wall again, this time with Hyungwon between his thighs, grinding against him until he couldn’t breathe around the ferocity of his own need. Hyungwon kissed down Yunho’s throat, his big hands wrapped around Yunho’s hips, digging into the meat there without delicacy, and Yunho found he appreciated that Hyungwon didn’t treat him like he was a thing that could break, because he wasn’t. He wanted Hyungwon with a desperation that was embarrassing to examine, and he was counting his blessings that that desire was at the very least returned. But he had no expectations for this tenuous thing between them, if it could even be identified as a thing at all. He was here, and Hyungwon’s hand was inching towards his waistband, and that was enough for Yunho; it had to be. “Stay with me,” Hyungwon huffed against his throat, and Yunho jolted from his thoughts like they burned him. He pushed his hands between them and made light work of the clasp of his jeans in concession, and Hyungwon pulled back just enough to watch as he pulled himself out of his briefs. The attention made Yunho shy, so he leaned forward and chased Hyungwon’s mouth back to his, and Hyungwon took the cue to touch him. He was engulfed in Hyungwon’s palm, the pressure all consuming, the slide and give as Hyungwon pumped him once, twice, measuring Yunho’s capacity to hold himself together. He groaned into their half-hearted kiss, his focus swallowed by the sensation of warmth as he did his best not to buck into Hyungwon’s grip. Yunho could feel Hyungwon’s smile against his lips as he pumped Yunho’s cock with more vigor, more purpose. “Fuck,” Yunho sighed out into the space between their mouths. It was good, too good too soon, Yunho like a live wire inching towards water. He broke away from Hyungwon again to put his hands to the other’s jeans, to even the score between them by pulling his cock free from its confines, to which Hyungwon gave a grateful whimper that Yunho couldn’t help but swallow up in another fleeting kiss before he got down to his knees. “Wait, stall,” is all Hyungwon could seemingly manage, and Yunho felt gratified at the tremble of Hyungwon’s voice, the way his soft eyes were blown at the brief sight of Yunho on his knees, but they were out in the open of the bathroom with nowhere to hide from anyone stepping in to piss. Yunho nodded quickly and stood; they retreated to the relative privacy of the nearest stall, locked themselves in. Yunho’s head was a dandelion on his shoulders, floating away piece by piece. The room could’ve been on fire and he wouldn’t know, with how wrapped up in the sight of Hyungwon’s cock he was. It was mouth-watering. He took his time getting on his knees this time, Yunho watching the change in Hyungwon’s face from heady to focused. Hyungwon took himself in hand, already sticky with precum, and tilted towards Yunho’s waiting mouth, coming to rest the head against Yunho’s bottom lip, meeting Yunho’s gaze as though his cock were a gift in the act of bestowment. The act made Yunho flush with heat. Fuck. Yunho was so grateful his eyes watered. He parted his lips slowly, then licked the underside of the head of Hyungwon’s cock, once, twice, until finally, Yunho took him in as far as he could manage. He couldn’t help but be reminded of communion, there on his knees with another man’s cock in his mouth, reverent, as though it were the body of Christ. When Hyungwon groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut with pleasure, Yunho gave thanks and prayed. Hyungwon placed a hand on his head, cradling it as he pressed further, guiding Yunho to take him in until Yunho could feel his throat convulsing around him. Pulling back to keep from gagging, Yunho felt Hyungwon’s palm smooth against his head, fingers tangling in his hair, as if to soothe him. “You’re so good for me,” Hyungwon said, voice so low and deep. Yunho whimpered softly at the praise. He wanted to be good. He pressed his tongue flat against the underside of Hyungwon’s cock again and sucked, eager to please. They picked up a rhythm, Yunho’s entire being focused on the push and pull of Hyungwon’s hand in his hair and the soft sounds of his pleasure. When Hyungwon pulled him off his cock, holding the base tightly, he said, “I’m close.” Yunho, dazed, nodded, and let Hyungwon pull him to stand again, awkward in the cramped space of the stall. They stayed close, Hyungwon desperately chasing Yunho’s mouth with his own. The kiss they shared was sloppy, Yunho’s chin slick with spit, Hyungwon tasting himself on Yunho’s lips. “I want –” Hyungwon began, their mouths breaths apart in their kissing, but before Hyungwon could finish, Yunho nodded and closed the gap. He didn’t know what he agreed to but whatever Hyungwon wanted he knew he wanted as well. Suddenly, Hyungwon turned Yunho around in his arms, and Yunho felt engulfed in his bulk; he could feel Hyungwon’s cock pressed against his backside and leaned into the pressure, earning a hiss from Hyungwon. A tap and tug on Yunho’s hip signaled him to pull his jeans down. He hurried to comply, anticipation building in his gut. Hyungwon pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around his front while the other kept hold of his waist, as though any distance between them was unbearable. Jeans and briefs around his thighs, ass bare and cock out, Yunho felt oddly vulnerable. He peered over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Hyungwon with his cock in hand, as he felt the warmth of it slide along his skin. “Up –” Hyungwon began, but Yunho understood and pushed to his tip toes, balancing his palms against the wall in front of him as he spread his legs just a bit, enough for Hyungwon to slide in between them. Spitting in his palm and giving himself a quick rub, Hyungwon positioned himself in between Yunho’s thighs, then let out a groan as they closed around him, squeezing tight and firm for the right kind of friction. Yunho’s cock hung neglected in the cool air, sending a brief chill through him, but then Hyungwon was closer than ever, reaching around to take a hold of him. He gave Yunho a few half-hearted pumps, to which Yunho let a soft cry echo into the space around them, the attention sudden and ridiculously good. “Touch yourself while I fuck you,” Hyungwon said, low and rough. “I wish you’d fuck me for real,” Yunho huffed, but he pressed his thighs tighter together all the same and braced for Hyungwon to keep moving. “Next time.” The words were amused. Yunho almost scoffed at Hyungwon’s presumption, but Hyungwon pushed him forward and fucked into him before he could, and the sound got caught in his throat. His pace was all-consuming, and Yunho gripped himself through it, pumping at the rhythm Hyungwon set. He was finding it difficult to remain upright, if it weren’t for Hyungwon’s grasp upon his waist he was sure he’d have fallen to his knees again. Sensing this, Hyungwon slowed his pace and reached an arm around Yunho’s middle to better hold him. His palm slid under Yunho’s shirt and left a hot trail in its wake, splayed against Yunho’s stomach. The change in angle made Hyungwon’s thrusts so fucking slow, Yunho could almost feel him like he was inside, could imagine Hyungwon deep, so deep. The fact of his emptiness became an ache. He squeezed his eyes shut and swore, rocking back against Hyungwon’s cock with the same ardor Hyungwon fucked into his thighs. “I’m close,” Hyungwon eventually panted out, clutching at Yunho so tight it nearly hurt. “Fuck,” Yunho said between gritted teeth, sweat slicking his arms as he worked himself, speeding up to chase his oncoming orgasm. He could feel it building like a pressure valve, steady, steady, and then Hyungwon pulled back and stilled. He let out the smallest groan, like he was at long last relieved of a burden and god, god. The sound was enough to bring Yunho undone. They came down, breathing heavily as Yunho turned back around to face Hyungwon, trying to hold himself together, incredulousness building at the fact that he and Chae Hyungwon just hooked up in the bathroom of his university lab. He wasn’t far from considering this a dream he hadn’t yet woken up from, but then Hyungwon smiled at him, came close and kissed every thought out of Yunho’s racing head, and for that he was grateful. They were disgusting, sweat-slicked and fucked out – Yunho doesn’t think he’s come harder in years – but it was the sheepish way that Hyungwon looked at him, like maybe he wasn’t sure how they ended up here but was pleasantly surprised, that made Yunho realize something he hadn’t let himself think about, not even with his pants halfway down. Fuck, Yunho thought. He was in over his head. He really liked him.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647166	{"authors": ["watersongs"], "language": "English", "title": "communion"}
Breakfast You’d think, with all of Huntr/x’s busy schedule, that they’d be running around, trying to prep themselves for whatever events they had planned for the day. While that was true at times, you’ve quickly come to realize that these three girls are either never here by the time you wake up, or they’re sleeping in, catching up on whatever rest they’ve gone without they’re entire week or so. And you, being their backup dancer, had your schedule planned around them. Rumi was out conducting an interview about the group’s comeback, and Zoey was out practicing at the skate park. Thankfully, your schedule was free for a good while. Dance rehearsals for Huntr/x’s upcoming concert weren’t set to start yet. So you had plenty of time to kill. Upon waking, Mira was gently latched onto you. Careful to not wake her, you pried yourself out her arms, and left her with a gentle kiss on her temple before you went to shower. Afterwards, satisfied with just sweats and a tank, you figured you’d make breakfast. More so because, not only did Mira have the day to just relax herself and she definitely deserved a nice breakfast in bed, but because both Rumi and Zoey had left notes hinting to their departure. Both stated they’ll be back at around the same time, which would mean breakfast would still be at least a bit warm for them when they come back. Knowing how these girls eat, you’re sure they’d appreciate the gesture. Even though you’ve been going well and steady with Mira for a good while, you always thought that you still have to make efforts to show to both her and her friends that you’re not here just mooching off of whatever fame and fortune they had. You were more than content to do simple things for all of them, but more intimate gestures of course were reserved for your girl. A while after you start prepping the stove, you hear shuffling in the background. Mira then grumbles a low, “Mornin’,” to whoever she believes is listening, before going back to hit the shower. You smirk to yourself, relishing in how adorable Mira is when she is half asleep. Though you know never to call her that in front of anyone for her own “reputation.” Moments pass, and the shower runs while you start cooking. While you were born and raised to be conditioned to American food, you’ve grown accustomed to what a typical Korean breakfast looks like. In this penthouse, you get a bit of everything… Rice, as always, which was the first thing finished thanks to the cooker. Gyeran-mari with a side of Jeon for Zoey, Kimchi for Rumi, and Gimpab for Mira. Knowing the girls though, the minute they all come sit to eat, no one’s specialty made dish will be left for themselves. They’ll pick off each other’s plates like it’s a buffet. As soon as the major proteins are cooking, you start to get into your typical flow, unaware that you have a spectator. Mira watches from the side as she finishes drying her hair. Shes still drowsy, but she’s able to keep her eyes ajar just enough to watch you effortlessly move from dish to dish. In fact, one could say she’s mesmerized by the way you move. You make cooking seem so… Natural. Does it help knowing that you were conditioned to cook for your elders since you were a young age? Not necessarily so, and even the thought of your childhood already irks Mira this early in the morning. She understands you grew up in a different culture, where punishment for your family was just straight up borderline abuse for others, but seeing how she went through a similar stage with her family, it just stings differently. However, you somehow always manage to find a way to incorporate whatever habits and past experiences into the way you move. It was the one thing about you that immediately caught Mira’s attention, and she’s been glued to you ever since. Your skill in the way you utilize whatever is available in Huntr/x’s kitchen is effortless. It shows your experience with the culinary arts, despite not having studied in that field, on top of being new to certain dishes. But that was you, always striving for perfection, and honestly, Mira wasn’t one to blame you. She just wished that you already realized just how perfect you already are. …Or maybe, it was time for a reminder. With a few silent steps, Mira throws her towel to the side as she comes up behind you, wrapping her slender arms around your waist. You hum as you let her warmth envelop you and you reach back with your free hand, gently intertwining your fingers into her hair, providing soothing scratches. “There’s my girl.” You speak, a slight rasp in your voice. Mira shifts her head deeper into your collarbone as she hides her blush. She mumbles incoherently, and you chuckle at her shyness. “Sleep well?” She nods, too focused on the cologne or lotion that you put on. It was one of her favorite scents that you occasionally wear. She knows it’s one that she sponsored, one you bought because she was the sponsor, but the name just wouldn’t click in her brain at the moment. That,	Breakfast You’d think, with all of Huntr/x’s busy schedule, that they’d be running around, trying to prep themselves for whatever events they had planned for the day. While that was true at times, you’ve quickly come to realize that these three girls are either never here by the time you wake up, or they’re sleeping in, catching up on whatever rest they’ve gone without they’re entire week or so. And you, being their backup dancer, had your schedule planned around them. Rumi was out conducting an interview about the group’s comeback, and Zoey was out practicing at the skate park. Thankfully, your schedule was free for a good while. Dance rehearsals for Huntr/x’s upcoming concert weren’t set to start yet. So you had plenty of time to kill. Upon waking, Mira was gently latched onto you. Careful to not wake her, you pried yourself out her arms, and left her with a gentle kiss on her temple before you went to shower. Afterwards, satisfied with just sweats and a tank, you figured you’d make breakfast. More so because, not only did Mira have the day to just relax herself and she definitely deserved a nice breakfast in bed, but because both Rumi and Zoey had left notes hinting to their departure. Both stated they’ll be back at around the same time, which would mean breakfast would still be at least a bit warm for them when they come back. Knowing how these girls eat, you’re sure they’d appreciate the gesture. Even though you’ve been going well and steady with Mira for a good while, you always thought that you still have to make efforts to show to both her and her friends that you’re not here just mooching off of whatever fame and fortune they had. You were more than content to do simple things for all of them, but more intimate gestures of course were reserved for your girl. A while after you start prepping the stove, you hear shuffling in the background. Mira then grumbles a low, “Mornin’,” to whoever she believes is listening, before going back to hit the shower. You smirk to yourself, relishing in how adorable Mira is when she is half asleep. Though you know never to call her that in front of anyone for her own “reputation.” Moments pass, and the shower runs while you start cooking. While you were born and raised to be conditioned to American food, you’ve grown accustomed to what a typical Korean breakfast looks like. In this penthouse, you get a bit of everything… Rice, as always, which was the first thing finished thanks to the cooker. Gyeran-mari with a side of Jeon for Zoey, Kimchi for Rumi, and Gimpab for Mira. Knowing the girls though, the minute they all come sit to eat, no one’s specialty made dish will be left for themselves. They’ll pick off each other’s plates like it’s a buffet. As soon as the major proteins are cooking, you start to get into your typical flow, unaware that you have a spectator. Mira watches from the side as she finishes drying her hair. Shes still drowsy, but she’s able to keep her eyes ajar just enough to watch you effortlessly move from dish to dish. In fact, one could say she’s mesmerized by the way you move. You make cooking seem so… Natural. Does it help knowing that you were conditioned to cook for your elders since you were a young age? Not necessarily so, and even the thought of your childhood already irks Mira this early in the morning. She understands you grew up in a different culture, where punishment for your family was just straight up borderline abuse for others, but seeing how she went through a similar stage with her family, it just stings differently. However, you somehow always manage to find a way to incorporate whatever habits and past experiences into the way you move. It was the one thing about you that immediately caught Mira’s attention, and she’s been glued to you ever since. Your skill in the way you utilize whatever is available in Huntr/x’s kitchen is effortless. It shows your experience with the culinary arts, despite not having studied in that field, on top of being new to certain dishes. But that was you, always striving for perfection, and honestly, Mira wasn’t one to blame you. She just wished that you already realized just how perfect you already are. …Or maybe, it was time for a reminder. With a few silent steps, Mira throws her towel to the side as she comes up behind you, wrapping her slender arms around your waist. You hum as you let her warmth envelop you and you reach back with your free hand, gently intertwining your fingers into her hair, providing soothing scratches. “There’s my girl.” You speak, a slight rasp in your voice. Mira shifts her head deeper into your collarbone as she hides her blush. She mumbles incoherently, and you chuckle at her shyness. “Sleep well?” She nods, too focused on the cologne or lotion that you put on. It was one of her favorite scents that you occasionally wear. She knows it’s one that she sponsored, one you bought because she was the sponsor, but the name just wouldn’t click in her brain at the moment. That, the scent of whatever moisturizer and oils you had spread across your locs, and the aroma of the food on the stove drove Mira into a sensory bliss. She loved being so close to you during fresh mornings like these. Mornings where she felt safe enough to let her guard down, where she didn’t have to play into her bad girl persona. Mornings where she could just be herself. How you managed to crumble Mira’s walls so easily? No one can truly answer, and even still, in someway you continue to chip away at her hardened shell. With another sleepy grumble, Mira shifts her head so that her chin rests on your shoulder. You take that opportunity make a half turn to reach up and place your hand flatly on her cheek, stealing a kiss. Breakfast forgotten for a solid minute, you couldn’t focus on anything else but the sensation of your girlfriend’s lips on yours. How smoothly you two moved against one another, the way the sweet taste of her lip gloss coats your senses, and how Mira easily nips at your bottom lip all distracts you from the steady flame on the stove. Instead, a growing fire ignites within your chest, and you can feel just how quickly it spreads throughout your being the minute Mira brings her arms around your neck. Her tongue darts in to meet yours while she presses herself closer to you. A light moan escapes your lips, and it’s only when Mira reaches around, back down and under your tank to trace along your core do you somehow manage to pull back. Instantly, Mira pouts, but moves to place a trail of harsh kisses along your neck, paralleling a tattoo that travels down towards your collar bone. It’s one of her favorites, mainly because you got it because of her. The inside joke of Mira being the most sappy when it comes to you had to be commemorated, hence why “LOVER GIRL” became both a hit song in Huntr/x’s comeback album and was provided a space on your neck in both ink and Korean. When the fans saw it, it was the topic of the week, or two at least. Did Celine scold you for getting a tattoo? No, because not only did you get involved with Mira when you already had an abundance of tattoos scattered along your body (don’t get her started on the piercings… The eyebrow, septum, LIP RING? Ole girl had a migraine when she first met you), but also because she simply had no right to. You weren’t an idol, hell, you weren’t even born in Korea. She learned to cut you some slack once Bobby and her own partner called her out on trying to “fix” your “uncultured, American ways.” But, she did have you present when giving Mira and the other girls a slight reminder about how to present themselves in the media… Once again. Thankfully, the fanbase’s response was over the top yet approving of the tattoo. Regardless, seeing what basically constituted as a permanent mark on your neck that makes everyone aware that you’re Mira’s, is an incredible constant turn on for the dancer. So much so, it’s become her favorite spot to mark you. Gently at first, she runs her tongue along your freshly sweet skin, savoring the way you shiver as a response and the way you sharply inhale at the feeling. Knowing well what comes next, you’re given a mere second at best to prepare for her to promptly suck on one of your precious sweet spots, right by your collarbone. “Mir…” You groan, an exasperated chuckle escaping from your lips. “Breakfast won’t be ready at a reasonable time if you keep this up, love.” Of course, you know at the end of the day, Mira simply didn’t care. “…Smells good.” She mumbles, her breath cool against your skin. “But,” she looks back up to you, her brown eyes extremely hazy, “not in the mood right now.” You raise an eyebrow. “Not in the mood for Gimpab?” You playfully question, turning fully now to face her, but not before turning off the stove. “Who are you and what have you done to my Mira?” Said woman rolls her eyes as her arms go back up to tangle around your shoulders. “Don’t be a smartass.” She retorts, her voice low and betraying her need. “You know what I mean.” “Do I?” You snark back. You hum, your eyes glancing down at her lips for a brief moment. “Maybe I need you to spell it out for me.” It’s only for a split second, but you can see just how much your words resonate in Mira’s mind before she smooths her expression away. “Dunno,” she leans forward, her lips brushing faintly against yours, “you’re smart, I’m sure you can figure it out on your own.” The way you breathe out, almost imitating a low growl, immediately lets Mira know that she has you right where she wants you. At least, that’s what she thinks. On instinct, you lean forward, bringing yourself closer to the younger girl. Mira steps back automatically, until you have her pressed against the island in the middle of the kitchen. “That’s not the game we’re about to play.” You retort, grabbing onto Mira’s hips as you lift her up to sit on the counter. “Now, you gonna be a good girl and try again for me?” You ask, playfully kissing along her neck once you feel her legs wrap around your waist. “Or,” you continue, smirking when you hear Mira gasp when your lips graze a sensitive spot, “we can do this the hard way. Play into your little game, once again, until you admit why you’re riling me up so early like this.” A shiver, and then the feeling of nails lightly scratching up your shoulder blade, is the only response you get from her. By now, you know what that means. You sigh, mischievously, “Have it your way,” and then close the distance between your lips and hers once again. The kiss is by no means gentle, but it still holds all the passion you could ever imagine. Both you and Mira moan into each other’s mouth in such a feverish way, you almost get a bit too carried away when the urge to have her right on the island at the moment flashes throughout your being. It doesn’t help when Mira leans back, pulling you down onto her and bringing you impossibly closer to her. She manages to get a somewhat guttural sound out of you when her hips buck against you, seeking any sort of friction that she can get from you. “Don’t.” You rasp, nipping at her lip which earns a whine out of her. “You’re getting too eager.” “And whose fault is that?” You resist the urge to play into her game. “Brat.” Is all you say before you dive into her neck. If Mira had a response, it dies down the minute you gently bite into her skin. “Shit.” She gasps, then trembles when she feels your hands slowly and dangerously glide up her torso, tracing every curve and of her body as possible. You earn another breathless puff from her when you grip onto her tighter, and slowly roll your hips against her. Mira goes to tease you about who is more eager than who, but is unable to the moment you find another delicate spot on her neck to press your lips against. The moment you run your tongue over her skin, then nip down and suck, Mira loses it just for a split second. Still, it’s enough for you to notice. “Yeah?” You smirk, your breath hot against her skin. “Listen to those pretty sounds you’re making for me.” Mira fights as much as she can, but the moment you had her pinned against the ceramic surface was the minute she lost her attempted game with you. That doesn’t mean she still wasn’t going to try to regain control. And when you whisper something about making her vocalize some more for you, an idea sparks in her head. “Heh,” she chuckles, “I don’t think you deserve to hear anymore.” You face scrunches a bit at the statement. “I mean, you’re gonna have to do a lot more than this to really get me going.” Again, the challenging tone in her voice seems to get some kind of a rise out of you. “Big words for someone who was just desperately trying to get off by dry humping me.” You shoot back, face still against her collarbone. Mira reaches a hand up and tries to entangle her fingers into your locs as much as she can. A tug on your head and the feeling of her nails against your scalp is all it takes for you to engulf your face deeper into her, filling your nostrils with nothing but her entire scent. Mira bites her lip, still attempting to maintain whatever little control she has of you right now. “Key word: trying. Didn’t really succeed in that department didn’t I?” Another remark is about to drop off the tip of your tongue, until Mira interrupts by saying, “I mean, come on. That really all you got? Thought you were gonna make me talk- Fuck!” Mira is given a slight reminder of the position she’s in when you add another mark on her collarbone. “Tch,” you unlatch yourself from her neck and look down at the idol, your eyes searching her up and down to see if you’re going to be playing this game with her for long, “let’s see what you have to say when I have you begging for me to give you what you’re looking for.” Without another word, you stand up, pushing Mira’s legs apart enough for you to have access to the waistband of her pants. You never break eye contact with her as you crouch down, bringing one leg each around your shoulders. Slowly, you curl your fingers around the edge of her pants, and pull them down just enough to expose her sweet spot. You don’t have to look down just to know how aroused she is. Her scent alone tells you everything and it activates a switch inside of you. Without hesitation, you lean in, mouth latching onto her inner thighs. Mira lets out a soft groan. Then another as you move to her other thigh to leave a mark. When you nip down on her skin, she jolts, mildly. You bring up a hand, and rub it over her panties, stimulating her clit. Immediately, Mira jerks, causing you to pause. “You’re sensitive this morning.” You muse. “Wonder how long you’ll last this time.” Without giving her time to respond, you shift the thin layer of clothing that blocks your immediate access to her dripping gate to the side with a stray finger, then flatly place your tongue against her. “Holy fuck.” She mewls. She has to take a deep breath to stabilize every bit of her being before she ends up rapidly chasing you for more. You moan into her, which only makes her shiver again. After a sloppy and long lap along her skin, you audibly break away from Mira. “You taste so damn delicious,” you proclaim before you dive back in. An intense wave of heat rushes up from Mira’s thighs all the way to her chest as she basks in the way you ravish her hot core. Each time her legs threaten to move or anytime her hips just slightly lift off the counter, you hold her still, gripping onto her thighs as if you were drowning and trying to drink every bit of moisture she provided you. On instinct, the dancer goes to place a hand on your head again. She loops her fingers through your locs silently prompting you to bury your tongue deeper into her. “No,” you breathe, resisting her tug, “not until you ask for it.” “Fuck, seriously?” Mira groans but the feeling of your mouth on her again over reigns her feint annoyance. Mira can’t help but to roll her head back whenever you switch things up on her; a soft lick here accompanied by heated kisses on her swollen bud, followed by longer laps that sink deep into her entrance, all of which are accompanied by sweet, sweet praises that sets her off each time. And each time you bring her closer to the edge, you halt your movements, feeling more and more mischievous every time you hear your lover grunt in protest. “Fucking tease.” She growls. You make a sound of acknowledgement, before detaching yourself from her again. “I know you love it.” “Debatable.” Another light lick, this time along her clit. It makes her shiver rigidly, which earns a chuckle out of you. “Guess you’re getting a taste of your own medicine, if anything.” You note, moving in to promptly suck on her bud, and as a response, Mira rewards you with another breathless noise. As you tend to her, you feel her fingers struggling against your scalp. She wants to push you in more, you know it, but she’s also fighting her urges… Fighting to not give into what you want from her. “Just say the word, princess.” You whisper, the feeling of your cool breath shading her soaked entrance makes her almost spiral. “I know you wanna cum in my mouth… You know I want you to cum on my tongue.” Mira feels her body losing control with each kiss you pamper her with, with each stroke you please her with. And she absolutely does want to give you everything she has, but her drive to do it on her own terms was quickly deteriorating the more you enchanted her with your mouth. “Unless,” you speak again, and Mira easily hears your change in tone when you ask, “I read wrong, and you don’t want it?” Mira looks down at you, disbelief written all over her face. “The girls will be back soon anyway. Wouldn’t want them to find you in such a state after all, huh?” “Don’t-“ is all the younger girl can plead when you motion to detach yourself from her. “Please.” You raise a brow. “Please what? If you’re gonna ask, then you know you gotta ask louder.” Mira grits her teeth together, contemplating for a second. She tries to steady her breath and clear her mind, weighing her options. On one hand, yes, she could give in and ask you to completely ruin her. Or, she can play the long game, where she anticipates the rest of Huntr/x walking in on you two for the nth time and therefore quit while she’s ahead. More so she can edge you later on in private the same way you’ve been doing her. However, the idea of her bandmates (or anyone) potentially walking in on you two clouds her mind, as always. It wouldn’t be the first, and definitely not the last time they would catch you deep into an intimate moment in the penthouse. And despite Rumi’s voice buzzing lowly around in her ear, scolding her about having some sort of decency, Mira chose to ignore and swat away the reminder, figuring if anything, she’ll deal with any potential consequences later. Right now, she honestly couldn’t focus on anything else but you. Specifically, how you’d look once she made an entire mess on your face. “Please,” she finally speaks up again, attempting but miserably failing at trying to keep a nonchalant expression, “I need you.” “Hmm, but I’m right here, Mir.” “You’re such a fucking- Damnit Y/N, just make me cum already!” There’s a beat of silence as you both take in the way Mira’s voice cracks at her plea. In turn, a devilish grin forms on your face, satisfied with knowing that you at least somewhat shattered her, and finally caused her to yield first. Mira on the other hand refuses to look directly at you, already envisioning the absolute smug look that you have on your face. “Don’t look at me like that.” She grumbles. “Well?” She growls, growing impatient the longer you bask in your win. “What else do you want me to-?!” Immediately, you manage to silence her with your tongue again. This time, you don’t waste anytime, knowing that Mira deserved to get what she’s been hinting at this entire morning. Every sound that you manage to draw out of Mira motivates you more. She gets progressively louder the more you push into her, licking up every drop that drips out from her folds. “So fucking good.” You breathe. “Fuck, I could drink you all day.” Mira’s fingers are finally given the chance to scrap along your scalp as her fingers harshly tug into your hair and pull you closer. “Yeah, that’s it,” You mumble, barely audible as your face is pressed between the performer’s thighs, “ride it out.” And she does, the minute the words slip out from your mouth is the same moment where Mira holds you steady, rolling her hips up and down as she rides your face the best she can. She feels your tongue move with her, adding a blissful pressure that continuously builds up as her rhythm increases. With both hands on your head now, you can’t help but to moan, reveling in the way Mira quickly unravels. Her pace drastically fastens, and before either one of you can prepare, she holds you down and cries out with such a feral intensity you haven’t heard from her since being together. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Mira repeats, her breath low and shakey, her body jerking as you try to drag out whatever you can from her. Your tongue is tired, sore, and you’re in need of air, but your motivation to let Mira ride out her orgasm for as long as she needs to on your face overrides any other thought at the moment. Eventually, her grip on you loosens, and you’re able to break away from her when she goes limp against the island. Mira has one arm over her eyes as she tries to catch her breath. You stand up, admiring the way her chest visibly moves up and down while you clean off her essence from your face. “See?” Mira doesn’t even have to open her eyes to know you’re grinning down at her victoriously. “Was that so hard, love?” A deep sigh, then Mira responds, “Yeah, well… Fuck you.” You laugh, knowing there’s no ill will behind her words. “I mean, I’m waiting.” You tease back. “It’s be a crime if you left me high and dry after making you unravel like that.” “No,” a third voice echos from down the hall, “it’s a crime that you guys decided to do this on a surface where we cook, by the way!” “More of a crime that breakfast is half made and you two couldn’t wait until it was ready to get freaky!” You hear Zoey whine from the same direction. Before her bandmates come into view, you’re already offering Mira a hand as she sits up and fixes her pants. Rumi and Zoey thankfully knew better than to just barge in by now without making sure the coast was clear, and you’d assume by how they cautiously step out, they were waiting for things to die down before making their presence known. Good idea, you mused, as you reminisced about the time where Mira was right on the edge when Rumi and Zoey interrupted you two at an earlier date. Easy to say, they got the brute end of her irritation for the rest of that evening after Mira dragged you away to her room to finish what was started. “Sorry girls,” you apologize a bit sheepishly, “couldn’t help it since someone kinda took my attention away.” Mira, face still flushed, gently smacks your upper arm. “I didn’t say you couldn’t finish cooking, dumbass.” “Didn’t seem like you wanted to wait.” You shrug. “Anyway, please, give me a sec, I’ll warm things back up again.” You hear Mira groan in disapproval, already knowing that she’d rather have you on her bed at the moment. “Eh?” Rumi echoes in response to Mira’s attitude. “You got your fix already, now it’s time for ours!” She exclaims. “Y/N’s cooking is amazing, and despite the fact that you guys almost fornicated on top of the food itself, I still wanna enjoy it.” You faintly hear Zoey’s stomach growl at the mention of food. “Yeah, I’m starving.” She whines, but then perks up when she sees you warming things up again. “Is that jeon!?” She squeals, and you laugh at the way she rushes over to study the spread you had planned for them. “What are you, 75?” Mira scrunches her nose up at Rumi. “Who the fuck says ‘fornicate’ when talking about sex?” “That- that doesn’t matter!” Flustered, Rumi tries to redirect and regain control of the situation. “What does matter is that someone has to clean up the counter!” “I’m busy being sous chef!” Zoey announces, attempting to snack on whatever she can. “Is that your definition of a sous chef, Zo?” You chuckle. “There’s nothing wrong with the counter.” Mira waves her hand at their leader in dismissal. “Trust me, we’d know.” Rumi pinches the bridge of her nose. “I just don’t understand why…” Is all you hear from her as she starts to walk away towards her room. Mira mischievously plays into the half-demon’s discomfort. “Hey, when you find someone, I’ll make sure to remember to…” Her voice fades away as well as she trails Rumi from behind. With you and a not-so-helpful Zoey left behind in the kitchen, you manage to eventually finish up everyone’s meal. Zoey makes up for her snacking by setting the area for everyone to settle and eat, and much to Rumi’s pleasure, she makes sure every single surface, despite being untouched, is wiped down and cleaned. The bickering continues between the three of them as you somehow manage to get away with eating peacefully at Mira’s side. By now, it’s just a normal occurrence between the group. So much so that’d you would be worried if they ever skipped a day. And honestly? You wouldn’t change a thing about it.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647216	{"authors": ["sapphirexdaze"], "language": "English", "title": "Breakfast"}
go on, go and go, and it never stops This day was fucking shit. He should've known from the way he hadn't slept right last night. His back was killing him, and with his leg throbbing against his tiny floor boared bound sheets, he had tossed and turned all night. The only meager rest he had gotten was a sparse few hours; courtesy of Z never waking up at the right times anymore. But what awaited him was not peace; instead, it was abject horror. It was him. Micha. Regect normally dreamt of him, anyway, but tonight was different. Instead of a storm clouded hue of scroched bedrock and fire, he was stood up in a tall grass hillside; clouds murmuring in the distance as small dandelions rolled out and out for eons. Parallel to him was Micha; dressed in all white, a mere watercoloured blob. Notning kore then a mumbling silhouette of a kid he used to love dearly. He didn't wave or shout out to him; just stood, faceless. Regect had tried to move -- tried to speak, to warble out a sentence for the kid to hear -- but before he could Micha started dancing. He did these little loops and circles, jumping jacks and hipscotch. Nothing Regect was real famailiar with, but it filled his heart with something warm and bubbly, so for that he had to be content with. Michas had akways been a good kid. Hes had always been smart, too; small thing with big ideas, never enough anxiety to render any sort of hesitation, even when he really should've. Micha was wonderful. Micha needed more life then anyone else. Regect watched at the kid spun, and spun, and spun, so much that he became an master at his craft. And then, like all things do, he fell. Tripped on some loose rock like all little kids do, one big heap of a gasp before he disappeared from sight. He plummetted down, down and down until he landed against a ditch too soggy to be dirt. Regect couldnt do much else but watch, slacked jaw and teary eyed, as it swallowed him before his very eyes. He shouted. He screamed. He tore at the world until it obeyed him, but all he showed was Micha's dead body against the water line. His eyes stared up at him, crystal like, reflecting the sky and clouds as if clean water from a villages river. His skin was pale and yet still so warm, as if Regect could cradle him in his arms and pretend he was still okay. He woke in cold sweat. Breaths came puffing out of him, his mouth wheezy with every breath he forced into himself. His hands clenched uselessly against his chest, searching for something to hold, something to grab onto, yet all he did was suck in a choked sob and glare at the sheets beneath him. "Stupid," he whispered to himself. "So fucking stupid." That morning, Regect kept to himself. When he went down for breakfast, Moe and Z were already up, yapping about what they were gonna do for the day that Regect barely paid mind to. Even as Z called out to him to join in, all he did was wave him off, muttering something flimsy before he disappeared into a oak forest somewhere in the hill side near their house. He just.. couldn't deal with it today. Couldn't stop thinking about it, even. Really, how could he not? His gut churned and rolled with every step he took, his eyes welling underneath with tears he couldn't let anyone see. He swallowed down his bile and crouched low near the mouth of a cave, curled underneath a canarpy of tress. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, screwing at them as he squished his body into two. "Its fine," he whispered to himself. "its fine, it's fine, don't cry, its fine." It wasn't. Both him and the universe knew it. Yet even still, Regect kept his mouth intact. After a few beats of breathing he wobbled up to his feet, staggering up and wandering around for a bit before teleporting himself back to base. His eyes were stull screwy and he knew he looked like he had barely just escaped something raw, but he made himself fold up into little neat boxes before he wandered into the entryway of the house. Z was off with Moe near the deck he'd been working on, building a fence for their newly adopted cows that were just out of frame. Regect didnt look inside but he sure as hell notified his presence-- Moe came bolting to him in a start, first honking about where he'd been, then of the new plans her and Z had came up with while he was gone; about boats and apples and mining bedrock for seven thousand years. Regect could only nod and hum, his mind split between don't throw up and that sounds nice to do. He can't help but look at Moes hands as she spoke-- they fizzle and pop around, never one to ever shut up their nonsense rambling. He likes that. It gives comfort, he thinks, to know that she also has something ever lasting going for her. "--So?" Regect blinks, and his eyes skirt over to Moe, who's staring at him with intense, waiting eyes. He shifts. "So.. what?" "The dinner?" She honks. "Oh. Right. Uh-- Sure, I'm cool with that." He isn't. He suddenly feels like he wants to puke, yet Moe nods anyway, rocking on her	go on, go and go, and it never stops This day was fucking shit. He should've known from the way he hadn't slept right last night. His back was killing him, and with his leg throbbing against his tiny floor boared bound sheets, he had tossed and turned all night. The only meager rest he had gotten was a sparse few hours; courtesy of Z never waking up at the right times anymore. But what awaited him was not peace; instead, it was abject horror. It was him. Micha. Regect normally dreamt of him, anyway, but tonight was different. Instead of a storm clouded hue of scroched bedrock and fire, he was stood up in a tall grass hillside; clouds murmuring in the distance as small dandelions rolled out and out for eons. Parallel to him was Micha; dressed in all white, a mere watercoloured blob. Notning kore then a mumbling silhouette of a kid he used to love dearly. He didn't wave or shout out to him; just stood, faceless. Regect had tried to move -- tried to speak, to warble out a sentence for the kid to hear -- but before he could Micha started dancing. He did these little loops and circles, jumping jacks and hipscotch. Nothing Regect was real famailiar with, but it filled his heart with something warm and bubbly, so for that he had to be content with. Michas had akways been a good kid. Hes had always been smart, too; small thing with big ideas, never enough anxiety to render any sort of hesitation, even when he really should've. Micha was wonderful. Micha needed more life then anyone else. Regect watched at the kid spun, and spun, and spun, so much that he became an master at his craft. And then, like all things do, he fell. Tripped on some loose rock like all little kids do, one big heap of a gasp before he disappeared from sight. He plummetted down, down and down until he landed against a ditch too soggy to be dirt. Regect couldnt do much else but watch, slacked jaw and teary eyed, as it swallowed him before his very eyes. He shouted. He screamed. He tore at the world until it obeyed him, but all he showed was Micha's dead body against the water line. His eyes stared up at him, crystal like, reflecting the sky and clouds as if clean water from a villages river. His skin was pale and yet still so warm, as if Regect could cradle him in his arms and pretend he was still okay. He woke in cold sweat. Breaths came puffing out of him, his mouth wheezy with every breath he forced into himself. His hands clenched uselessly against his chest, searching for something to hold, something to grab onto, yet all he did was suck in a choked sob and glare at the sheets beneath him. "Stupid," he whispered to himself. "So fucking stupid." That morning, Regect kept to himself. When he went down for breakfast, Moe and Z were already up, yapping about what they were gonna do for the day that Regect barely paid mind to. Even as Z called out to him to join in, all he did was wave him off, muttering something flimsy before he disappeared into a oak forest somewhere in the hill side near their house. He just.. couldn't deal with it today. Couldn't stop thinking about it, even. Really, how could he not? His gut churned and rolled with every step he took, his eyes welling underneath with tears he couldn't let anyone see. He swallowed down his bile and crouched low near the mouth of a cave, curled underneath a canarpy of tress. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, screwing at them as he squished his body into two. "Its fine," he whispered to himself. "its fine, it's fine, don't cry, its fine." It wasn't. Both him and the universe knew it. Yet even still, Regect kept his mouth intact. After a few beats of breathing he wobbled up to his feet, staggering up and wandering around for a bit before teleporting himself back to base. His eyes were stull screwy and he knew he looked like he had barely just escaped something raw, but he made himself fold up into little neat boxes before he wandered into the entryway of the house. Z was off with Moe near the deck he'd been working on, building a fence for their newly adopted cows that were just out of frame. Regect didnt look inside but he sure as hell notified his presence-- Moe came bolting to him in a start, first honking about where he'd been, then of the new plans her and Z had came up with while he was gone; about boats and apples and mining bedrock for seven thousand years. Regect could only nod and hum, his mind split between don't throw up and that sounds nice to do. He can't help but look at Moes hands as she spoke-- they fizzle and pop around, never one to ever shut up their nonsense rambling. He likes that. It gives comfort, he thinks, to know that she also has something ever lasting going for her. "--So?" Regect blinks, and his eyes skirt over to Moe, who's staring at him with intense, waiting eyes. He shifts. "So.. what?" "The dinner?" She honks. "Oh. Right. Uh-- Sure, I'm cool with that." He isn't. He suddenly feels like he wants to puke, yet Moe nods anyway, rocking on her heels excitedly as she goes on another tagent about ... ham and cheese and snacks? Whatever. His head hurts too much to think. They end up apple farming. Its a good pick, really. Not to brag but, Regects always been a good little picker. He fills two baskets up by the time Moe and Z do one. They say it's because he's cheated -- used that "wicked freaky power shit," as Z has taken to calling it -- but he really hasn't. They just don't have the skills like he does. At some stage, though, picking off apples feels like ripping teeth from a baby lamb, so he opts to listen to the stream of water while Moe and Z fuck around instead. They don't ask questions -- rarely do -- and by the time he gets back, the suns overcast has gotten too dark to notice the red in his eyes. Dinner is nice. Moe makes good meals, surprisingly. Better then his or Zs, at least, and as they settle down and say prayer Regect feels something swell inside of him as he chews on a leg. Its guilt, maybe, this guilty feeling of being so afraid of himself and of this awful, retched hole inside that just wont shut up, not even for a moment. This void. This... This emptiness. This swallowing, wailing sound. This grief. Regect winces. Moe laughs and Z laughs even harder. The lights are low and humming, bright witj warmth too far to feel real. Theres spit inside their mouths and he tries not to feel too alienated as he feels along his mouth to find bone and desert. The chickens like skin in his hands. Wet, thin paper. He tears a piece off with his teeth, chewing and swallowing in one big gulp. The animalism makes his alienation feel in balance. He doesn't think about it anymore. Doesn't even think about him for the rest of the night. Thats a lie. He ends up chucking up against the bathroom sink, his body heaving as he tries to contain his own sick. He wipes his mouth with the back of his palm, ignoring how it comes back red and drippy, and goes out for some more. Its almost an hour before Regects flickering his eyes to Zs peering figure, leaning just in the crust of his room. Its barely past midnight and yet the house is dead silent. Moe had knocked out ages ago and -- foolishly -- Regect had thought the same for Z. Apparently not. "You were off today," Z musses, crossing his arms against his chest. "Something wrong that i should know about?" Regect scoffs, leaning back in his chair. "Why d'you care?" "Why wouldn't I? You blow things up when you're angry." That was true. Regect scowled, folding his arms over his chest. "Its nothing," he muses, even as his good foot balances a rolling pen underneath his desk. By the silence stretching forward between them,he knows Z hasn't bought it, so he sighs, throwing him a look. "Come on, dude. Me? Upset? You're projecting at this point." "Still," Z pushes forward, and his face distorts from annoyance to hestiant concern. When he speaks next, it almost seems pained. "I worry about you." That takes him off guard. Only for a beat, though, and his face contorts into a snarky smile. "Really? Huh. New for me." "I mean it. I really do. I care about you, and you've been acting off all day." "Name a time, then." "Huh?" Regect lifts his brow. "Go on," he says. When all Z does is gape, he turns back around then over his desk, his hands already working on a trinket Moes been asking for a while When Zs stood there, silent, for long enough, Regect sighs. "Listen," he says, "I'm fine. Really. Stop standing there like a stunned mullet; you're doing nothing to yourself but making you look weak." Z shifts, clearly unsatisfied, but deflates the more he sees Regects unwillness. "... Alright," he says, then, before he slouches into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Regect can't describe the pit that cranes up his neck as the sound bounces off the walls, but its nothing good Even still, he busies himself with his work, and hopes this sadness will wash away with the struggle. It doesn't. What a fool to think otherwise. He stumbles out near the bush line, hiccuping as he holds onto a tree for support. His dinner comes up and out against the grass in waves. The sound is awful, and the stench makes him gag against an empty stomach when he's done barfing up all the chicken and the rice and that sweet apple pie, now ants feed in the dirt. He can't even see against his tears, his cheeks mad red and his wails rolling up and out of his throat with every breath of air he struggles to inhale. The feeling -- this revolting, sickening one, the thing that never ever leaves-- its swallowing him whole. Overwhelming everything inside of his sense of self. He ends with his ass in the dirt, back plastered against the trunk of a tree as he claws and nips at his skin, desperate to get himself out of this body however he must. Its futile. Regect staggers his way back inside just shy of an hour later, his clothes damp and his skin still feeling like buzzed wire. He locks the bathroom door and scrubs his skin raw; digs extra deep at the wounds he managed to show the fat into. It hurts. It always does. Isn't that the whole fucking point? Yet this aching, gnawing feeling -- it won't leave him. He doesn't think it ever fucking will, so he ends up retching over the toilet again with his stupid stump of a leg drawing blood art against the tile and his stupid fucking skin burning itself alive. He slumps back down against his bed, shuts his eyes twenty minutes later and dreams of nothing.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647226	{"authors": ["weeklio"], "language": "English", "title": "go on, go and go, and it never stops"}
Heroes of Halfmoon Cyrus would admit it: he was pacing. Could you blame him? Barely an hour ago, his city was assaulted from within and without in yet another coup attempt. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now his daughter and his wife were unconscious in the infirmary while Adora and Kesi were both still MIA. At least Caspin was safe, curled up in Percival’s arms in a nearby chair. The damage done to the city was staggering and they likely wouldn’t have a full casualty count for a few more hours at best. All Cyrus knew on that front at the moment was that, once again, the Royal Guard had been whittled down to just a small handful of people and the palace guard wasn’t in the best shape, either. (The palace guard had also mobilized way too slowly and that was something that Cyrus fully planned on fixing in the near future. A month or three of the most intense drills that any of them had ever seen should whip them into shape.) “Your Majesty, you should try to relax. The Queen and Princess are both in perfectly stable conditions,” Percival said placatingly. “I know, I know,” Cyrus replied gruffly as he stilled his tail. “It’s just that—” “Make way!” came a voice from the other direction. “Her Highness’ Seneschal needs treatment!” Cyrus spun around, his eyes wide with shock as he saw two medics carefully rush in their direction carrying a stretcher. On said stretcher laid an unconscious Kesi, her white fur stained red with blood. Her stomach was bound by a compression bandage but, startlingly, she appeared to be bleeding through it. Cyrus quickly threw the doors to the infirmary open and ushered the medics inside. “Kesi‽ What happened to her‽” Lenio asked as he shot up from where he had been sitting at his desk before quickly making his way over to where the medics laid Kesi down on the nearest available bed. A diagnostic spell was already starting to flare to life over his hand. “She was found in an alleyway near the Waxing Market. She was unconscious and had a knife in her stomach. Not all of the blood is hers; the corpse of one of the traitors was found nearby with his throat slashed open. We applied first aid but she was bleeding through the bandages so we rushed her here,” one of the medics reported. “Damn good thing you did, too,” Lenio said with the kind of calm that can only be gained through countless years of experience. He had run his diagnostic spell as the medic had talked. “He missed her bowels—thank the Stars Above—but the wound is deep and a major artery was hit. It’s frankly a miracle that she’s still alive.” “It’s not a miracle; it’s Adora,” Cyrus said with absolute certainty. At Lenio’s raised brow, he continued. “She made sure that Kesi and C’yara both knew military first aid. She would have known not to remove the knife until the bleeding could be stopped somehow.” Lenio nodded and held out his free hand as his other glowed with arcane power. “Cyrus, give me one of your Tears of Fire. I’ve already started casting and I don’t have the energy needed to complete the spell.” Cyrus all but ripped off one of his armbands and gave it to the doctor. As the Tear of Fire lit up, Lenio ever so slightly sighed with relief. “We should give the doctor his space,” Cyrus began as he gently pulled the medics back. “You two did good work and I know you must be exhausted but I need you to get back out there and help anyone you can.” “Yes, sir!” the two medics said with salutes before running off to resume their duties. Cyrus looked at where Lenio was steadily casting away in between giving orders to his nurses and orderlies and then to the private room where Lyra and C’yara were currently resting. With a sigh, Cyrus stepped out and shut the door to the infirmary. Today was going to be a long day. Cyrus was pacing again but he still couldn’t be blamed. After all, he was currently roughly seventy percent worry by volume at this point. Since he had still needed to act as both the King-Consort while Lyra was laid up and the top general of their military, he had been forced to start working again to try and settle affairs as much as possible. He wasn’t going to be more than thirty feet from his family at that moment if he could help it, however, so he had commandeered Lenio’s office. While he worked at Lenio’s desk, Percival had grabbed an unused medical stand to use as one while Caspin slept fitfully in the chair next to him. Casualty and damage reports kept pouring in and the numbers were more than a little upsetting. He had already sent a message to Haverisk informing him that the Crown would be providing emergency relief funds for the reconstruction effort that should begin as soon as possible. He had also received a message from Imoh suggesting that a memorial service be held for the deceased (something that Cyrus had fully agreed with). Later still, Cloudfoot had arrived with some food and tisane as well as a message: the surviving traitors that hadn’t absconded had all been rounded up and that interrogation	Heroes of Halfmoon Cyrus would admit it: he was pacing. Could you blame him? Barely an hour ago, his city was assaulted from within and without in yet another coup attempt. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now his daughter and his wife were unconscious in the infirmary while Adora and Kesi were both still MIA. At least Caspin was safe, curled up in Percival’s arms in a nearby chair. The damage done to the city was staggering and they likely wouldn’t have a full casualty count for a few more hours at best. All Cyrus knew on that front at the moment was that, once again, the Royal Guard had been whittled down to just a small handful of people and the palace guard wasn’t in the best shape, either. (The palace guard had also mobilized way too slowly and that was something that Cyrus fully planned on fixing in the near future. A month or three of the most intense drills that any of them had ever seen should whip them into shape.) “Your Majesty, you should try to relax. The Queen and Princess are both in perfectly stable conditions,” Percival said placatingly. “I know, I know,” Cyrus replied gruffly as he stilled his tail. “It’s just that—” “Make way!” came a voice from the other direction. “Her Highness’ Seneschal needs treatment!” Cyrus spun around, his eyes wide with shock as he saw two medics carefully rush in their direction carrying a stretcher. On said stretcher laid an unconscious Kesi, her white fur stained red with blood. Her stomach was bound by a compression bandage but, startlingly, she appeared to be bleeding through it. Cyrus quickly threw the doors to the infirmary open and ushered the medics inside. “Kesi‽ What happened to her‽” Lenio asked as he shot up from where he had been sitting at his desk before quickly making his way over to where the medics laid Kesi down on the nearest available bed. A diagnostic spell was already starting to flare to life over his hand. “She was found in an alleyway near the Waxing Market. She was unconscious and had a knife in her stomach. Not all of the blood is hers; the corpse of one of the traitors was found nearby with his throat slashed open. We applied first aid but she was bleeding through the bandages so we rushed her here,” one of the medics reported. “Damn good thing you did, too,” Lenio said with the kind of calm that can only be gained through countless years of experience. He had run his diagnostic spell as the medic had talked. “He missed her bowels—thank the Stars Above—but the wound is deep and a major artery was hit. It’s frankly a miracle that she’s still alive.” “It’s not a miracle; it’s Adora,” Cyrus said with absolute certainty. At Lenio’s raised brow, he continued. “She made sure that Kesi and C’yara both knew military first aid. She would have known not to remove the knife until the bleeding could be stopped somehow.” Lenio nodded and held out his free hand as his other glowed with arcane power. “Cyrus, give me one of your Tears of Fire. I’ve already started casting and I don’t have the energy needed to complete the spell.” Cyrus all but ripped off one of his armbands and gave it to the doctor. As the Tear of Fire lit up, Lenio ever so slightly sighed with relief. “We should give the doctor his space,” Cyrus began as he gently pulled the medics back. “You two did good work and I know you must be exhausted but I need you to get back out there and help anyone you can.” “Yes, sir!” the two medics said with salutes before running off to resume their duties. Cyrus looked at where Lenio was steadily casting away in between giving orders to his nurses and orderlies and then to the private room where Lyra and C’yara were currently resting. With a sigh, Cyrus stepped out and shut the door to the infirmary. Today was going to be a long day. Cyrus was pacing again but he still couldn’t be blamed. After all, he was currently roughly seventy percent worry by volume at this point. Since he had still needed to act as both the King-Consort while Lyra was laid up and the top general of their military, he had been forced to start working again to try and settle affairs as much as possible. He wasn’t going to be more than thirty feet from his family at that moment if he could help it, however, so he had commandeered Lenio’s office. While he worked at Lenio’s desk, Percival had grabbed an unused medical stand to use as one while Caspin slept fitfully in the chair next to him. Casualty and damage reports kept pouring in and the numbers were more than a little upsetting. He had already sent a message to Haverisk informing him that the Crown would be providing emergency relief funds for the reconstruction effort that should begin as soon as possible. He had also received a message from Imoh suggesting that a memorial service be held for the deceased (something that Cyrus had fully agreed with). Later still, Cloudfoot had arrived with some food and tisane as well as a message: the surviving traitors that hadn’t absconded had all been rounded up and that interrogation via truth spells will begin at his command. Naturally, Cyrus had given the go ahead for that immediately. There were a number of burning questions that he needed the answer to, questions that he had passed along to Cloudfoot. Then he had been given his first bit of good news since breakfast when a haggard Lenio came in to inform them that Lyra was awake. Cyrus had scooped up Caspin, startling a mrrp out of him, and probably set a new speed recording rushing to her room. “LY—” Cyrus almost shouted his wife’s name as he all but burst through the door only to catch himself when he remembered both his daughter sleeping in the other bed and the rest of the wounded in the infirmary. His youngest child, however, had no such restraint. “MAMA!” Caspin yelled as they wiggled out of Cyrus’ arms. He then rushed over to Lyra’s bed where they all but pounced on her. He immediately set to work vigorously nuzzling her. The private room where Lyra and C’yara were staying wasn’t any different than any other two-person private room in the infirmary in terms of amenities. However, given the fact that it was specifically set aside for the Royal Family, it was regularly swept for things like listening devices or the like. “Caspin!” Lyra replied at a much more reasonable volume as she threw her arms around them and held him close. The head of her bed was currently raised so that she could sit up. Cyrus walked over to the side of her bed and leaned down so he could first kiss her temple before rubbing his cheek against hers, letting their scents intertwine. He didn’t even try to stop the purr rising up in his chest which triggered Lyra’s which, in turn, triggered Caspin’s. “How are you feeling, darling?” he asked after a moment when he had finally gathered enough willpower to pull away. He felt a lot calmer now that his wife was awake; he was only about fifty percent worry by volume now. “I’ve been better,” Lyra admitted. She then chuckled slightly. “I would say that you should see the other guy but…” “Yeah, I read the reports.” Cyrus shot his wife a lopsided grin. “Do I need to say that I’m proud of you?” Lyra smiled back and it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing that Cyrus had ever seen. “You don’t but I like hearing it anyway.” “Ew. You two are being gross,” Caspin complained, their nose scrunching up in disgust. Cyrus and Lyra chuckled at that before falling into a relatively comfortable silence as Cyrus sat down in the chair next to Lyra’s bed. Caspin seemed to finally be finished nuzzling as they squirmed a little more to get comfortable before settling down. At length, Cyrus spoke again. “So, what do you know about what’s happened?” he asked. “Only what Lenio has told me,” Lyra replied as she continued to pet down Caspin’s back, her eyes flickering over to C’yara’s sleeping form. “Well, things aren’t great but they could have been worse. We managed to repel the invaders with relatively few casualties on our end and the people of the city rallied quickly. We don’t have the full count yet but it’s not looking to be as bad as the last one,” he reported. Lyra nodded and opened her mouth to speak only to be cut off by Caspin. “Hey, where’s ‘Dora?” he asked as he sat up and began looking around as though she were hiding in a corner somewhere. Cyrus shared a significant look with Lyra before saying, “Oh, you know how she gets. She probably started helping someone and then lost track of the time.” In truth, Cyrus was more than a little worried. He had sent messages to every hospital in Halfmoon but she wasn’t at any of them (not that she would have stayed in one given her ties to the Royal Family). He had then alerted the military and guard to keep an eye out for her and that had been over an hour ago. Caspin scowled at Cyrus. “That’s not very nice! She’s C’y’s khai’tel! She should be here with her, not out there with someone else!” Cyrus and Lyra both startled at that. “You know that?” Lyra asked. Cyrus was surprised, too. Sure, it was painfully obvious but Caspin was also only nine. Caspin actually scoffed at that and rolled his eyes. “Of course I do! Everyone knows that!” Cyrus chuckled. “Fair enough.” “So, where is ‘Dora? Why hasn’t someone gotten her?” Lyra and Cyrus shared another look but were thankfully spared from having to answer by a knock at the door. “Enter,” Lyra said clearly. The door opened to reveal a pleasant surprise: Percival pushing a wheelchair-bound Kesi. Her fur had been cleaned of all of the blood and was back to its usual white but she seemed paler than usual and her eyes looked sunken. Her clothes had also been replaced with a hospital gown meaning that she was currently more covered up than Cyrus had ever seen her. “Kesi! You’re awake!” Caspin said as they shimmied off of the bed and raced over to her. Kesi smiled and leaned forward to hug them. “Stupid question but how are you feeling, Kesi?” Cyrus asked as Caspin gave her one last squeeze before letting go and stepping back. Percival wheeled her all the way into the room and shut the door before positioning her between Lyra and C’yara. He then took the remaining seat in the room for himself. As he was doing this, Kesi took a deep breath and answered, “I’ll be alright.” While Cyrus didn’t know Kesi nearly as well as C’yara and especially Adora, he was pretty certain that that was code for “I feel absolutely terrible but I’m not going to complain.” “What do you know about everything that’s happened?” Lyra asked. “And what happened to you?” Caspin added. “Percival brought me up to speed,” Kesi answered. “As for what happened to me, I was in the Waxing Market picking up a gift for Adora when the bombs went off. They—” Her ears pinned back for a moment as she grabbed her tail to stop it from thrashing. “I started helping people using the medical supplies I keep on me only to be attacked. I managed to,” she swallowed thickly as her ears pinned back again, “to get him but not before he… well…” She glanced down at her stomach. “I remember stumbling into an alley, smelling Adora’s scent, and then that’s about it.” Cyrus perked up slightly at that last bit. He pulled out his tablet and quickly sent a couple messages before putting it away. “I received some reports about that, actually,” Cyrus said. “You did good work; saved a lot of lives. You should be proud.” Kesi smiled bashfully, a pleased purr springing to life only for a brief moment as her tail twitched in her hands. “I just did what I could. I wish I could have done more.” “Enough of that,” Lyra gently reprimanded her. “You did more than any sane person could have expected or asked of you. You are a hero, Kesi. Just like everyone else who helped out.” “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Kesi said softly. Her blush was visible through her fur and her pleased purr lasted longer this time—a few seconds. Was she tamping it down for some reason? Cyrus wasn’t certain but he felt like he was missing something. “How’s Catra doing?” Kesi asked, sending C’yara’s sleeping form a worried look. “She’s fine; she’s just resting,” Cyrus answered. “She was pretty nicked up from her fight with Bloodclaw but it wasn’t anything too serious. The worst part—and the reason why she’s still sleeping—was the severe magical exhaustion. Apparently, the way she chose to deal with him is with the judicious use of explosions. His armor was warded against magic by what we’re pretty sure is a shard of a RuneStone—probably the Black Garnet—so she had to put a lot of power into each one.” “All without causing much in the way of damage to the area,” Lyra added with a nod. “She should be very proud of her performance; the level of control needed to do what she did is no mean feat. I saw the fight from Caspin’s bedroom window.” “But I didn’t because Mama wouldn’t let me,” Caspin said with a pout. “I’m sure that C’yara will be more than happy to show us both how she defeated Bloodclaw,” Cyrus said placatingly. Kesi smiled fondly at her princess. “While she should be proud, knowing her, she’ll be upset by the fact that she passed out and is going to be furious about the bedrest that Lenio’s going to no doubt order.” Cyrus, Lyra, and Percival all chuckled at that, silently agreeing. While C’yara was a more than capable warrior and sorceress, she tended to be hard on herself. While she had never said as much, Cyrus knew that she was holding herself to the standards of both him and Lyra (and, ever since the assassination attempt two years ago, Adora). While they were admirable and understandable goals for her to work towards, it tended to blind her to her own progress and achievements. “Hey, where’s Adora?” Kesi asked after a moment of silence. “She should be here but she hasn’t been in the infirmary for a long time.” Cyrus wasn’t entire sure how she knew that but she was right. He opened his mouth to answer when his tablet went off, notifying him of a new message. “One moment,” he requested as he pulled it out and read it. He hummed and frowned as he did so. “Well,” he began slowly. He glanced at Caspin and debated lying or maybe trying to get them out of the room but eventually decided against it. He’d learn eventually so it might as well be now. “Adora’s missing.” “WHAT‽” Kesi shouted as she learned forward in her wheelchair, her eyes wide and ears pinned back. “What do you mean she’s missing‽” she demanded. Lyra and Percival both grimaced at the news, having expected as much, while Caspin simply froze. Cyrus licked his lips as he debated how to word this. This was worrying him just as much as it was the others but he needed to keep a level head. “She hasn’t been in any of the hospitals or other medical facilities, no one’s found her, and no one’s reported seeing her. When you told us that bit about having smelled her scent in that alleyway, I sent some people to investigate. The message I got was from them. They didn’t find anything.” “No. No,” Kesi said as she shook her head. Tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes. “She’s not missing, no one’s just found her yet. I need to—” She started to get up from her wheelchair only to be gently pushed back down by Percival. “You need to stay here and rest. You lost a lot of blood and it took quite a bit of persuading just to get Lenio to let you come here in that wheelchair,” he said. “I know that you’re worried—we all are—but one more person searching for her isn’t going to make a difference.” “No, you don’t understand!” Kesi insisted with another shake of her head. At least she didn’t try to get up again. “Catra or I can easily find her! Since Catra’s unconscious and might not be strong enough to walk right away, I’m the one who has to find her and the longer we wait, the harder it’s going to be!” “C’yara, I understand, but why—” Lyra’s eyes widened as she put the pieces together just a fraction of a second before Cyrus and Percival did. “You’ve imprinted on her?” she asked. Kesi squeezed her eyes shut and wiped her tears away before they could fall. “I have,” she answered in a small voice. “It happened a bit over a month ago. We haven’t told anyone yet because Caspin’s birthday was coming up and we didn’t want to create any distractions from it. It’s not like our relationship status could change right away anyway.” “That… certainly changes things,” Cyrus said after a moment. After another moment, he then nodded resolutely and stood up. “I’ll talk to Lenio and then I’ll take you there. The little lion needs us—needs you—and nothing’s going to stop us.” Though it had taken a bit of talking, Cyrus eventually managed to convince Lenio to let him take Kesi out under the condition that she remained in her wheelchair at all times. This was a condition that both of them agreed to even though both of them knew that she’d need to get out and walk on her own for a bit eventually. Of course, Lenio knew exactly why Kesi needed to leave the infirmary early—and thus knew that she was also Adora’s khai’tel—so he no doubt knew this as well. It took longer still to finally wheel Kesi to the alleyway where she had been stabbed. Thanks to all of the bombs that had gone off, a lot of pathways were blocked off and others still weren’t passable with a wheelchair. On more than one occasion, Kesi had become frustrated and suggested that Cyrus simply carry her over the rubble but he had turned her down every time. He understood her frustration and desire but the fact of the matter was that Kesi wasn’t in the greatest of conditions. Though she tried to hide it, Cyrus could tell that even simply sitting up for this long was taxing on her. Eventually, however, they made it to their destination. “Alright, Kesi,” Cyrus began as he locked the wheels of her wheelchair, “let your magic imprint bullshit do its thing and find our Little Lion.” With a grunt of effort, Kesi pushed herself to her feet. She staggered as she stood up and Cyrus almost reached out to catch her but she got her balance before he needed to. She took a few deep breaths before closing her eyes and slowly walking forward. Cyrus watched with rapt attention, ready to dash to her side and catch her at any moment or follow her wherever she went. It turned out that he had to do neither of those things, however, as, once she got to the end of the alleyway, Kesi turned around and meandered back. Her eyes were still closed and this didn’t appear to be a conscious action on her part which worried Cyrus more than a little. After three repetitions of this, once Kesi’s steps started to become unsteady, Cyrus spoke up. “Kesi, that’s enough.” Kesi turned to face him again, her open eyes brimming with tears. “I-I don’t get it,” she said, her voice breaking in the middle. “Everything in me is telling me that this is where she’s s-supposed to be b-but sh-she’s not here.” Her tears started to flow freely. “H-Her scent is th-the strongest here b-but it doesn’t go a-anywhere it just— it just e-ends here and I don’t know why.” Cyrus frowned as he slowly walked towards Kesi, his hands held out in a placating gesture as he tried his best to not agitate her clearly fragile state any more than he was about to. “Kesi, if your imprint isn’t leading you to her and her scent doesn’t go anywhere then there’s only one possible answer: she was teleported somewhere,” he said in as gentle of a voice as he could. Kesi slowly shook her head as her tears fell faster even as her ears pinned back and despair started to fill her eyes. She weakly tried to grab her lashing tail but gave up after a few attempts. “N-No, th-that can’t be— No. N-No. Sh-she h-has to be a-around h-here s-somewhere and I-I just—” Kesi’s words were cut off by a sob, her hands shooting up to cover her mouth. Cyrus gingerly pulled her into a hug and started softly purring to try and soothe her, even as he squeezed his own eyes shut tight to try and stop his own tears. “Let it out, Kesi. Let it out,” he said softly, using his iron self-control to keep his voice calm and steady. Those words seemed to break what little restraint that Kesi had left. She threw her arms around Cyrus and buried her face into his shoulder as she started wailing. Her entire body was trembling so fiercely that Cyrus was having to hold her up and her heartbroken sobs tore through his own heart like jagged claws. Kesi was always such a bright, happy person. To see her bereft like this was just… wrong on a level that Cyrus had difficulty explaining. And he was going to have to do this again with C’yara. Cyrus held Kesi close as he kept up his purring while gently stroking her mane. He wasn’t the most qualified person to do this—Lyra would have been better given her experience with this exact same situation—but he was the only one here. He just hoped that his experience comforting crying children would be good enough. Cyrus wasn’t sure how long he held Kesi as she sobbed into his shoulder, her tears soaking through his shirt and into his fur, but he didn’t care. He would stand right there all day if he had to. Eventually, Kesi’s sobs turns into whimpering and heartbroken mewling as her own purr started up in an effort to self-soothe. It was then that Cyrus’ tablet went off with a call. He was going to ignore it but he saw that it was Cloudfoot calling. He pulled away from Kesi but kept one hand gripped on her upper arm for emotional support as he answered the call. “You better have a—” Cyrus cut his words off when he saw the older man and how he also showed signs of crying. “Cloudfoot, what is it?” he asked, even as dread started to fill every fiber of his being. Cloudfoot cleared his throat a few times before saying, “Your Majesty, I’m afraid I have bad news from the interrogations. Adora has been abducted and taken to the Fright Zone.” Hearing that, Kesi fainted, collapsing into Cyrus’ arms.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647131/chapters/197831736	{"authors": ["tp9829", "Zelenal"], "language": "English", "title": "Heroes of Halfmoon"}
Watch Him {Burn} "I can't believe I'm doing this." Merlin sighed, dropping bonelessly onto the sofa cushions littering the patio. "Worth it if it works though!" Gwen smiled brightly, barely looking up from the list of instructions she refused to let him see. It'll spoil the magic of it, she said, when he asked. Repeatedly. And so he'd brought the things she'd told him to, and he'd moved the cushions she'd told him to, and now he was waiting patiently. Like she'd told him to. Repeatedly. "And will it? Work?" Gwen did look up then, flashing him a warm but sympathetic smile. "It worked for me. There's nothing to say it won't work for you." Merlin rolled his eyes. It wasn't that he didn't believe in magic, he himself had... Funny little tricks, as his mother would say. But sticking a load of stuff in your mate's back garden fire pit and whispering to Gods you've never heard of? Seemed a bit daft, even to Merlin. A much better solution would be to just run the blonde idiot over with his car the next time he tried to stalk Merlin home. That would show him. "Okay!" Gwen eventually chirped. "Finally." Merlin muttered, grabbing the bag he'd brought, and shooting her a mildly apologetic smile when she huffed. "So I just throw all this in?" He eyed the new fire crackling to life in the little metal pit, not too sure it was such a good idea to burn rubbish in her garden. Gwen gave an indulgent laugh. "Not quite. First, you show the Gods a photo of him." Merlin fished it from the bag and waved it awkwardly around. Gwen nodded, so that seemed to suffice. "Then you're going to set it on the ground with your herb offering." Merlin hunted out the little bundle of sage, bought for an egregious £3.50 from the little apothecary Gwen had directed him to. Gwen's smile was appreciative. "Nice choice. Protection, banishing negative energy." Merlin flushed. So maybe he'd asked the herbalist what would suit his intentions best. "And you set that on top- yep. And now you declare your intentions. You have to be very clear you want protection from him, not for him to be protected. Have you got the suggestions I gave you?" Merlin pulled the scrap of paper from his pockets. "Hear me," he said, feeling ridiculous, "and hear what I ask of you. Protect me from him and wash away his negativity." He looked to his friend, and she motioned to the fire. Folding the photograph of his ex around the little twist of sage, he put it carefully into the flames. Part of him wanted to simply toss it, but Gwen looked so serious, so he didn't. It burst into smoky flames quickly, releasing a puff of musky, soothing smoke. Gwen nodded to the bag, so out came the t-shirt, the chewed pencil, and the irritating palm-sized penguin teddy. Gwen produced the intimidating pruning shears, and Merlin hacked away at the cotton, and had to admit he was already starting to feel better. She helped him feed the tatters of shirt into the hungry fire pit, and he dropped the pencil in with a grim smile. The penguin, poor thing, he slashed to ribbons, and they had to chase wads of stuffing around the garden when the breeze danced away with them. They collapsed, laughing, when it was done, and Merlin felt like a real weight had been taken from his shoulders. He helped Gwen feed tributes in afterwards, petals from pretty flowers and a handful of salts that sparked loud blue and green streaks.Once she concluded that their ritual was complete, she fetched a bottle of merlot and two plastic tumblers, pouring them each a cup. "For the fire?" Merlin asked cheekily, laughing when she rolled her eyes. "This is our tribute to us." she said, and maybe it was all the relief of cutting up his ex's stuff, or maybe her ritual really was magic, but Merlin thought the sentiment was rather fitting. They drank quietly for a moment, and Merlin was just thinking how lucky he was to have a friend like Gwen, and that maybe he should make more of an effort to make it to the coffee date invites she kept extending. (He'd met Morgana, of course, and liked her well enough. She made Gwen disgustingly happy. But he seemed always to be busy right when they invited him for lunch, or too stressed to third-wheel over coffee.) As if summoned, Gwen's doorbell rang. She checked her watch and sighed, and Merlin knew what was coming before she even looked at him. "Are you sure you won't come to dinner?" she tried, sounding just a little bit reproachful, and Merlin bit his lip. "I... It isn't that I don't like her, she seems wonderful." he assured, "I just... Third-wheeling just feels more awkward than funny these days." Gwen's bell went again as she got to her feet, but she looked at him in understanding. "He's really done a number on you." she said softly, heading inside before he could find the words to answer the rawness in that statement. He heard her answer the door, voices coming his way very soon after. He plastered on a smile and sat up as straight as he could on the squishy cushion. No reason to make	Watch Him {Burn} "I can't believe I'm doing this." Merlin sighed, dropping bonelessly onto the sofa cushions littering the patio. "Worth it if it works though!" Gwen smiled brightly, barely looking up from the list of instructions she refused to let him see. It'll spoil the magic of it, she said, when he asked. Repeatedly. And so he'd brought the things she'd told him to, and he'd moved the cushions she'd told him to, and now he was waiting patiently. Like she'd told him to. Repeatedly. "And will it? Work?" Gwen did look up then, flashing him a warm but sympathetic smile. "It worked for me. There's nothing to say it won't work for you." Merlin rolled his eyes. It wasn't that he didn't believe in magic, he himself had... Funny little tricks, as his mother would say. But sticking a load of stuff in your mate's back garden fire pit and whispering to Gods you've never heard of? Seemed a bit daft, even to Merlin. A much better solution would be to just run the blonde idiot over with his car the next time he tried to stalk Merlin home. That would show him. "Okay!" Gwen eventually chirped. "Finally." Merlin muttered, grabbing the bag he'd brought, and shooting her a mildly apologetic smile when she huffed. "So I just throw all this in?" He eyed the new fire crackling to life in the little metal pit, not too sure it was such a good idea to burn rubbish in her garden. Gwen gave an indulgent laugh. "Not quite. First, you show the Gods a photo of him." Merlin fished it from the bag and waved it awkwardly around. Gwen nodded, so that seemed to suffice. "Then you're going to set it on the ground with your herb offering." Merlin hunted out the little bundle of sage, bought for an egregious £3.50 from the little apothecary Gwen had directed him to. Gwen's smile was appreciative. "Nice choice. Protection, banishing negative energy." Merlin flushed. So maybe he'd asked the herbalist what would suit his intentions best. "And you set that on top- yep. And now you declare your intentions. You have to be very clear you want protection from him, not for him to be protected. Have you got the suggestions I gave you?" Merlin pulled the scrap of paper from his pockets. "Hear me," he said, feeling ridiculous, "and hear what I ask of you. Protect me from him and wash away his negativity." He looked to his friend, and she motioned to the fire. Folding the photograph of his ex around the little twist of sage, he put it carefully into the flames. Part of him wanted to simply toss it, but Gwen looked so serious, so he didn't. It burst into smoky flames quickly, releasing a puff of musky, soothing smoke. Gwen nodded to the bag, so out came the t-shirt, the chewed pencil, and the irritating palm-sized penguin teddy. Gwen produced the intimidating pruning shears, and Merlin hacked away at the cotton, and had to admit he was already starting to feel better. She helped him feed the tatters of shirt into the hungry fire pit, and he dropped the pencil in with a grim smile. The penguin, poor thing, he slashed to ribbons, and they had to chase wads of stuffing around the garden when the breeze danced away with them. They collapsed, laughing, when it was done, and Merlin felt like a real weight had been taken from his shoulders. He helped Gwen feed tributes in afterwards, petals from pretty flowers and a handful of salts that sparked loud blue and green streaks.Once she concluded that their ritual was complete, she fetched a bottle of merlot and two plastic tumblers, pouring them each a cup. "For the fire?" Merlin asked cheekily, laughing when she rolled her eyes. "This is our tribute to us." she said, and maybe it was all the relief of cutting up his ex's stuff, or maybe her ritual really was magic, but Merlin thought the sentiment was rather fitting. They drank quietly for a moment, and Merlin was just thinking how lucky he was to have a friend like Gwen, and that maybe he should make more of an effort to make it to the coffee date invites she kept extending. (He'd met Morgana, of course, and liked her well enough. She made Gwen disgustingly happy. But he seemed always to be busy right when they invited him for lunch, or too stressed to third-wheel over coffee.) As if summoned, Gwen's doorbell rang. She checked her watch and sighed, and Merlin knew what was coming before she even looked at him. "Are you sure you won't come to dinner?" she tried, sounding just a little bit reproachful, and Merlin bit his lip. "I... It isn't that I don't like her, she seems wonderful." he assured, "I just... Third-wheeling just feels more awkward than funny these days." Gwen's bell went again as she got to her feet, but she looked at him in understanding. "He's really done a number on you." she said softly, heading inside before he could find the words to answer the rawness in that statement. He heard her answer the door, voices coming his way very soon after. He plastered on a smile and sat up as straight as he could on the squishy cushion. No reason to make Morgana feel like she'd interrupted anything. Gwen's face beamed, as it always did when the topic of her girlfriend came up, and she grinned widely at Merlin as she was followed onto the patio with not one, but two others. Morgana, of course, in a pretty dress that looked expensive, even the simple cut of it looking classy on her frame. Behind Morgana strode a tall, very fit, very blonde man. Merlin's stomach clenched for just a heartbeat as he saw his hair first, before the unfamiliar face settled the spike of adrenaline. "Merlin!" Gwen gushed, gesturing to the stranger, "You have to come now, no third-wheeling necessary!" Merlin simply blinked, and decided not to mention that double dates were worse. "This is Arthur," Morgana supplied with a strange little smirk, "my baby brother." The blonde rolled his eyes and offered a hand down to Merlin, who very nearly thought he was going to be pulled up before realizing it was a handshake. "I'm hardly the baby brother. There's a year between us." Merlin snorted at the aggravated notes in the man's tone, and simply smiled innocently when blue eyes shot a glare his way. Really," said Gwen, and Merlin knew that tone, that coaxing, secret plans tone, "you'd be saving Arthur from third-wheeling, if you came." "Quite the noble act." her girlfriend added, and it was uncanny how closely matched their little smirky smiles were. He looked to Arthur, wondering if he too was in on this. The last thing he needed was some guy who thought he needed saving from a crazy ex, or worse- one who believed he was perfect blind date material. The bloke had a really nice pair of jeans and button down on. Merlin smiled apologetically. "I'm really not dressed for um. Going out somewhere nice. But you three have fun." Gwen tutted and grabbed his arm to haul him to his feet without a smidge of sympathy. Gods, he'd forgotten how mean Morgana could make her. Pushy, pushy. "You don't even own nice place clothes, Merlin. Just come with what you've on." And maybe it was the dig at his wardrobe that did it, or the matching derisive snorts from the siblings, but Merlin's cheeks burned and his mouth clicked closed on further arguments. Until blue eyes met his again, and he realized that actually, he did need more excuses. Morgana's brother was incredibly pretty, in a prattish sort of way. "I haven't even finished my wine!" he cried weakly, and in response, Gwen just scowled, grabbed it from his hand and thrust it at Morgana. And Morgana, the bitch, drained it in two seconds flat and smiled viperishly at him. He sighed. "Fine, fine, whatever." Pleased, Gwen popped up on her toes to press a kiss against his cheek, and whirled, all smiles, to take Morgana's hand and lead them back out through the house. Merlin trailed behind the couple on the walk to Gwen's favourite restaurant, staring at his shoes and listening to their chatter. The itch to look behind him, to watch out for that telltale head of wavy blonde hair, was too tempting if he looked anywhere else. "You know, if you're going to be a wet rag the whole time, you could have said no." Merlin snorted. "To Gwen? Have you met Gwen?" Merlin gave an exaggerated shudder. "Doesn't bear thinking about." The blonde, Arthur, was quiet for a moment. Merlin resisted the urge to look up. "Morgana's like that." he said eventually, and Merlin did look up, just a peek, to see him staring at the back of his sister's head. He really was pretty. Toned and well-muscled, of course, but... Pretty, too. And his hair was short, and straight, and definitely not full of wide, round curls. And his face was kind of regal, in a way, aquiline. And eyes such a nice shade of blue. Merlin looked back at his shoes. He almost, almost wished he did own nice clothes. Not to impress, or anything. Just to look a little less.. well. Less like he belonged in some dingy bar rather than with these three very pretty people. "Are you... Alright?" Merlin looked up properly then, and gave a weak, self-deprecating grin. "I... Will be. You uhm, " he braved, so as to not look like a totally antisocial prick, "caught us at the end of a... Banishing ritual." He glanced away, pretending to look in a shop window just so he could avoid seeing whatever strange expression Arthur was wearing. "A banishing ritual." Gods, he even sounded cute, when he was confused. "Yeah," Merlin cringed. "To uhm. Well it doesn't matter. Bit of stress-relief, is all." Arthur hummed. Merlin relaxed a touch. "So..." Too soon, it seemed. "You were banishing... An ex?" Merlin laughed in surprise. "You're familiar?" He watched a faint pink cross over the blonde's nose. "Well, I know about them. Morgana's been into that sh- stuff for years." Merlin grinned. "It's daft, but. I dunno. Made me feel a bit better, burning the shit left over at mine." Arthur's eyes glittered like periwinkle when he scrunched his nose and laughed with him. "So bad breakup?" Merlin shook his head. "No, actually. At the time, it was pretty amicable." "So the banishing..." Arthur said slowly. "Well few weeks after it happened I started feeling... Watched. Like, dumb stuff, but I got this itching in the back of my neck. Next thing you know, bam. I'm being stalked." Arthur blinked at him. "So your ex is..." "Crazy, yep. Batshit. Shows up at my work, leaves presents, follows me sometimes if I'm out in town getting coffee or something. I moved, but. Now I have to be careful I don't get followed home." Arthur's brow furrowed. "And you haven't reported her?" Merlin winced, shook his head. "You should, y'know. I have a mate who's police. He could help." Merlin grimaced. "I don't think it'd help, honestly. He knows exactly how to toe the line, so there's not much they could do." "Oh." Merlin tried not to worry if the soft, surprised little word of understanding was just because of his rebuttal, or whether he'd caught the correction and didn't like the revelation. Or did like it. They said nothing else until they reached the restaurant, seated in a nice, plush booth by the window. Arthur politely let Merlin in first, and he didn't have the heart to point out he'd rather stay away from windows. They chatted about the menu, Gwen suggesting things, and pointing out which things arrived differently from the expectation they might have from the descriptions. And honestly, it really was quite nice. Morgana was, as Merlin had suspected, quite pleasant. Sharp tongued and quick with barbs, but very sweet, too. And Arthur wasfunny,and he played very exasperated with Merlin's own humour, but he seemed amused with it anyway. They stayed for well over an hour, and had dessert and coffees too, so it was getting dark by the time they'd all bickered over the bill and who would be paying it and why the rest didn't have to pay them back. It had been really pleasant, all in all, and a lot less awkward than Merlin had expected. The Pendragons were good company. Merlin teased Gwen relentlessly about probably marrying into such a good family, and Gwen had bantered back that if the day ever came, would he be their flower girl. It was only when they were leaving that things took a turn. As soon as they were on the street, and their laughter was waning, Merlin's skin started to itch. He tried not to, but he couldn't stop himself from glancing round. And there, across the road, slightly behind level with them, was Mordred, with his stupid blonde dye job and his dead eyes. Merlin whipped his head back round, and it seemed his unease had been noticed. "Merlin?" Gwen asked, reaching for his arm, but Arthur's head was already up, and his face was turned away. "The blonde? In the green hoody?" "It's my hoody." Merlin mumbled, nausea lunging around his stomach, "My bloody hoody." Morgana was looking too, and any hope Merlin had had of pretending he didn't see his ex was pointless. "Let's just go." Gwen said firmly, fingers rubbing soothing sweeps on the inside of Merlin's arm. "Arthur." said Morgana, with a strange note in her voice, and Merlin grabbed for him in futility, because the idiot was already crossing the road. And naturally, the idiocy must be genetic, because Morgana was right behind. Gwen squeezed Merlin's hand, as they stood helplessly and watched. Merlin held his breath, Mordred's explosive temper at the forefront of his mind, but from where they were standing, it looked like a simple conversation. Arthur's head low and his eyes dark, Morgan's smile showing slightly too many teeth. Incredibly, Mordred seemed to listen, glancing over at Merlin with an unreadable expression, before ducking his head and pulling off his purloined hoody and holding it out to Arthur. Arthur snatched it, said something else - to which Mordred merely nodded - and then just like that, he and Morgana were heading back towards them as if nothing had happened. "What-" "Your hoody back." Arthur said, as if it was obvious, "He'll leave you alone." And while Merlin didn't really believe that, he was still grateful. "You didn't have to do that." he said, taking the jumper and meeting Arthur's eyes, "But thank you." Arthur shrugged, and then started walking, as if nothing else needed saying. Merlin's feet carried him after him in a bit of a daze. "What did he say? What did you say?" he heard from just behind him, as he stared at the back of Arthur's head and wondered, uncertainly. "Told him to leave his boyfriend alone, or he'd make him regret it." Morgana said pleasantly, as if talking about the weather. Merlin's ears burned. "And you?" Gwen giggled. "Told him if I ever saw him again I'd be the perfect accomplice, what with who my father is, and everything." "Your father?" Merlin hadn't meant to ask, snapping back to himself when he did. Morgana's grin was wide and dangerous looking. "Best lawyer in the country. Or, at least, he employs the best lawyers in the country. And several would be very keen to work pro-bono on a queer stalking case." At Merlin's wide-eyed expression, she softened a little. "There are a few queer folks on staff. And I'm not above taking your case myself, although..." her gaze flickered off to the man just ahead of them, "Arthur never does take well to people who harass our kind either." Merlin felt his face heat, and he glanced at Arthur's broad back, curious as all Hell whether she'd implied what he thought she had. Well, he'd embarrassed himself enough already with a stalker ex, might as well go all in. "And Arthur..." "Oh, gay as they come." Smirked Morgana, mouth curling at Gwen's stifled giggles. "Oh." "And very available." "Oh. Well. Okay then. That's. Yep. Good to know." He picked up his pace a little, ignoring the cackling behind him as he caught up. Arthur's face was dark and moody, but it cleared when Merlin stepped up beside him. "Hey." Merlin smiled. "Hi." Arthur smiled back at him. "I'd wash that, first thing, by the way." Arthur's mouth teased up at one side, his eyes so blue and lovely when he glanced back at Merlin. "What?" Arthur chuckled. "Your hoody. His choice of cologne is... Interesting." Merlin made a face. "Oh, yeah, double cycle for sure. Took me weeks to get the smell out of my living room." Arthur grinned properly then, and Merlin noticed he had rather charming, ever-so-slightly-crooked teeth. Merlin owed Gwen a really nice box of chocolates, for dragging him out to dinner. They exchanged numbers later, sprawled together on Gwen's couch with some terrible movie playing, while they both sat with red faces and pretended they absolutely could not see or hear the girls sucking face in the kitchen under the guise of getting more wine. Lying in his own bed later, exchanging ridiculous, silly, and fresh new maybe-ship texts with Arthur, Merlin closed his eyes and took a breath. "Thank you." he said to the empty room, feeling slightly less ridiculous than he had in Gwen's back garden, "Thank you for hearing me." Maybe burning rubbish in your mate's back garden fire pit wasn't quite as daft as he'd thought.	ao3_english	2025-12-13T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647231	{"authors": ["MiaGhost"], "language": "English", "title": "Watch Him {Burn}"}
Black Calla Lilies “I want to feel pain” Pain. Pain comes in a lot of ways, psychologically, physically, emotionally. There’s no need for so many words, it could all blur into one. When does it start becoming painful? Who decides that? What makes something ‘painful’ as how they say? Does God decide that? Does the man? Whichever one does, he’s learnt that pain can only cause suffering. “Are you sure about this?” But does it? Only suffering? Could any person have ever found it anything but suffering. Could it be him that has found it gratifying. Such was the need of finding out that he’s now almost begging for it at someone’s feet. “I trust you enough to ask you to hurt me.” Everything started around five hours ago. Takahiro Moriuchi —main vocalist, main composer, frontman and producer of their band ONE OK ROCK— decided to “Wrap their rehearsal up” half an hour earlier tonight, even when they had just agreed on performing in a small avenue in front of two-hundred-and-something people. The owner and organizer of said show was one of his and Takahiro’s closest friend, meanwhile Toru Yamashita —main guitarist, backing vocals, main composer and producer of already mentioned band— have met her during his high school days. Takahiro laughed loudly the second he told him about this girl asking them for a show. “Isn’t this girl the one who brought us together? Your ex girlfriend?” Takahiro knew about this girl because she was interested in Toru. “We never date.” He made sure his friend knew the truth. With a wide and arrogant smile, Taka just said “Right.” He left his guitar on its case to close it slowly, enjoying the sound of the zipper. He gave a quick glance back at the low-end duo. The drummer as loudly and enthusiastic as his representative instrument, balancing the calm and steadiness of the bassist next to him. Tomoya Kanki and Ryota Kohama respectively. Tomoya —‘Tomoya-san’ as he calls him— took out his newly bought menthol flavor vape. Inviting the man in front of him a little. Toru wasn’t into it, not at all, he tried some back then when Tomoya-san came to the rehearsal for first time with this new electronic device, he said it was to leave their old favorite cigarettes and to get rid of the smell that used to fill their rehearsal studio every single day. It was “a pain in his ass” to walk outside every time he needed a quick smoke, then to turn it off and ditch such a precious cig after taking two recharging drags. But Toru could never badmouth his precious cigarettes, the second he had the urge to smoke after witnessing the drummer taking out the flavored air in the other man’s face, he quickly turned to take his lighter and Marlboro Premium box of tobacco with him and to go outside. “Hey,” Taka knows he is talking to him. “You coming?” He walked out the door without checking whether the smaller man was following or not. Leaving the door opened on purpose for Taka to follow him, a second later it closed itself, well, the vocalist did. The cold air of the hallway already had an effect on him before the cigarette did its thing, almost like a feeling of how he will feel once he ingests that so soothing smoke. Then it was replaced by the calm of the natural air outside the building, it took him a bit to get used to the lack of artificial taste the wind had that the air conditioner was full of. He placed his elbows at the balcony railing, waiting for his friend to join him and see the view he’s peacefully staring at. “Hey,” Taka said behind him. Toru didn’t even bother to look at him until he felt a familiar weight against his back. Where the heat was spreading all around his body. “I’m quitting cigarettes.” He wanted to ask “Why?” The sudden feeling in his chest, causing him to think his friend is also ditching these little moments they have whenever after a rehearsal they need to share some toxic thoughts. Instead he let out a “I’m glad, that’ll be good for your voice.” “Don’t you wanna know why?” Yeah, Taka knows him. He knows him deeply inside and outside. Right and front. Everything about him, Takahiro knows it. The vocalist goes on telling everyone how easy Toru can read him, but he never stopped to think how wrong he was and how upside down is the truth. He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to, he just waited, waited until Taka himself told him. “It hurts my throat. And it really hurts, I hate pain.” Pain. “Don’t you feel it hurting your throat too, Toru-san?” Is it painful? Smoking. Is it, really? “Even if it does, I don’t mind.” Taka chuckled at that, right against his back. Pushing forward his face even more that Toru could trace the length that smiley mouth had. “That’s so you.” He said right before shifting his position to join the guitarist at the railing. “I do mind. If I take too much cigarettes, it hurts to sing at the next day… Also,” Toru looked at him for first time, the tone Taka used felt like going in a new direction. “I started a new medication and drinking, smoking and meds aren’t	Black Calla Lilies “I want to feel pain” Pain. Pain comes in a lot of ways, psychologically, physically, emotionally. There’s no need for so many words, it could all blur into one. When does it start becoming painful? Who decides that? What makes something ‘painful’ as how they say? Does God decide that? Does the man? Whichever one does, he’s learnt that pain can only cause suffering. “Are you sure about this?” But does it? Only suffering? Could any person have ever found it anything but suffering. Could it be him that has found it gratifying. Such was the need of finding out that he’s now almost begging for it at someone’s feet. “I trust you enough to ask you to hurt me.” Everything started around five hours ago. Takahiro Moriuchi —main vocalist, main composer, frontman and producer of their band ONE OK ROCK— decided to “Wrap their rehearsal up” half an hour earlier tonight, even when they had just agreed on performing in a small avenue in front of two-hundred-and-something people. The owner and organizer of said show was one of his and Takahiro’s closest friend, meanwhile Toru Yamashita —main guitarist, backing vocals, main composer and producer of already mentioned band— have met her during his high school days. Takahiro laughed loudly the second he told him about this girl asking them for a show. “Isn’t this girl the one who brought us together? Your ex girlfriend?” Takahiro knew about this girl because she was interested in Toru. “We never date.” He made sure his friend knew the truth. With a wide and arrogant smile, Taka just said “Right.” He left his guitar on its case to close it slowly, enjoying the sound of the zipper. He gave a quick glance back at the low-end duo. The drummer as loudly and enthusiastic as his representative instrument, balancing the calm and steadiness of the bassist next to him. Tomoya Kanki and Ryota Kohama respectively. Tomoya —‘Tomoya-san’ as he calls him— took out his newly bought menthol flavor vape. Inviting the man in front of him a little. Toru wasn’t into it, not at all, he tried some back then when Tomoya-san came to the rehearsal for first time with this new electronic device, he said it was to leave their old favorite cigarettes and to get rid of the smell that used to fill their rehearsal studio every single day. It was “a pain in his ass” to walk outside every time he needed a quick smoke, then to turn it off and ditch such a precious cig after taking two recharging drags. But Toru could never badmouth his precious cigarettes, the second he had the urge to smoke after witnessing the drummer taking out the flavored air in the other man’s face, he quickly turned to take his lighter and Marlboro Premium box of tobacco with him and to go outside. “Hey,” Taka knows he is talking to him. “You coming?” He walked out the door without checking whether the smaller man was following or not. Leaving the door opened on purpose for Taka to follow him, a second later it closed itself, well, the vocalist did. The cold air of the hallway already had an effect on him before the cigarette did its thing, almost like a feeling of how he will feel once he ingests that so soothing smoke. Then it was replaced by the calm of the natural air outside the building, it took him a bit to get used to the lack of artificial taste the wind had that the air conditioner was full of. He placed his elbows at the balcony railing, waiting for his friend to join him and see the view he’s peacefully staring at. “Hey,” Taka said behind him. Toru didn’t even bother to look at him until he felt a familiar weight against his back. Where the heat was spreading all around his body. “I’m quitting cigarettes.” He wanted to ask “Why?” The sudden feeling in his chest, causing him to think his friend is also ditching these little moments they have whenever after a rehearsal they need to share some toxic thoughts. Instead he let out a “I’m glad, that’ll be good for your voice.” “Don’t you wanna know why?” Yeah, Taka knows him. He knows him deeply inside and outside. Right and front. Everything about him, Takahiro knows it. The vocalist goes on telling everyone how easy Toru can read him, but he never stopped to think how wrong he was and how upside down is the truth. He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to, he just waited, waited until Taka himself told him. “It hurts my throat. And it really hurts, I hate pain.” Pain. “Don’t you feel it hurting your throat too, Toru-san?” Is it painful? Smoking. Is it, really? “Even if it does, I don’t mind.” Taka chuckled at that, right against his back. Pushing forward his face even more that Toru could trace the length that smiley mouth had. “That’s so you.” He said right before shifting his position to join the guitarist at the railing. “I do mind. If I take too much cigarettes, it hurts to sing at the next day… Also,” Toru looked at him for first time, the tone Taka used felt like going in a new direction. “I started a new medication and drinking, smoking and meds aren’t compatible anymore.” “Which medication?” “For my anxiety disorder. Recently I’m having a lot of panic attacks I started therapy.” But even when Taka claimed that was him who knew Taka the best, there was certainly a lot of things he often would let Toru out of. For example, Takahiro’s mental health. Which was the deepest part of him. And that, that hurt. He would never say it out loud but, Taka brought him both pain and relief equally. “How’s everything going?” He decided to take his box out of his pocket, glancing over as if to asking if he was allowed to smoke in front of the man who just told him he wasn’t having any of that. Taka smiled, squeezing his eyes softly as to encouraging him to smoke. “Therapy?” Taka asked back. “Good. Great, even. It has helped me a lot these past weeks.” He mumbled, choosing the perfect tabaco stick to take. At the same time, taking a deep breath preparing himself to inhale the nicotine. He glanced over the view of the balcony again, it seemed like it wanted to rain. He brought the cigarette to his lips, holding it some seconds while looking for his personalized lighter. “It’ll rain,” Taka said softly, commenting unconsciously; that’s what Toru thought. “I saw it on TV.” “You don’t own a TV,” Toru licked the butt of the not yet lit cig, tasting its future flavor. The man next to him chuckled softly, almost like it was just a bit of breath leaving his nose. “I meant the TV at our rehearsal studio,” Just like that, he was now breathing it, both the toxic air and Taka’s words. Toru stared at the white smoke disappearing in front of them, leaving ‘painfully’ his throat. “You know…” The cigarette placed between his fingers, resting shyly against the railing. “It does hurt.” “What? Smoking?” He nodded, feeling the other’s confused expression. “But I kinda like it.” That half confession had some undertones Toru wasn’t ready to accept. What did he precisely ‘like’? Smoking or the pain that it caused in his mouth? Would that apply to everything else including his relationship with other people? Or maybe his work? There was a lot of doubts spinning around his head. If he was a bit smarter, he could’ve had a closer idea of what all of this actually meant. But he didn’t need to think about all those questions right now. Not when the weather was so calming and the three and a half cigarettes he got were already working on him. Taka hated pain. He knew it. It also made him feel like he needed a deeper explanation to understand why then he kept that amount of ink in his skin, showing it proudly to the world as if to say ‘I endured this pain to have them. I am strong enough.’ And yet Toru felt like he got it completely, Taka doesn’t like pain, he likes the feeling of being able to take it. He got his ears pierced by the vocalist during their eighteens. One day he asked where Takahiro got them and he said “I got them myself!” with the joy and pride of a little kid who has just finished his first homework assignment without his parents’ help. The memory ended with some cute words that to this day he still remembered. “Do you want some?” Late night at the younger’s cheap apartment, Ryota and him just took separate ways and found their own place each one. First house Toru had for himself without his childhood friend’s energy around. Taka asked him if then they could share for some days until he could find one of his own. Toru gladly accepted. The beer spread all over the floor, a single table in the middle of Toru’s living room, tall enough just for your legs to fit underneath; Taka pushed it away so he could kneel in front of Toru, whose legs and arms were crossed as if that was his way to fight his nervousness. The boy smiled, with his personal piercing gun. The guitarist felt like he was about to get killed with that. “Relax, it will not hurt.” He said. “How many do you want?” “Just one,” He replied. Seeing how the other was about to burst into laughter, just stopped by the cigarette in his mouth. “That’s for pussies. Don’t you want two, at least? Like me.” “Then three.” Taka smiled widely, all his teeth shining bright as the smoke was coming to his face. “Got it, sir.” Takahiro placed his own cigarette into his mouth, it felt a bit of intimate but at that moment it was more like Taka pitying his bitchy side. With his right hand he took the cigarette about to exhale the smoke but the vocalist spoke again. “Take another one, you’ll need it.” So he did. As he always does what Taka says. And then it came, the first one. It hurt so much he wanted to move away but the other hold him tightly down to the ground. “Don’t move.” He ordered and Toru stood still. Then he went for the other ear, Toru waited for the pain to arrive. And when it did he fought his eyes not to close, seeing directly as the young vocalist was holding his hand tightly and laughing at him. His eyes were so full of joy Toru felt like he was using this as an excuse for punishment. “Are you a sadist?” Toru fought his tears in. Taka’s smile grew wider. “No.”	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647136/chapters/197831746	{"authors": ["pain_angustia"], "language": "English", "title": "Black Calla Lilies"}
Stuck in the DisneyVerse It was a rainy morning in the city of Chesapeake. It was around 6:30, and Wendi Davis happily watched it from her bedroom window. She has been awake since 5 am, since it's the time she always wakes up. It wasn't raining too hard, but it was hard enough to fall asleep too. Wendi loved the rain, as well as water in general! Same with her mother, Lilly Davis. Lilly Davis was a very famous actress. She was very kind, and loved her job. She also loved Wendi more than anything. Wendi and Lilly were more like best friends than mother-daughter. "Wendi, are you ready to go?" Asked a male voice. A pink haired doll with a white scarf and black vest stood on her bed. "Oh, yeah! I'm coming Natsu!" Wendi said with a smile. Natsu, along with Wendi's other toys from the anime Fairytail, were somehow alive. It's unknown how they came to life, but it was sometime after Christmas. Natsu is Wendi's favorite toy. Normally if it's from Fairytail, Wendi doesn't have a favorite thing. But the reason why Natsu is Wendi's favorite toy is because he goes everywhere with her. The rest of the toys barely leave the bedroom. Natsu is kind of like a fatherly/best friend figure to Wendi. Wendi's father died before she was born, so she never knew him. In fact, she rarely knew anything about him! The only thing she knew is that he had a very tough job. She didn't know what it was. But she also knew that her father was very kind, and loved her and Lilly so much. Wendi, along with her best friend Jason, is the only one who knows her toys are alive. Nobody else knows, and they would prefer it like that. Wendi was already dressed for the day in her normal white t-shirt with jean shorts. Her long, brown hair was in twin braids as always. "Let's go see Jason!" Wendi said. She picked up Natsu and her backpack, placed him into the backpack without closing it, and running out the door. "Morning Mommy!" She said before sliding down the stair handle. A picture of Lilly. She wasn't hungry, so she decided to skip breakfast for the day. "Are you sure you don't wanna eat?" Natsu asked, peeking his head out of her backpack. Wendi looked over at him. "Yeah, I'm sure." Natsu just shrugged. He would insist on her eating something first, but he had a feeling she would eat later today. Wendi then walked out of the house, not grabbing her umbrella. She didn't mind being wet. Natsu, on the other hand, disliked being wet so he just went back into Wendi's backpack, closing it a little. Wendi looked around. Her house was pretty big. It was three stories high. Technically four stories since there's a basement, but not a lot of people know about the basement so they consider it to be 3 stories. Across from Wendi's house was a light blue two story house. A little boy Wendi's age lived there. His name was Jason, and he and Wendi were extremely close friends. They did everything together, and were considered twins since they were very similar, in looks and in personality. The twins were even born two minutes apart, and they weren't even biological! Jason had an older sister named Samantha. She was 17, and she honestly thought Wendi was a little annoying. Same with their parents. But, they still helped take care of her and allowed her to play with Jason. Wendi noticed that Jason's parents and Samantha were packing their van. She tilted her head. She then saw Jason playing with his toys in the driveway. Normally he would be playing in the grass, but it was wet and he didn't wanna get his clothes wet. Wendi smiled and waved to her best friend. She would usually greet him by pouncing on him, but she couldn't now since he's on the driveway. "Jason!" She then called out. Jason looked up and smiled. "Hi Wendi!" She said. The two friends ran up to eachother and hugged. "Where are you going? I saw your parents and Samantha packing the car." She said. "Oh, we're going to Disney World!' He said. Wendi smiled a bit. She never watched Disney movies before, but she was pretty interested in them. "That sounds like so much fun! Can I come?" She asks. Jason was about to say something, but Samantha interrupted. "Sorry, kiddo, we only have room for just the four of us." She said. The twins frowned. "But we can ask mommy and daddy if they can add one more person, right? Wendi's rich so she can help pay for it.." Jason said. "Sorry, but they don't really want her to come." Samantha said. Jason sighed. "I'm sorry Wendi.. I really wanted you to come. It's supposed to be really fun!" He said. "It's fine. I'll be alright! I was actually gonna start watching some Disney movies this week!" She said. "That's so cool! Which one are you gonna watch?" Jason asks. "I think it's called Encanto.." she said. "Ooh! That one is great! It's one of my favorites." Jason said. Wendi smiled. She was excited for this. She wondered why she never even watched them. Maybe it's because she watched Fairytail her whole life, she's never had any time to watch Disney. Jason's father walked up to	Stuck in the DisneyVerse It was a rainy morning in the city of Chesapeake. It was around 6:30, and Wendi Davis happily watched it from her bedroom window. She has been awake since 5 am, since it's the time she always wakes up. It wasn't raining too hard, but it was hard enough to fall asleep too. Wendi loved the rain, as well as water in general! Same with her mother, Lilly Davis. Lilly Davis was a very famous actress. She was very kind, and loved her job. She also loved Wendi more than anything. Wendi and Lilly were more like best friends than mother-daughter. "Wendi, are you ready to go?" Asked a male voice. A pink haired doll with a white scarf and black vest stood on her bed. "Oh, yeah! I'm coming Natsu!" Wendi said with a smile. Natsu, along with Wendi's other toys from the anime Fairytail, were somehow alive. It's unknown how they came to life, but it was sometime after Christmas. Natsu is Wendi's favorite toy. Normally if it's from Fairytail, Wendi doesn't have a favorite thing. But the reason why Natsu is Wendi's favorite toy is because he goes everywhere with her. The rest of the toys barely leave the bedroom. Natsu is kind of like a fatherly/best friend figure to Wendi. Wendi's father died before she was born, so she never knew him. In fact, she rarely knew anything about him! The only thing she knew is that he had a very tough job. She didn't know what it was. But she also knew that her father was very kind, and loved her and Lilly so much. Wendi, along with her best friend Jason, is the only one who knows her toys are alive. Nobody else knows, and they would prefer it like that. Wendi was already dressed for the day in her normal white t-shirt with jean shorts. Her long, brown hair was in twin braids as always. "Let's go see Jason!" Wendi said. She picked up Natsu and her backpack, placed him into the backpack without closing it, and running out the door. "Morning Mommy!" She said before sliding down the stair handle. A picture of Lilly. She wasn't hungry, so she decided to skip breakfast for the day. "Are you sure you don't wanna eat?" Natsu asked, peeking his head out of her backpack. Wendi looked over at him. "Yeah, I'm sure." Natsu just shrugged. He would insist on her eating something first, but he had a feeling she would eat later today. Wendi then walked out of the house, not grabbing her umbrella. She didn't mind being wet. Natsu, on the other hand, disliked being wet so he just went back into Wendi's backpack, closing it a little. Wendi looked around. Her house was pretty big. It was three stories high. Technically four stories since there's a basement, but not a lot of people know about the basement so they consider it to be 3 stories. Across from Wendi's house was a light blue two story house. A little boy Wendi's age lived there. His name was Jason, and he and Wendi were extremely close friends. They did everything together, and were considered twins since they were very similar, in looks and in personality. The twins were even born two minutes apart, and they weren't even biological! Jason had an older sister named Samantha. She was 17, and she honestly thought Wendi was a little annoying. Same with their parents. But, they still helped take care of her and allowed her to play with Jason. Wendi noticed that Jason's parents and Samantha were packing their van. She tilted her head. She then saw Jason playing with his toys in the driveway. Normally he would be playing in the grass, but it was wet and he didn't wanna get his clothes wet. Wendi smiled and waved to her best friend. She would usually greet him by pouncing on him, but she couldn't now since he's on the driveway. "Jason!" She then called out. Jason looked up and smiled. "Hi Wendi!" She said. The two friends ran up to eachother and hugged. "Where are you going? I saw your parents and Samantha packing the car." She said. "Oh, we're going to Disney World!' He said. Wendi smiled a bit. She never watched Disney movies before, but she was pretty interested in them. "That sounds like so much fun! Can I come?" She asks. Jason was about to say something, but Samantha interrupted. "Sorry, kiddo, we only have room for just the four of us." She said. The twins frowned. "But we can ask mommy and daddy if they can add one more person, right? Wendi's rich so she can help pay for it.." Jason said. "Sorry, but they don't really want her to come." Samantha said. Jason sighed. "I'm sorry Wendi.. I really wanted you to come. It's supposed to be really fun!" He said. "It's fine. I'll be alright! I was actually gonna start watching some Disney movies this week!" She said. "That's so cool! Which one are you gonna watch?" Jason asks. "I think it's called Encanto.." she said. "Ooh! That one is great! It's one of my favorites." Jason said. Wendi smiled. She was excited for this. She wondered why she never even watched them. Maybe it's because she watched Fairytail her whole life, she's never had any time to watch Disney. Jason's father walked up to them. "You ready buddy?" He asks, patting Jason's head. "Yeah, I'm ready Dad! Can I say bye to Wendi first?" He asks. "Of course! Hey kid." His father said. "Hi Mr Smith!" Wendi said, waving a bit. She then hugged Jason. "I'm gonna miss you. I'll tell you all about it!" Jason said. Wendi nodded. "Alright. When will you be back?" She asks. "In about a week!" Jason said. Wendi smiled. "Alright. See you in a week." She said. "Bye!" Jason said. He then asked his father if he can carry him. His father nodded and picked him up, playing with him as he carried him to the car. Jason waved to Wendi one last time before going into the car. Wendi's smile slowly disappeared. Not only because her only friend was leaving, but because of the way Jason's father was being towards him. It made her think of Lilly. You see, Lilly unfortunately passed away on December 25th, three years ago. Since then, Wendi has been living alone. She doesn't have any other family, and nobody agreed to take care of her. Wendi misses Lilly so much, and gets a little jealous when she sees others with their parents. She backed up a bit when the car drove out of the driveway. It wasn't long until they started to drive away. 'I'll miss you Jason.." she whispered. Nafsu peeked his head out of the backpack. "Kid? You okay?" He asks. Wendi looked over at him. "I'm gonna miss Jason.." she said, teary eyed. Natsu knew how close the twins were. "I know kid.. it'll be alright though. They'll be back in no time." He said, smiling. Wendi nodded. "Yeah.. plus I have you, right?" She asked. "Of course! I'll never leave your side." Natsu said. Wendi smiled and grabbed Natsu and hugged him. "Let's go to the park. There shouldn't be anyone there right now since it's raining." Natsu said. Wendi smiled and nodded. "Alright." She then began to make her way to the park. Luckily, the park was surrounded by trees so it didn't get wet that easily. The slide was still a little wet, but not that much. Unfortunately, someone who completely hates Wendi was there. When Wendi finally arrived, she giggled and ran to the swings, until she was scared by a 17 year old boy. She screamed and fell to the ground, breathing heavily. The boy laughed at the 11 year old. "You're such a crybaby." He said. Wendi teared up. "C-Connor...."	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75647236?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["JinxiJunni33"], "language": "English", "title": "Stuck in the DisneyVerse"}
ɢᴀɴɢꜱᴛᴀ - (ᴅᴇᴀʟᴇʀʙꜱꜰ!ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ.) Mattheo was an idiot. You knew this. So when you heard the soft patter of rocks on your bedroom window at three in the fucking morning, there was no surprise who it was going to be. Reluctantly, you slipped out of the warmth of your covers, opening your curtain slightly to reveal Mattheo Thomas Riddle in all his bruised and battered glory. He shot you that smile. That shit-eating grin that lets you know you have no choice but to let him in, no matter the time. No matter if you get caught, he doesn't care about that anyway. Of course, he doesn't. You watched him scale up the side of the house to your bedroom, which impressed you. Even for a halfblood house, not like it mattered. It was two stories, and the boy in front of you looked just shy of broken beyond repair. “Mattheo, what the fuck! It's 3 am!" The annoyance in your tone nearly made you want to give in and push him back down to where he came from, but you decided to let the exhaustion take over, watching him fumble to get through the window instead. “oh cmon,” he laughs, the sound softly rumbling through the space. “it’s not like this is the first time it’s happened.” and he was right, this wasn't the first time you'd let him in, and it wasn't going to be the last either. “what’d you do this time, huh?” you question taking in his appearance, the blood streaked across his features was more than enough proof to your already bubbling suspicion. He had most likely gotten into a fight with one of the addicts he was dealing with, it always happened like that. “nothing.” he replied, shrugging off the pain searing through his shoulder.“ fine. Stay here, I'll go get the first aid.” you say after a moment of silence, pushing yourself off the bed and walking to the bathroom. He watches as you walk to the bathroom, a mixture of relief and disappointment on his face. He doesn't protest as you gather the first aid supplies, but you can see the worry in his eyes as he winces in pain while repositioning himself on the bed. “okay, shirt off. let me see.” you instruct, careful not to hurt him as you run your hand gently over his Injured shoulder. He winces again at your touch, but he doesn't protest; he just starts pulling off his shirt slowly and carefully. As he does, you can see the extent of his injuries, the bruises and cuts that decorate his torso. “Jesus, Matt. you didn't say it was this bad..” you shake your head, beginning to patch him up "It's not as bad as it looks," he tries to assure you, but from the look on his face, you can tell he's trying to hide the pain he's feeling, gritting his teeth and gripping your free hand in his own. ”i know it hurts, I'm sorry..” you try to apologize. He nods, his grip on your hand tightening as you continue to tend to his injuries. Despite his attempt to downplay the pain, it's clear that he's struggling. "It's fine.." he grunts, his voice strained. "I've had worse.” You can tell he's trying to appear strong for you, to not show how much it hurts, but the way he's clenching his jaw and the sweat beading on his forehead betray him. “there.” you smile finishing up, “Good as new.” He lets out a sigh of relief, his grip on your hand loosening slightly. He glances down at his newly bandaged shoulder, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Thanks," he says, his voice softer than before. He's still in pain, you can see it in his eyes, but he seems a bit more relaxed now that his injuries are taken care of. but as you left to put the first aid back, he tugged you by the hand you must have forgotten he was holding and pulled you onto his lap. You stumble a bit as he pulls you onto his lap, your body suddenly much closer to his than before. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you in place as he looks up at you with a smirk. His smirk is teasing, almost cocky, as if he knows exactly what effect he's having on you. “Not tonight, riddle. We're both too tired.” You're trying to release yourself. He laughs at your response, his arms tightening around you as he looks up at you with a mock pout. "Come on," he coaxes, his voice taking on a teasing tone. "You can't resist me that easily." You roll your eyes, thinking it's a little amusing that he thought so low of you. “I can, and I will. Now let me go,” you demand, once again, struggling against his grip. “Mattheo.” His smirk fades as he realizes you won't give in to his attempts at persuasion. He loosens his grip on you with a resigned sigh, allowing you to move off his lap. "Fine, fine," he concedes, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "You win this time." But even as you reached the bathroom to put the kit away there, he was again, resting his chin on your shoulder and looking at the both of you in the mirror. He wrapped his arms around your waist again, his chin resting on your shoulder as he met your gaze in the mirror. Despite your earlier protests, you couldn't help but relax into his touch. "You know, you look pretty good	ɢᴀɴɢꜱᴛᴀ - (ᴅᴇᴀʟᴇʀʙꜱꜰ!ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ.) Mattheo was an idiot. You knew this. So when you heard the soft patter of rocks on your bedroom window at three in the fucking morning, there was no surprise who it was going to be. Reluctantly, you slipped out of the warmth of your covers, opening your curtain slightly to reveal Mattheo Thomas Riddle in all his bruised and battered glory. He shot you that smile. That shit-eating grin that lets you know you have no choice but to let him in, no matter the time. No matter if you get caught, he doesn't care about that anyway. Of course, he doesn't. You watched him scale up the side of the house to your bedroom, which impressed you. Even for a halfblood house, not like it mattered. It was two stories, and the boy in front of you looked just shy of broken beyond repair. “Mattheo, what the fuck! It's 3 am!" The annoyance in your tone nearly made you want to give in and push him back down to where he came from, but you decided to let the exhaustion take over, watching him fumble to get through the window instead. “oh cmon,” he laughs, the sound softly rumbling through the space. “it’s not like this is the first time it’s happened.” and he was right, this wasn't the first time you'd let him in, and it wasn't going to be the last either. “what’d you do this time, huh?” you question taking in his appearance, the blood streaked across his features was more than enough proof to your already bubbling suspicion. He had most likely gotten into a fight with one of the addicts he was dealing with, it always happened like that. “nothing.” he replied, shrugging off the pain searing through his shoulder.“ fine. Stay here, I'll go get the first aid.” you say after a moment of silence, pushing yourself off the bed and walking to the bathroom. He watches as you walk to the bathroom, a mixture of relief and disappointment on his face. He doesn't protest as you gather the first aid supplies, but you can see the worry in his eyes as he winces in pain while repositioning himself on the bed. “okay, shirt off. let me see.” you instruct, careful not to hurt him as you run your hand gently over his Injured shoulder. He winces again at your touch, but he doesn't protest; he just starts pulling off his shirt slowly and carefully. As he does, you can see the extent of his injuries, the bruises and cuts that decorate his torso. “Jesus, Matt. you didn't say it was this bad..” you shake your head, beginning to patch him up "It's not as bad as it looks," he tries to assure you, but from the look on his face, you can tell he's trying to hide the pain he's feeling, gritting his teeth and gripping your free hand in his own. ”i know it hurts, I'm sorry..” you try to apologize. He nods, his grip on your hand tightening as you continue to tend to his injuries. Despite his attempt to downplay the pain, it's clear that he's struggling. "It's fine.." he grunts, his voice strained. "I've had worse.” You can tell he's trying to appear strong for you, to not show how much it hurts, but the way he's clenching his jaw and the sweat beading on his forehead betray him. “there.” you smile finishing up, “Good as new.” He lets out a sigh of relief, his grip on your hand loosening slightly. He glances down at his newly bandaged shoulder, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Thanks," he says, his voice softer than before. He's still in pain, you can see it in his eyes, but he seems a bit more relaxed now that his injuries are taken care of. but as you left to put the first aid back, he tugged you by the hand you must have forgotten he was holding and pulled you onto his lap. You stumble a bit as he pulls you onto his lap, your body suddenly much closer to his than before. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you in place as he looks up at you with a smirk. His smirk is teasing, almost cocky, as if he knows exactly what effect he's having on you. “Not tonight, riddle. We're both too tired.” You're trying to release yourself. He laughs at your response, his arms tightening around you as he looks up at you with a mock pout. "Come on," he coaxes, his voice taking on a teasing tone. "You can't resist me that easily." You roll your eyes, thinking it's a little amusing that he thought so low of you. “I can, and I will. Now let me go,” you demand, once again, struggling against his grip. “Mattheo.” His smirk fades as he realizes you won't give in to his attempts at persuasion. He loosens his grip on you with a resigned sigh, allowing you to move off his lap. "Fine, fine," he concedes, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "You win this time." But even as you reached the bathroom to put the kit away there, he was again, resting his chin on your shoulder and looking at the both of you in the mirror. He wrapped his arms around your waist again, his chin resting on your shoulder as he met your gaze in the mirror. Despite your earlier protests, you couldn't help but relax into his touch. "You know, you look pretty good like this," he murmured, his voice soft and low in your ear. If you had half a brain, his tone of voice would have made you melt, but luckily, you had some semblance of self-respect. “Do we, though?” you say, turning to face him.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641626	{"authors": ["miasmalicee"], "language": "English", "title": "ɢᴀɴɢꜱᴛᴀ - (ᴅᴇᴀʟᴇʀʙꜱꜰ!ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ.)"}
Creatures Childhood is a shitty thing for the ones without money. Especially mine, when my biological ‘father’ is a women. Not that I have a problem with lesbians, or my moms. It’s the fact they never told me ‘dad’ wasn’t even my dad! Going to his house after seeing my birth certificate was different, he was, moms were, and most of all I was. There I am sitting at the table line as I eat, suddenly I see a note plastered on the fridge slapped on with an ugly ass turtle magnet I made him when I was like six ‘It’s your fault, Zero.’ If you haven’t guessed, my names zero, N what the fuck did I do to him?! Coming to find out this bitch killed himself right before I got there so that rancid smell from the bathroom wasn’t an overbearing smell of beer.. or maybe it was just not on the floor…Maybe in the blood over the floor. Sitting in the hospital chairs I scrolled my phone watching some shitty video I grew up with. Feeling odd after a sharp rise in my own heartbeat I scurried to the single restroom. Hoping I’m not looking like I got shot in the ass, I got in. And threw down my pants making sure I was clean but paused. What. The. Fuck. Is. That? An odd patch was on my thigh. Kinda like those patters you find in butchery’s like some type of marbled meat. It was white and a kinda red bloody flesh color, huh kinda weird… Looking up symptoms obviously google said I had ‘three minutes’ so, I gave up there. Watching it the hairs over the patch looked the same as the pattern, sighing I tugged my pants and boxers back up adjusting my packer. Hurriedly I washed my hands after hearing banging on the door of some old geezer who didn’t know what the fuck patience was, opening the door small rude murmured words leave my mouth as I eyed, I started to step out of the bathroom and away ‘Fuckin prick.. I feel bad for your wife.’ Walking back to where I sat, my stomach felt heavy like cramps and odd. Dealing with it through the day it was like heaven finally going back with my moms, I didn’t really say anything and I scurried up to my room. Plopping down in my bed, I felt and odd pressure on my skull. Like my head was being torn open from all sides, my brain slowly splitting apart from their place under the weight of my skull. I passed out, waking in the same place I sat up. Rubbing my eyes my vison. Felt off. Have I always been able to see this well..? I got up with a yawn which my jaw felt almost lose as well.. this shit is getting weird. As I left my room to the bathroom I froze. From my forehead, a massive slit started. From my eyebrows and down, small trickles of blood followed down my nose bridge and to my collarbones. I’m starting to question how much this was in the blood world, and why? The cracks of my bones parting and skull rang through my head and throat; My throat choked pained cries like a wire trap sat over my windpipe. The warmth of the blood running down my frontal lobe was disturbing to the eye and my eye sockets seemed to rock back from the pain. (Changing POV) Noticing signs might be the most impactful, Useless Toy. Zero woke in a sharp pant, sweat dripped down his back and he immediately shivered. His large Wiry form screeched loudly about its pain and forced needing heat. He groaned in both pain and frustration of the warmth in waves over his stomach, shifting his skull pressed down and the pressure of the plates and horns hiding into place under his face plates was gorey and horrid. He cried in horror, the pain ransacking his ability of comfort. He was only able half, his head being human but long spiney limbs didn’t change. He curled around a log pushed to a corner, his jaw felt heavy with unfitting teeth and weight of the pain pictured face. Almost like a spy in disguise his face was plated and felt incorrect and not coordinated. Quickly, from behind the mirrored glass Desi wrote watching the pretty little wendigo, his fingers trembled with fascination. The wendigos ears furrowed out in a light twitch, a few little erogenous endured curls sparked out (a curl of hair that if tugged, or touched by someone else can force an immediate orgasm and or reaction). Pleading for attention via the driven heat and the please in begging, which, desi read as the others expression and flushed immediately. Want crawled his spine like burrowing eggs of flies larva to the corpse by their flesh loving parents. He needed to help patient Zero.. After hours while all facilities and workers led to sleep.. Someone lie awake due to the thought Will the wendigo be joyful for help..? CLICK. CLANK CLANK The locks dropped after a muffled stop, desi pushed through the gap of the wall and part of the door shutting it trustfully behind him. Trailing silently, he looked for the horror filled wendigo.. zero had a tolerance to men.. A strong lustful scent musked out the room, and a rough wet like pant started, the beings throat almost seemed full like when a tooth is pulled and blood gushes to fill place. Desi feels a rough set of clawed	Creatures Childhood is a shitty thing for the ones without money. Especially mine, when my biological ‘father’ is a women. Not that I have a problem with lesbians, or my moms. It’s the fact they never told me ‘dad’ wasn’t even my dad! Going to his house after seeing my birth certificate was different, he was, moms were, and most of all I was. There I am sitting at the table line as I eat, suddenly I see a note plastered on the fridge slapped on with an ugly ass turtle magnet I made him when I was like six ‘It’s your fault, Zero.’ If you haven’t guessed, my names zero, N what the fuck did I do to him?! Coming to find out this bitch killed himself right before I got there so that rancid smell from the bathroom wasn’t an overbearing smell of beer.. or maybe it was just not on the floor…Maybe in the blood over the floor. Sitting in the hospital chairs I scrolled my phone watching some shitty video I grew up with. Feeling odd after a sharp rise in my own heartbeat I scurried to the single restroom. Hoping I’m not looking like I got shot in the ass, I got in. And threw down my pants making sure I was clean but paused. What. The. Fuck. Is. That? An odd patch was on my thigh. Kinda like those patters you find in butchery’s like some type of marbled meat. It was white and a kinda red bloody flesh color, huh kinda weird… Looking up symptoms obviously google said I had ‘three minutes’ so, I gave up there. Watching it the hairs over the patch looked the same as the pattern, sighing I tugged my pants and boxers back up adjusting my packer. Hurriedly I washed my hands after hearing banging on the door of some old geezer who didn’t know what the fuck patience was, opening the door small rude murmured words leave my mouth as I eyed, I started to step out of the bathroom and away ‘Fuckin prick.. I feel bad for your wife.’ Walking back to where I sat, my stomach felt heavy like cramps and odd. Dealing with it through the day it was like heaven finally going back with my moms, I didn’t really say anything and I scurried up to my room. Plopping down in my bed, I felt and odd pressure on my skull. Like my head was being torn open from all sides, my brain slowly splitting apart from their place under the weight of my skull. I passed out, waking in the same place I sat up. Rubbing my eyes my vison. Felt off. Have I always been able to see this well..? I got up with a yawn which my jaw felt almost lose as well.. this shit is getting weird. As I left my room to the bathroom I froze. From my forehead, a massive slit started. From my eyebrows and down, small trickles of blood followed down my nose bridge and to my collarbones. I’m starting to question how much this was in the blood world, and why? The cracks of my bones parting and skull rang through my head and throat; My throat choked pained cries like a wire trap sat over my windpipe. The warmth of the blood running down my frontal lobe was disturbing to the eye and my eye sockets seemed to rock back from the pain. (Changing POV) Noticing signs might be the most impactful, Useless Toy. Zero woke in a sharp pant, sweat dripped down his back and he immediately shivered. His large Wiry form screeched loudly about its pain and forced needing heat. He groaned in both pain and frustration of the warmth in waves over his stomach, shifting his skull pressed down and the pressure of the plates and horns hiding into place under his face plates was gorey and horrid. He cried in horror, the pain ransacking his ability of comfort. He was only able half, his head being human but long spiney limbs didn’t change. He curled around a log pushed to a corner, his jaw felt heavy with unfitting teeth and weight of the pain pictured face. Almost like a spy in disguise his face was plated and felt incorrect and not coordinated. Quickly, from behind the mirrored glass Desi wrote watching the pretty little wendigo, his fingers trembled with fascination. The wendigos ears furrowed out in a light twitch, a few little erogenous endured curls sparked out (a curl of hair that if tugged, or touched by someone else can force an immediate orgasm and or reaction). Pleading for attention via the driven heat and the please in begging, which, desi read as the others expression and flushed immediately. Want crawled his spine like burrowing eggs of flies larva to the corpse by their flesh loving parents. He needed to help patient Zero.. After hours while all facilities and workers led to sleep.. Someone lie awake due to the thought Will the wendigo be joyful for help..? CLICK. CLANK CLANK The locks dropped after a muffled stop, desi pushed through the gap of the wall and part of the door shutting it trustfully behind him. Trailing silently, he looked for the horror filled wendigo.. zero had a tolerance to men.. A strong lustful scent musked out the room, and a rough wet like pant started, the beings throat almost seemed full like when a tooth is pulled and blood gushes to fill place. Desi feels a rough set of clawed and scarred digits touch his sides, before they dug. Bringing the smaller man back into a burrowed spaces between the cave and wall of the housing for the monstrous being. A whine placed with patient Zero, he gave in as the scientist rubbed his hairs carefully, groping with a flick into pleasure. Harshly taking to his Knees his head tucked, pleading for the stuck up curls in earn, pleaded for touch, the pleasure to shoot up his spine in places fingers can’t reach. He audibly squealed like a radio, shuddering with the small man’s fingers rubbing the hyperactive hairs up his ears. A sharp moan followed earned with heavy huffs and whines “P…p..l..ease..” the monster pleaded, his growl a force from its locked heavy throat. Begging for the help of another man. Zeros made noises the factory had basic wet dreams over.. Zero moans out, gripping the ground, forcing his nails, and paw padding through the thick cloves of bark in the log he's lying against the planked log like a goddamn lifeline, his left leg draped over the back of the little man’s shoulder his right leg dangles against the log and rough terrain floor his furr haphazardly flushed up and out from his head all the way down to his ankles. Desi is aware of these features and abuses them, pulling on the prettied glistening curls that are erogenoused, feathered hairs lying between his legs and spiked when the other man started eating him out aggressively, his fingers buried deep inside zeros wet, puffy slit, twisting and thrusting against his g-spot relentlessly. zero heaves for breath snarls leaving along, his skull cracks and changes so he doesn’t choke on the darkened drool hanging from his skulls fangs, his hips bucking against desi’s jaw and hand occasionally, his throat is slowly wearing out with each pathetic whine and growl he makes. His legs twitch with the forced orgasms of the hairs, which haven’t stopped by touch and by the scientists rough palms. Desi releases zeros clit from his mouth, looking him dead in the eyes. “..if the general hears this they’ll put you into breeding for the bitches in heat.. you know you are aware zero? Be a good boy and shut the fuck up.” He growled, pushing his hand up into the others slit against the special place and rubbing the hairs, trying to get him to squeal again. Zero holds a cry, but he urges himself to not thrust back against desi for the stimulation on his clit. He tries to use his words to plead but he can't. He can only raise his hairs in plead for pleasure and or praise.. Desi knows he has the intention of using his whines or shifts to stay quiet with his squeaks while some scum scientist fucks him into a goddam log, so he complies with the pathetic cry of the hulking wendigo plea and ravages him again, plunging his fingers into the others thick slit and biting his bean making him growl and gnaw his own clawed fingers and suppress what is damn near a squeal, high-pitched and wet, when he feels desis tongue lap his at his slit and those fingertips push rhythmically. desi can feel that zero is close for the thousandth time, he takes note of every spasm and every flush from his slit and only works faster, making zero cry with a wet intent, a black spit flowing with into his hand as the coil built up in his stomach starts to tighten. Zero loses control little by little, nails digging into thr rough terrain of the log making it splint and break, vocal cords working exhausted from how high his voice is getting. His bitten claws are darkened with red by the outline of his teeth. He's so close, he just wants the release of an actual orgasm by someone else, not his hairs already. Zero snarls roughly at the groan from desi, the fact the dude stopped was killing him. So, he bit his shoulder roughly, his claws plunged into the others pants and boxers, taking his hard-on in hand and jerking him off. Desi smashes his lips against zeros most sensitive hairs, circling the others throat and at those ears specifically. Then lowers zero quickly, the kiss breaking when he slams inside the wet cunt as if zero wasn’t some monster That’s literally inconceivable by all humans and is a massive threat..to literally anyone. His hands resting on zeros hips he struggled to not bust inside there, the being was soft and wet inside, and extremely tight due to overstimulation.. Zero can only sit still for so long, but soon enough, he's pouncing on desis cock, tight, hot flesh enveloping him deeply up into the high tissue of an overstimulated cilt with every brisk movement of his hips. Pushing farther and farther inside, the monsters arms cling to desi by the neck as he picks up the pace ecstatically, feeling his g-spot get hit by desi dick over and over again brushing his cervix then slamming against it which earns a loud animalistic voice break a crack between a whine and a snarl. The whole thing from desis point of view feels a bit…more than pornographic; a monster fucking himself ontop of a mortal while their insides pushed and spread, its slit plushing up for the intrusive member. Zero shrieks and squeals, again and again, his mix of animal and humanoids vocal cords going numb with the whines and snarled ancient pleas, but still he still cries in unintentional silence for a noise barely pushed from the jaws of a musk deer skull. Desi brings his gloved hands right hand down between thighs, rubbing the monsters enlarged clit as they both get closer. Desi feels it, and zero will NOT last any longer. Desi’s dick abusing his now gaping and thickened cervix, and he realizes how much he wants to cum inside the large shaking monster.. Desi adjusts, holding onto the patients antlers, he fucks and ruts into zero harder and faster, his right hand still rubbing his clit. Zero spasms and trembles low gasps and ear ringing shrieks follow, pinning desidown onto the couch and, zero started to thrusting his hips vigorously, he's so close, he just wants release, he wants desis cum in him. To rot in his fake womb, to feed into the rotten larva inside him. And he knows he'll get it.  zero feels his legs go limp the hind hulking legs spasm and fall to the sides, spreading wide on instinct, his back arches as he forces a threatening snarl, ecstacy rushing through every vein under his skin, muscles spasming around desis cock, milking him dry as he cums hard on him. The haze dies out little by little, pulling out and sitting up straight, rubbing zeros fat thigh before pushing him off him and leaving him to lay back against the log they started against. The large deer like being, purring in the supplied heat says in a low snarl though seemingly with a flicking happy tail, grinning, seemingly not noticing all of the little man’s load between his legs, spilling out against the grounds rough planks of enclosure.. “…what..?” His static voice purrs, in both annoyance and pleasure. Which desi flusters… oh no. Again..? Obviously a breach happened, and brought a pushed forward for breeding the captive species... The dumbass this stupid scientist is, TAKES THE GODDAMN MONSTER HOME…. To be continued..	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641631?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["number1_bluscout"], "language": "English", "title": "Creatures"}
Let’s Go To The Dessert! Chapter 1 Ratio’s lab was unusually loud with silence. He sat with the stiff misery of a man who had solved the universe once this week and resented that it refused to produce any new material. Equations layered the glass walls—solved. Holographic models spun obediently—finished. Awards glinted—mocking him with past triumphs. Ratio hated being idle. Idleness didn’t mean thinking — he liked thinking. But thinking while idle? It meant thinking in circles. And circular thinking meant boredom. And boredom meant doom. Tap—tap—tap— A piece of chalk clicked against his palm like a metronome for impending violence. “Maybe I should dismantle the entire lab,” he muttered. “Smash everything, rebuild civilization from scratch—” “You’re staring at that theorem down like it’s cheating on you at the card table.” Aventurine’s voice glided into the room first—warm, teasing, smug in the way only he could get away with. Ratio didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. He felt the exact moment Aventurine leaned against the doorway—the shift in air, the quiet rustle of silk, the citrus-clean scent of his shampoo, the small clink of a cup. “You’re spiraling,” Aventurine said. Not judging. Just naming the creature in the room. Ratio flicked his eyes toward him. “I am not spiraling. I am intellectually malnourished.” “Same difference for you.” Aventurine crossed the room and placed a glass of water on Ratio’s desk. Not in the way of his work, not in his line of sight—just… there. Within reach. Ratio took it without thinking. Aventurine smiled, soft and small. “Alright, professor — which unsolvable probability is bruising your ego today?” The bored professor pinched the bridge of his nose. “There hasn’t been a real challenge in months. Everything is trivial, redundant, or written by committee. I’m stagnating.” “Oh no,” Aventurine gasped. “Sound the alarms—our resident genius just took a critical hit.” Ratio glared daggers. Aventurine lifted both hands in surrender, grin softening. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying—most people unwind with a hobby. You? You starve your brain for sport. How about we schedule date nights instead of you scheduling mental starvation and self-destruction?” “We are not a couple,” Ratio snapped. Aventurine smiled, slow and dangerous. “Of course not. I just live in your spare room, watch B-rated movies together, and watch you polish your collection of self-portrait mini statues every Tuesday.” “And Thursdays.” Ratio sighed. “I need a problem,” he muttered. “ A real one. One that doesn’t insult my intelligence.” “The universe is doing its best,” Aventurine sighed. “Terrible odds, though.” “The universe,” Ratio said dryly, “is underperforming.” Aventurine laughed. “So dramatic. I love that about you.” Ratio didn’t respond. “Why not take a look at the archives?” the blond suggested. The “archives” were officially known as the Interstellar Repository of Scientific Records—a galaxy-wide digital vault where every starship, academy, and explorer was required to dump their findings. Planet scans, anomaly logs, expedition journals, rejected hypotheses, questionable theories, cultural records, geological samples, and the occasional conspiracy paper all lived there in chaotic harmony. Most researchers treated the archives with reverence. Aventurine treated them like a curiosity. Ratio treated them like a personal insult. To him, the archives were a buffet of mediocrity with rare gems hidden under mislabeled folders—something between an academic database, a planetary census, and a graveyard of abandoned ideas. It was, in his words, “the universe’s largest collection of almost-interesting failures.” Ratio was already scrolling through the console with the grim enthusiasm of a food critic walking into a cheap buffet. He flicked through the first few files with cold efficiency. “Planetary magma anomaly,” he read aloud. “But incorrectly measured. One star.” Swipe. Aventurine leaned back on his hands, eyes softening despite the teasing. “You know, most people doomscroll social media. You doomscroll the universe.” “That says more about the universe than me,” Ratio replied, flicking past another disappointing anomaly. “Stale. Predictable. Two stars and a pity sticker.” Aventurine snorted. “They should add a comment section just for you.” “I would use it,” Ratio said, completely sincere as he swipe. “A supposed ‘quantum tremor’ that is clearly just faulty equipment… two stars for ambition, zero for execution.” Swipe. “A research note claiming they discovered a ‘new mineral.’ They did not. That is merely a rock. Half a star.” Aventurine laughed behind his hand. “I love when you go full restaurant critic. ‘Hi, welcome to Ratio’s Cosmic Yelp—where dreams go to die.’” Ratio ignored him. “Bad science deserves consequences.” He swiped again. “Here, a decent gravitational anomaly,” he admitted. “Three stars. Could be edible.” “But still not enough for the genius palate?” Aventurine teased. “Correct.” Swipe. “Next.” “Or…	Let’s Go To The Dessert! Chapter 1 Ratio’s lab was unusually loud with silence. He sat with the stiff misery of a man who had solved the universe once this week and resented that it refused to produce any new material. Equations layered the glass walls—solved. Holographic models spun obediently—finished. Awards glinted—mocking him with past triumphs. Ratio hated being idle. Idleness didn’t mean thinking — he liked thinking. But thinking while idle? It meant thinking in circles. And circular thinking meant boredom. And boredom meant doom. Tap—tap—tap— A piece of chalk clicked against his palm like a metronome for impending violence. “Maybe I should dismantle the entire lab,” he muttered. “Smash everything, rebuild civilization from scratch—” “You’re staring at that theorem down like it’s cheating on you at the card table.” Aventurine’s voice glided into the room first—warm, teasing, smug in the way only he could get away with. Ratio didn’t turn. He didn’t have to. He felt the exact moment Aventurine leaned against the doorway—the shift in air, the quiet rustle of silk, the citrus-clean scent of his shampoo, the small clink of a cup. “You’re spiraling,” Aventurine said. Not judging. Just naming the creature in the room. Ratio flicked his eyes toward him. “I am not spiraling. I am intellectually malnourished.” “Same difference for you.” Aventurine crossed the room and placed a glass of water on Ratio’s desk. Not in the way of his work, not in his line of sight—just… there. Within reach. Ratio took it without thinking. Aventurine smiled, soft and small. “Alright, professor — which unsolvable probability is bruising your ego today?” The bored professor pinched the bridge of his nose. “There hasn’t been a real challenge in months. Everything is trivial, redundant, or written by committee. I’m stagnating.” “Oh no,” Aventurine gasped. “Sound the alarms—our resident genius just took a critical hit.” Ratio glared daggers. Aventurine lifted both hands in surrender, grin softening. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying—most people unwind with a hobby. You? You starve your brain for sport. How about we schedule date nights instead of you scheduling mental starvation and self-destruction?” “We are not a couple,” Ratio snapped. Aventurine smiled, slow and dangerous. “Of course not. I just live in your spare room, watch B-rated movies together, and watch you polish your collection of self-portrait mini statues every Tuesday.” “And Thursdays.” Ratio sighed. “I need a problem,” he muttered. “ A real one. One that doesn’t insult my intelligence.” “The universe is doing its best,” Aventurine sighed. “Terrible odds, though.” “The universe,” Ratio said dryly, “is underperforming.” Aventurine laughed. “So dramatic. I love that about you.” Ratio didn’t respond. “Why not take a look at the archives?” the blond suggested. The “archives” were officially known as the Interstellar Repository of Scientific Records—a galaxy-wide digital vault where every starship, academy, and explorer was required to dump their findings. Planet scans, anomaly logs, expedition journals, rejected hypotheses, questionable theories, cultural records, geological samples, and the occasional conspiracy paper all lived there in chaotic harmony. Most researchers treated the archives with reverence. Aventurine treated them like a curiosity. Ratio treated them like a personal insult. To him, the archives were a buffet of mediocrity with rare gems hidden under mislabeled folders—something between an academic database, a planetary census, and a graveyard of abandoned ideas. It was, in his words, “the universe’s largest collection of almost-interesting failures.” Ratio was already scrolling through the console with the grim enthusiasm of a food critic walking into a cheap buffet. He flicked through the first few files with cold efficiency. “Planetary magma anomaly,” he read aloud. “But incorrectly measured. One star.” Swipe. Aventurine leaned back on his hands, eyes softening despite the teasing. “You know, most people doomscroll social media. You doomscroll the universe.” “That says more about the universe than me,” Ratio replied, flicking past another disappointing anomaly. “Stale. Predictable. Two stars and a pity sticker.” Aventurine snorted. “They should add a comment section just for you.” “I would use it,” Ratio said, completely sincere as he swipe. “A supposed ‘quantum tremor’ that is clearly just faulty equipment… two stars for ambition, zero for execution.” Swipe. “A research note claiming they discovered a ‘new mineral.’ They did not. That is merely a rock. Half a star.” Aventurine laughed behind his hand. “I love when you go full restaurant critic. ‘Hi, welcome to Ratio’s Cosmic Yelp—where dreams go to die.’” Ratio ignored him. “Bad science deserves consequences.” He swiped again. “Here, a decent gravitational anomaly,” he admitted. “Three stars. Could be edible.” “But still not enough for the genius palate?” Aventurine teased. “Correct.” Swipe. “Next.” “Or… You could always take a vacation.” “I do not rest,” Ratio said, disgusted. “Vacations are just scenic boredom.” Aventurine suppressed a smile. “Of course they are.” Ratio kept scrolling—past mapped planets, explored ruins, published papers. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He continued down the list: complaints, sarcasm, academic violence. Kept scrolling, unamused and unstoppable, until— He stopped. A file at the bottom of an old, outdated registry. Label: UNREGISTERED PLANET — SIGONIA-IV. STATUS: ABANDONED. DATA: N/A. Ratio frowned. A file lay buried beneath a pile of obsolete reports—so unassuming it was almost insulting. He straightened, irritation sharpening into interest. He opened it with a careful touch, curiosity overriding annoyance. The details were shockingly minimal: breathable air, arid landscape, negligible life signs, no follow-up. A blank page in a universe that hated blanks. Ratio leaned in, unusually quiet. Aventurine, still lounging on the counter, kicked his heels lightly. “No scathing review? No ‘two stars, would not reincarnate’? Why are you quiet all of a sudden?” Ratio didn’t answer. He just read the local name aloud. “…Sigonia-IV.” Aventurine went still. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just— a breath held too long, a heartbeat stuck in a cage, a gambler who suddenly couldn’t bluff. Not a flinch. Not a gasp. Just—stillness. Ratio didn’t turn nor noticed his stillness. “There’s almost nothing here,” he said. “No scans, no studies. They stuck a label on it and moved on.” Ratio scrolled deeper, expecting at least basic reconnaissance scans. There were none. No topography maps. No atmospheric breakdown. No mineral surveys. No migration patterns. Not even a cursory cultural footnote. Just the planet name… and silence. “This is impossible,” Ratio muttered. “The IPC never leaves planets undocumented. Not even useless ones.” He opened sub-folders. Empty. He checked metadata. Corrupted. He checked the original upload date. Older than the station’s current software. A headache began forming behind his eyes. “They didn’t research it,” he said. “They didn’t even pretend to research it. They stuck a label on it, filed it under ‘unimportant,’ and shoved it into the archive like trash.” Aventurine swallowed, throat tight. “Ratio…” “No scans. No studies. No expedition logs. A planet sits in a three-cluster intersection and there is NOTHING? Someone is either lazy, incompetent, or hiding something.” Aventurine’s voice came out thin. “Say the name again.” Ratio blinked but repeated it, slower this time. “Sigonia… Four.” Aventurine’s world tilted. His breath stuttered. The lab lights dimmed into a tunnel. For a split second, he saw— Sand stained with blood. A turquoise bangle glinting beside a fallen hand. His sister pushing him, shouting at him to run— The roar of fire— The sky tearing open during Kakava— He blinked, gripping the counter to stay upright. There was no sand. No fire. No sister. Just Ratio, watching him with careful eyes he couldn’t let see the truth. Aventurine forced a laugh. It cracked. “Funny name. S-sounds… fancy.” Ratio did not smile. He was studying him too closely. “…Do you know it?” Aventurine’s throat tightened. “I— No. Not really. Depends on the bet you want me to place.” He chuckled, the sound hollow. “Planets blur together when you’ve gambled your way across half the galaxy.” Ratio frowned. The lie was bad and Aventurine’s lies were never bad unless he was panicking. “I’m going to explore this planet,” Ratio said, eyes sharpening. “It will be my next project.” Aventurine froze. Then— “I… I’m coming with you!” he blurted. Ratio blinked. “I did not invite—” Aventurine’s heartbeat drummed in his throat. He told himself he was only going to keep Ratio safe. But another truth clawed its way up, quieter, older: What if something of her was still there? Not her body. He’d accepted that. But a scarf she’d woven… A necklace she wore… A prayer knot from Kakava she never had the chance to burn… Anything that proved she lived. He could not say this out loud. So he simply said: “I’m going.” Ratio stared at his blond beauty quietly. My mind catalogued at least twelve reasons to refuse him. But his eyes — Full of something desperate, unfiltered. And suddenly the most logical decision was the one I didn’t want to make. “You dislike field work.” “Well, maybe I’m feeling lucky.” He flashed a grin too bright to be real. “Call it… bonding. A little vacation-meets-date-meets-fieldwork. High stakes, great company.” Ratio stared. Aventurine’s pulse had quickened. His breaths were shallow. He’d tied his robe tighter. His fingers kept flexing, curling, releasing. Distress. Not mild. “…You are troubled,” Ratio said quietly. “No, no. I’m fine,” Aventurine insisted, waving him off a little too fast. “Totally fine. Perfectly—” “That.” Ratio pointed. “You are being evasive.” Aventurine stepped closer—too close—and set his hands on Ratio’s shoulders, smile bright and brittle. “It’s just your imagination, doc. See? I’m cheery. Like a sunflower.” The smile wobbled. Ratio stiffened on instinct… then noticed the tremor in Aventurine’s hands. Something inside him shifted, softened. He lifted one of his own hands—slowly, carefully—and pressed it over Aventurine’s, grounding him instead of pulling away. “Aventurine,” Ratio murmured, “you’re shaking.” His thumb brushed once. A small, hesitant gesture of reassurance. “You are… not behaving like yourself.” Aventurine froze—just for a heartbeat, breath catching—then forced the tension out of his shoulders, pretending he hadn’t slipped. “That’s not important right now,” he said lightly. Too lightly. “What matters is you. We both know how you get when you hyper focus on a project.” He barked a laugh that held no humor. “Forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget every safety protocol you ever wrote. You’ll end up arguing with the dirt like it’s cheating at cards.” “I don’t argue with—” “You lectured a black hole simulation,” Aventurine cut in. “It was misrepresented.” “My point exactly.” Aventurine’s fingers tightened, then gentled, as if afraid he’d lose his grip. “Let me come with you, Ratio. I’m placing my bet on this. On you. Please.” Please That last word slipped out raw—no polish, no charm, no bluff. Ratio froze. Aventurine rarely used sincerity. It was too sharp. Too dangerous. Too true. Ratio’s thumb brushed once, steady and warm on Aventurine’s cold hand on his shoulder. “Aventurine,” he breathed. “There is no data on that planet’s weather patterns or hazards. No way to anticipate risks. If something happens to you there…” He swallowed. “I won’t be able to protect you the way I normally would.” Aventurine’s eyes flickered. “I’ll be fine. Did you forget I’m a shielder? If there’s a sandstorm, I can throw up a barrier before you finish complaining about the sand in your data logs.” Ratio heard the fracture under the bravado. He should refuse. He knew he should refuse. But he also knew Aventurine. If Ratio left him behind, the gambler would simply find another way—probably by sneaking onto the auxiliary shuttle, overriding half the safety locks, and launching himself after Ratio with nothing but charm, hubris, and a half-charged shield generator. Which would be astronomically more dangerous. Ratio exhaled once, slow and resigned. “…You would come anyway,” he murmured. Aventurine’s silence was answer enough. “Fine,” Ratio said at last—imaginary feathers practically ruffled in exasperation.“But stay near me. And follow my instructions.” It was phrased like a command, but his posture betrayed him:a slight dip of the shoulders, a softening around the eyes—the subtle lean an owl made when settling beside someone it trusted. Aventurine’s smile broke open like sunrise. “Deal. We’re going today, right? I’ll help!” Ratio had intended to begin preparations eventually, not immediately. But Aventurine was already moving—bright as a comet, swift as instinct—unspooling energy across the lab with the enthusiasm of a man who absolutely wasn’t pretending this wasn’t important. Ratio watched the whirlwind for three seconds, sighed, and began packing too. Aventurine darted between shelves and lockers, grabbing supplies he had no business knowing the locations of, organizing equipment he pretended not to understand—all of it seamless, efficient, familiar. Snacks for Ratio. Dimmed lights for Ratio’s migraines. Noise-dampening headbands for Ratio’s sensory overload. Ratio noticed everything. When he finally looked up, Aventurine was standing in the center of the lab, expression unguarded. “The ship is ready,” Ratio said. “We should leave before I remember I dislike sand.” Aventurine chuckled. “Let’s go?” Ratio nodded once. “Let’s go.” Inside the ship, the hum of engines felt like a heartbeat waking up. Aventurine paused at the co-pilot’s chair, fingers hovering above the controls. His expression tightened—anticipation tangled with an ache he didn’t name. Ratio glanced over. “You can sit.” Aventurine swallowed, voice low. “It’s been a long time.” Ratio nodded, misreading the weight behind the words. “A long time since you’ve sat in my prototype,” he assumed, tone softening. He thought Aventurine was talking about the ship, the routines they used to share, the easy patterns of flying together. But Aventurine wasn’t looking at the chair. He was staring out at the star route—the one path he’d avoided for years. A long time since he’d approached Sigonia by choice. A long time since the sky hadn’t meant death. Ratio turned back to the controls. Outside, the station lights slipped away. Inside, only their breathing and soft hum of the engines. Aventurine’s knuckles whitened. Ratio caught it. But said nothing. He simply waited. The stars slid past the viewport like silver flakes on black fabric. Silence expanded. Heavy. Endless. Beautiful. Aventurine’s voice came soft, uncertain: “Are… we okay?” Ratio met his eyes, expression calm but real. “If you stay close.” Aventurine exhaled, unletting years in one breath. He reached for Ratio’s hand — slow, necessary, trembling. Ratio’s fingers closed around his. Solid. Steady. The stars didn’t answer. But for once, they didn’t need to. The course was set. Sigonia-IV waited. And two men sat shoulder to shoulder, orbiting danger and hope all at once. To be continued	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641686?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["sonnet_18"], "language": "English", "title": "Let’s Go To The Dessert!"}
Who the Hell Picks a Mountain for Christmas? Snowflakes drifted in lazy spirals through the pines, settling on the hood of Panam’s Thornton “Warhorse” like a dusting of powdered sugar on a beast that deserved fire and sand, not… this. Panam folded her arms, breath fogging the chilled air as she glared at Vincent. “You dragged me into the snowy ass-end of nowhere “she muttered “for Christmas” Vincent grinned like a man proud of his questionable decisions. “Correction…I invited you. You volunteered to come. You said—and I quote..‘Fine, but if I freeze, I haunt you” “Yeah, well” Panam kicked a pile of snow “Still stands” The cabin sat nestled at the edge of a clearing, wood-smoke curling from a stone chimney. Out front two snowmobiles, a stacked woodpile, and the Warhorse, somehow looking offended to be surrounded by white instead of dunes. Vincent tossed her the cabin keys “Come on. Fire’s inside. And hot cocoa” “Hot wha…?” Vincent, do I look like someone who drinks hot cocoa?” He shrugged “Everyone drinks hot cocoa up here. It’s the law” A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She pushed past him, banging the door open. Inside, the cabin was warm. Rustic. Wooden beams, thick rugs, a fire already crackling. A half-decorated Christmas tree leaned crookedly in the corner. Panam stopped dead. “…Did you get a tree?” “I did” Vincent said proudly “From the guy down the road. Might’ve dragged it sideways. Thus the… angle” “Vincent” “Yes?” “It looks like it’s emotionally struggling” “We all are” Panam snorted, shaking her head as she shed her jacket. “Okay. Fine. Cabin’s cute. Kinda cozy. But why mountains instead of the Aldecaldos’ camp?” Vincent’s face softened just slightly enough for her to see the real reason. “I wanted something quiet” he said “Just us. You deserve a break from Saul and everyone hovering” Panam opened her mouth to protest default setting but stopped. Because he was right. And because it felt good to be seen. “…Alright” she murmured “But I’m not putting up lights” Vincent tossed her a tangled, monstrous knot of fairy lights. “You say that now” Her groan echoed through the cabin. Christmas had begun.	Who the Hell Picks a Mountain for Christmas? Snowflakes drifted in lazy spirals through the pines, settling on the hood of Panam’s Thornton “Warhorse” like a dusting of powdered sugar on a beast that deserved fire and sand, not… this. Panam folded her arms, breath fogging the chilled air as she glared at Vincent. “You dragged me into the snowy ass-end of nowhere “she muttered “for Christmas” Vincent grinned like a man proud of his questionable decisions. “Correction…I invited you. You volunteered to come. You said—and I quote..‘Fine, but if I freeze, I haunt you” “Yeah, well” Panam kicked a pile of snow “Still stands” The cabin sat nestled at the edge of a clearing, wood-smoke curling from a stone chimney. Out front two snowmobiles, a stacked woodpile, and the Warhorse, somehow looking offended to be surrounded by white instead of dunes. Vincent tossed her the cabin keys “Come on. Fire’s inside. And hot cocoa” “Hot wha…?” Vincent, do I look like someone who drinks hot cocoa?” He shrugged “Everyone drinks hot cocoa up here. It’s the law” A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She pushed past him, banging the door open. Inside, the cabin was warm. Rustic. Wooden beams, thick rugs, a fire already crackling. A half-decorated Christmas tree leaned crookedly in the corner. Panam stopped dead. “…Did you get a tree?” “I did” Vincent said proudly “From the guy down the road. Might’ve dragged it sideways. Thus the… angle” “Vincent” “Yes?” “It looks like it’s emotionally struggling” “We all are” Panam snorted, shaking her head as she shed her jacket. “Okay. Fine. Cabin’s cute. Kinda cozy. But why mountains instead of the Aldecaldos’ camp?” Vincent’s face softened just slightly enough for her to see the real reason. “I wanted something quiet” he said “Just us. You deserve a break from Saul and everyone hovering” Panam opened her mouth to protest default setting but stopped. Because he was right. And because it felt good to be seen. “…Alright” she murmured “But I’m not putting up lights” Vincent tossed her a tangled, monstrous knot of fairy lights. “You say that now” Her groan echoed through the cabin. Christmas had begun.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641701?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Raylla_Cyberpunk_Avalance98"], "language": "English", "title": "Who the Hell Picks a Mountain for Christmas?"}
My secret child I was at my desk signing receipts for my wedding. I couldn't believe the amount of money that Lizzie want to spend on our wedding and every time I said something to her she would just say your Adrian Agreste you can afford it but that doesn't mean I want to spend so much money. I looked over at my office door to see a toddler toddling into the room "dada" she said. "Hi Emma" I said getting up. I walked over to Emma but before I could pick her up she fell and started crying. I scooped her up into my arms and sat down at my desk. After getting her to calm down and started working again. I never want it to be this away but I know that it had to be like this in tell she was older or I thought of an away on how to explain this. I loved Emma and I got to see her every day it was my idea not to tell everyone that Emma was my kid it had a lot to do with dad he wouldn't want me to be in Emma's life where I was only 20 when she was born I loved her so I never told him or mom about Emma. I tried to do my work but Emma was taking things off of my desk and putting it on to the floor "Hi Emma dada is trying to do something" I said taking a picture form a photoshoot from her and put it back on the desk. Emma just looked up at me before picking up something else now I remembered why I didn't get anything done when Emma was here "Adrian here are those designs you wanted" I looked up to see Marinette my BFF walking in. I put Emma down so I could looked at the designs Marinette had bought me. Emma went over to Marinette and hugged her leg. Marinette picked Emma and Emma being her started playing with Marinette's long hair "The designs look good but number 4 should be longer" I said. These designs were going to be in a winter collection all the other dresses looks good but number 4 what is a red dress the tool was see-through and the under skirt would be to short so it would look weird if anyone wear it. I put them down on deck so she see what I was talking about, She put Emma down only for her to get upset "that's what I said to Lizzie but she said they were good" she said walking over. Why would Lizzie think it would be a good idea the tool would do nothing to keep you warm and the under skirt would 6 inches from the waist line. I thought "Mama" I look over at Emma who was crying and pulling on Marinette's pants wanting up. Marinette got down and picked Emma up again "I don't know how you get anything done when she's with you" I told her. I got up and started picking up the things that Emma had thrown onto the floor "I do get some work done but my office is a mess too" She said pulling her hair out of Emma's hands. "I could only imagine" I said knowing that toddlers love to miss things up. Marinette giggled a little before stopping and looking at me "what are you going to after the wedding Emma doesn't like Lizzie so when you moves in with her and you have Emma on your nights it will be harder because Emma would be upset" she brought up. I knew what she was talking about Emma didn't like my fiancé Lizzie and every time Lizzie comes in the room Emma hides behind me "I will figure out something" I said. Marinette walked over to the door with Emma in her arms but stop before left she looked over at me "does Lizzie even know you have a kid" she ask looking at me. I let out a sigh knowing I have to tell Lizzie that Emma is my kid "she knows I have a kid but doesn't know it's Emma" I said. Marinette just stood there for a moment "why don't she know it's Emma that's your kid" she asked looking at me. "Because I haven't told her yet" was all I said before getting up and walking over to Marinette. I give her the file that had the designs in it "get someone to do number 4 again" I asked my Voice had authority in it as I went back into boss Mode. Marinette just nodded before walking away with Emma and she looked adorable as she with her little hand at me.	My secret child I was at my desk signing receipts for my wedding. I couldn't believe the amount of money that Lizzie want to spend on our wedding and every time I said something to her she would just say your Adrian Agreste you can afford it but that doesn't mean I want to spend so much money. I looked over at my office door to see a toddler toddling into the room "dada" she said. "Hi Emma" I said getting up. I walked over to Emma but before I could pick her up she fell and started crying. I scooped her up into my arms and sat down at my desk. After getting her to calm down and started working again. I never want it to be this away but I know that it had to be like this in tell she was older or I thought of an away on how to explain this. I loved Emma and I got to see her every day it was my idea not to tell everyone that Emma was my kid it had a lot to do with dad he wouldn't want me to be in Emma's life where I was only 20 when she was born I loved her so I never told him or mom about Emma. I tried to do my work but Emma was taking things off of my desk and putting it on to the floor "Hi Emma dada is trying to do something" I said taking a picture form a photoshoot from her and put it back on the desk. Emma just looked up at me before picking up something else now I remembered why I didn't get anything done when Emma was here "Adrian here are those designs you wanted" I looked up to see Marinette my BFF walking in. I put Emma down so I could looked at the designs Marinette had bought me. Emma went over to Marinette and hugged her leg. Marinette picked Emma and Emma being her started playing with Marinette's long hair "The designs look good but number 4 should be longer" I said. These designs were going to be in a winter collection all the other dresses looks good but number 4 what is a red dress the tool was see-through and the under skirt would be to short so it would look weird if anyone wear it. I put them down on deck so she see what I was talking about, She put Emma down only for her to get upset "that's what I said to Lizzie but she said they were good" she said walking over. Why would Lizzie think it would be a good idea the tool would do nothing to keep you warm and the under skirt would 6 inches from the waist line. I thought "Mama" I look over at Emma who was crying and pulling on Marinette's pants wanting up. Marinette got down and picked Emma up again "I don't know how you get anything done when she's with you" I told her. I got up and started picking up the things that Emma had thrown onto the floor "I do get some work done but my office is a mess too" She said pulling her hair out of Emma's hands. "I could only imagine" I said knowing that toddlers love to miss things up. Marinette giggled a little before stopping and looking at me "what are you going to after the wedding Emma doesn't like Lizzie so when you moves in with her and you have Emma on your nights it will be harder because Emma would be upset" she brought up. I knew what she was talking about Emma didn't like my fiancé Lizzie and every time Lizzie comes in the room Emma hides behind me "I will figure out something" I said. Marinette walked over to the door with Emma in her arms but stop before left she looked over at me "does Lizzie even know you have a kid" she ask looking at me. I let out a sigh knowing I have to tell Lizzie that Emma is my kid "she knows I have a kid but doesn't know it's Emma" I said. Marinette just stood there for a moment "why don't she know it's Emma that's your kid" she asked looking at me. "Because I haven't told her yet" was all I said before getting up and walking over to Marinette. I give her the file that had the designs in it "get someone to do number 4 again" I asked my Voice had authority in it as I went back into boss Mode. Marinette just nodded before walking away with Emma and she looked adorable as she with her little hand at me.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641741&view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Mari6869"], "language": "English", "title": "My secret child"}
Rudolph's Red-nosed Revenge Your name is Rudolph, of Red-Nosed fame. Of course, you don’t know this, not having had the time to spare to indulge in whatever rumours floated in the air about a red-nosed reindeer that had saved Christmas, but even if you had heard the rumours, you might not have attributed the legendary hero to yourself. Call it a lack of self-confidence, drilled into you after years of humiliation at the hands and hooves of the other reindeer, but you don’t think that you would have been worthy of the title of “The Saviour of Christmas” as you had been last year. Even if you had heard the rumours, and you had realised that the description of the reindeer of legend matched you to a tee, the only reaction you would have had to your immortalisation would have likely been one of shame. Yes, you knew that you had a bright red nose that could cut through the mist of a foggy Christmas Eve, but with that truth also came the dull realisation that it was only your nose that had saved Christmas, not you. At first, you had been so proud when Santa asked you to lead his sleigh at the forefront, an honour that was usually granted to the winner of the Reindeer Games, but it had only taken you two hours for you to regret taking up his offer. Frankly speaking, the you of last year was pathetic. After only two hours out of the twenty four hours of Christmas night around the world, you had started to feel the strain of flying so hard, for so long, while the other reindeer didn’t even seem to be breaking a sweat. On the fourth hour, you were struggling to stay at the helm of the sleigh, and on the sixth hour, the world had suddenly gone black. You woke up in Santa’s sleigh, and as soon as you stirred, the grandfatherly figure turned to you and asked if you were alright. When you tried to push yourself up, insisting that you were fine to lead the sleigh once again, he pushed you back down. Gently. And that was the most humiliating thing. He was genuinely concerned for your safety and he actually seemed to care. He wasn’t worried that you might be a deadweight if you flew with the rest of the reindeer, or that you would slow the sleigh down. He was just worried for you, though you could never admonish Santa for being kind, it was also his kindness that made him unable to hear the snickers that whispered from the other reindeer’s mouths, quietly enough that it could be mistaken for the sound of wind whipping by, clattering against the sleigh bells. They spoke no words, but he could still hear them being spoken. Useless. Weak. Embarrassing. Freak. Those were all words that were familiar to you, whispered and hissed in your face by the other reindeer whenever Santa wasn’t looking. You tried to keep your head held high despite their words, telling yourself that it didn’t bother you. The other reindeer didn’t matter, as long as Santa held you in high regard. And when Santa finally looked down at you, you could tell that he did. He loved you, just as much as he loved all of his reindeer, and all the children in the world. And for the first time in your life, you realised that you didn’t deserve it. But you could. And so, for the next year you trained, only returning to see if you were finally worthy. You are Rudolph. You intend to write your name into history. It had been a year since you’d set foot in the North Pole, and though it was still the same place that you grew up in for most of your life, everything seems a little different now. It’s not a major difference that you note. It’s still the same trees that line the forests, the same scent of pine mixing with the faint smell of cinnamon and marshmallows that waft through the air of the entirety of the North Pole, no matter how far away you were from the Christmas village, but it still feels somehow different. Like you’re viewing your memories from a different angle. It’s strange, and its strangeness is what you blame for the fact that despite wandering for hours in the magical realm of the North Pole, you have no idea where the Christmas village is. “Well, this fucking sucks,” you mutter to yourself. You’d been hoping to get to the Christmas village a few days before the Reindeer Games to announce your intention to take your rightful place at the head of the sleigh, and get a few nights of sleep in an actual bed for once, but at this rate, you were starting to think that you’d be lucky to find the village before Christmas came. You resist the urge to mutter to yourself again, knowing you wouldn’t appreciate the pessimism, and try to keep your head high. Your eyes and nose are more or less useless right now, since the only thing you can see or smell are the same pine trees and the same cinnamon scent that covers the entirety of the island, so you keep your ears perked, hoping to hear any sounds of proper civilization. You don’t really hear anything either. It’s maybe only a few minutes later, when you hear the rustle of something further into the woods. It’s distant,	Rudolph's Red-nosed Revenge Your name is Rudolph, of Red-Nosed fame. Of course, you don’t know this, not having had the time to spare to indulge in whatever rumours floated in the air about a red-nosed reindeer that had saved Christmas, but even if you had heard the rumours, you might not have attributed the legendary hero to yourself. Call it a lack of self-confidence, drilled into you after years of humiliation at the hands and hooves of the other reindeer, but you don’t think that you would have been worthy of the title of “The Saviour of Christmas” as you had been last year. Even if you had heard the rumours, and you had realised that the description of the reindeer of legend matched you to a tee, the only reaction you would have had to your immortalisation would have likely been one of shame. Yes, you knew that you had a bright red nose that could cut through the mist of a foggy Christmas Eve, but with that truth also came the dull realisation that it was only your nose that had saved Christmas, not you. At first, you had been so proud when Santa asked you to lead his sleigh at the forefront, an honour that was usually granted to the winner of the Reindeer Games, but it had only taken you two hours for you to regret taking up his offer. Frankly speaking, the you of last year was pathetic. After only two hours out of the twenty four hours of Christmas night around the world, you had started to feel the strain of flying so hard, for so long, while the other reindeer didn’t even seem to be breaking a sweat. On the fourth hour, you were struggling to stay at the helm of the sleigh, and on the sixth hour, the world had suddenly gone black. You woke up in Santa’s sleigh, and as soon as you stirred, the grandfatherly figure turned to you and asked if you were alright. When you tried to push yourself up, insisting that you were fine to lead the sleigh once again, he pushed you back down. Gently. And that was the most humiliating thing. He was genuinely concerned for your safety and he actually seemed to care. He wasn’t worried that you might be a deadweight if you flew with the rest of the reindeer, or that you would slow the sleigh down. He was just worried for you, though you could never admonish Santa for being kind, it was also his kindness that made him unable to hear the snickers that whispered from the other reindeer’s mouths, quietly enough that it could be mistaken for the sound of wind whipping by, clattering against the sleigh bells. They spoke no words, but he could still hear them being spoken. Useless. Weak. Embarrassing. Freak. Those were all words that were familiar to you, whispered and hissed in your face by the other reindeer whenever Santa wasn’t looking. You tried to keep your head held high despite their words, telling yourself that it didn’t bother you. The other reindeer didn’t matter, as long as Santa held you in high regard. And when Santa finally looked down at you, you could tell that he did. He loved you, just as much as he loved all of his reindeer, and all the children in the world. And for the first time in your life, you realised that you didn’t deserve it. But you could. And so, for the next year you trained, only returning to see if you were finally worthy. You are Rudolph. You intend to write your name into history. It had been a year since you’d set foot in the North Pole, and though it was still the same place that you grew up in for most of your life, everything seems a little different now. It’s not a major difference that you note. It’s still the same trees that line the forests, the same scent of pine mixing with the faint smell of cinnamon and marshmallows that waft through the air of the entirety of the North Pole, no matter how far away you were from the Christmas village, but it still feels somehow different. Like you’re viewing your memories from a different angle. It’s strange, and its strangeness is what you blame for the fact that despite wandering for hours in the magical realm of the North Pole, you have no idea where the Christmas village is. “Well, this fucking sucks,” you mutter to yourself. You’d been hoping to get to the Christmas village a few days before the Reindeer Games to announce your intention to take your rightful place at the head of the sleigh, and get a few nights of sleep in an actual bed for once, but at this rate, you were starting to think that you’d be lucky to find the village before Christmas came. You resist the urge to mutter to yourself again, knowing you wouldn’t appreciate the pessimism, and try to keep your head high. Your eyes and nose are more or less useless right now, since the only thing you can see or smell are the same pine trees and the same cinnamon scent that covers the entirety of the island, so you keep your ears perked, hoping to hear any sounds of proper civilization. You don’t really hear anything either. It’s maybe only a few minutes later, when you hear the rustle of something further into the woods. It’s distant, but sounds like it must have come from something much larger than a fox or a lethargic squirrel shuffling through the underbrush. You feel your spirits brighten as you head to the sound, choosing to ignore every other instance when you’d been mistaken, in order to maintain your optimism. Thankfully, and finally, once you push past a small group of bushes, you find yourself staring at a large clearing in the forest, a barren circle of snow, devoid of trees of shrubbery and occupied by a single reindeer. Immediately, you tense up at the sight of her, a wave of anger coursing through you at the sight of someone who looks so similar to your tormentors, but you force yourself to calm down. While she looks familiar, you’re having a little trouble with actually placing her name, which means that she’s likely not one of your old bullies. You assume from how small she is, that she might be a younger reindeer, or at the very least, just a lower ranked reindeer that isn’t strong enough to be part of Santa’s sleigh crew. While you can’t say you have any love for the reindeer that stood by and watched as the top 8 reindeer tormented you, you don’t particularly think that they deserve your anger either. Once you calm yourself and watch the reindeer for a moment, you notice that she seems to be here to train. While she doesn’t seem to be tired at all, it seems like you might’ve caught her at the beginning of her training session, as she warms up on the spot. Maybe she’s also trying to do well in the Reindeer Games this year. It’s something you can sympathise with, you suppose. Still, it’s difficult to stop the anger in your heart from stirring at the sight of her. You suppose that you’ve been staring silently for long enough, and though you’ve been largely isolated from society for the better part of a year, you’re not so socially inept to understand that what you’re doing right now would be considered very creepy for the most part. You step out from the forest and enter the clearing, not being subtle at all at your entrance. With how large the clearing is, the reindeer is standing quite a distance away from you, and you swear you see her eyes flicker towards you, enough to make it clear that she’s at least noticed your presence, but she doesn’t do anything to acknowledge you further than that. If anything, your presence seems to make her focus harder on her warmups, with her obvious determination to ignore your very existence. Your smile twitches at the obvious snub, but you try not to hold it against her. Or at the very least, you try not to be bothered by it. On a third thought, you decide that you’ll do your best not to sink down to her level, and wave at her from where you are. “Hello,” you say, not shouting, but still loud enough that it’s impossible that she hadn’t heard you, especially with how empty the clearing is. She doesn’t react, but you didn’t particularly expect her to. You walk towards her, and you see the side-profile of her scowl, and struggle not to let the same expression settle on your own face. “Excuse me,” you say. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were training. I assume it’s for the reindeer games and-” “Oh you did, huh?” the reindeer says, interrupting you with her high-pitched voice. “Had to think hard for that one, did you?” She turns away from you completely, an aura of irritation emanating from her back. You scowl at her, no longer seeing any reason to hide your expression. She’s starting to remind you more and more of someone, and none of what you remember is composed of particularly pleasant memories. You let out a slow breath from between your teeth. You remind yourself not to sink down to her level. You’re better than this. “Well, I was going to ask if we could train together, but I can see you’re busy,” you say, unable to keep the irritation from your voice. “If you could just point me to the village, I’ll be out of your way.” Surprisingly, the reindeer laughs, but it’s not a particularly pleasant sound. “Me? Train with you?!” the reindeer laughs as she turns to you. “Who the fuck do you..” She trails off, her eyes widening when she finally gets a good look at you, roaming up and down your body with an expression of shock and confusion at what she sees. You can’t particularly blame her for it. While you haven’t particularly paid attention to how you’ve changed physically over the last year, not being vain enough to keep track, you realise that you must have grown quite tall to be towering this high over a reindeer that had once been the same height as you. You hadn’t realised it was her, with how different she looks when you’re looking down at her and not up, but you would recognise that laugh anywhere. She doesn’t seem to recognise you at first, but it only takes her eyes to finish roaming your body to settle on your face. Her hazy gaze meets your intense glare, and though she seems confused by the anger in your expression, almost flinching back at it in hurt and confusion, her eyes sharpen instantly when they catch the bright red glow of your nose. Recognition clashes with confusion and indignation, though she doesn’t seem to identify you instantly. Her eyes dart from your body, to your face, to just your nose, before her eyes narrow in snide hatred. “Freak?” If you had any doubt in who she was, that word would have blown it away in an instant. “Vixen.” Vixen stares at you for a while longer, her narrowed eyes trying to hide the fact that she has no idea how to react to you, before she seems to settle on an all-too familiar sneer. “It’s been a while, Freak,” she says. “Though I’ll have to admit, I thought I’d never see you again at all.” “The North Pole is my home,” you say bluntly. “I might have left, but there isn’t anywhere else I could possibly live.” “Well, I wasn’t saying I expected you to live anywhere…” Vixen trails off, giving you a cute smile that refuses to reach her eyes. You fists clench by your sides, but you don’t give in to the satisfaction of punching her face right there. As satisfying as that would be, you can’t possibly let her off that easily. “I see you’re pleasant as always, Vixen,” you say instead. Vixen smiles at that, but doesn’t address the comment. “So, what brings you back, Freak?” she asks instead, walking closer to you and circling around you, inspecting you from every angle like a predator greedily eying its prey. “Did you come slinking back, hoping for another foggy night to make Santa think that a worthless sack of shit like you has any value other than fertilising the ground? Or did I hear you correctly earlier when you asked me to train with you? What, are you planning on joining the Reindeer Games?” “Wow,” you say. “You must’ve thought hard to be able to reach that conclusion.” You’d told yourself that you wouldn’t sink to her level, but it’s admittedly difficult not to when she sets you up so easily. Vixen’s eyes narrow even further, if that’s even possible, and she lets out a laugh. “Cute,” she says. “So you’re telling me that you think, if that’s even possible for you, that just because you’ve put on a bit of weight, you think you actually have a chance at even participating in the Reindeer Games?” “I don’t plan on just participating, Vixen,” you say, giving her a smile of your own. “I plan on winning.” Vixen sneers up at you, no longer even bothering to pretend like she’s smiling. “You said you wanted a training partner, right?” Vixen asks. “I suppose I can give up some of my time, if it’s to entertain an old friend.” You look down at her, and the outstretched hand that is absolutely not offered in good faith. Still, you step forward to reach out for it. “I acc-” You don’t know if it’s the whistle of the wind, or the familiarity of the situation that causes your body to react before you can understand why. You feel a hard impact against your forearm as Vixen’s leg strikes it in a vicious crescent moon kick from your blind spot, aimed directly at your temple. You grin as you look down at Vixen, relishing in the shock that’s reflected in her eyes as she struggles to understand why you weren’t writhing at her feet like you usually would be. “I accept,” you say. The words seem to snap her from her shock, as she scowls at you. Jumping on the spot she kicks at your chest with both legs, and though you block it with your other arm easily enough, it doesn’t seem like she was intending to damage you with the kick. She uses your blocking arm as a launchpad, and flies away from you, landing on her hands and flipping back to make further distance. When she lands, it seems like she’s composed herself enough to smile at you. “Oh, I’m going to have fun with you, Freak.” “I’m sure you will,” you reply, in a low growl that holds the edge of a promise. You’re not sure if you imagine the way that Vixen shudders, her legs buckling for just an instant before she hops forward, bouncing and keeping light on her hooves in a way that makes the power behind her thick legs very clear. If you approach, she’ll kick you and jump away. It’s not a particularly clever strategy, but you can only assume that she expects it will be enough. With your difference in weight, it’s clear that she expects you to simply try and grab her to pin her down. It’s also clear that she expects to be able to deal with it if you try, from the way that the cruel grin sits on her face. It’s not particularly cocky, still eyeing you with a wariness that your bulk warrants, but she doesn’t look particularly concerned either. Not wanting to disappoint her just yet, you dig your hooves into the ground, tensing your muscles and summoning the entirety of your strength to your legs. You kick off. The ground beneath you flies back in an explosion of earth and snow. You barely register the way that Vixen blinks in surprise, her expression becoming a blur as you rush towards her with your arms stretched out to catch her. It’s not a particularly graceful lunge. You simply widen your arms, as if hoping to catch her by covering as wide an area as possible like a net with no thoughts for accuracy, but your arm still brushes by the tip of Vixen’s hoof as she jumps away from you. Vixen flies through the air away from you, and she stumbled when she lands, but quickly flips back on her hands to bleed to momentum, righting herself quickly enough to flash you a grin. “Is that all you’ve-” Her words are cut off by the sound of another explosion, and her own startled yelp, as you kick off the ground once more. This time, she manages to dodge you completely, but stumbles harder when she lands. “Can you not interrupt me when I’m trying to talk?” she asks irritably when she lands. “I’ll stop when you say something worth listening to,” you say. Though there’s an obvious retort threatening to roll off her lips, you don’t let her spit it out, charging at her again before she can speak. There’s a flash of irritation in her eyes, and when she jumps away from you this time, she delivers a parting kick, straight at your head. It hits squarely on your temple, but though it makes your head ring and ache, there wasn’t much power in the hit, given that she was running away. Still, the hit makes her smile in satisfaction. “Looks like-” You ignore her attempt to speak, shaking off the minor damage to your head and charging again. “Bitch!” she hisses as she jumps away, though she’s unable to counter attack in any way other than verbally. Finally, you pause in your assault. You can see Vixen snarling at you, her lips parting to expose her clenched teeth, like she’s holding herself back from trying to spit another insult at you, in case you take the opportunity to charge at you again. “Are you physically unable to hold yourself back from talking or something?” you ask. “Even if it’s to your detriment?” “I’ll fucking-” You interrupt her with another explosive charge. She flips to the side, and though both she and you are moving fast enough that you can’t actually see it, you feel your fingers slam into flesh, though the momentum behind both your movements means that you can’t grab hold of Vixen before she flies away. When she lands, she stumbles a bit and hisses in pain as she rubs her left shoulder. “You-” You charge again. She shrieks in frustration as she jumps away, kicking you before dodging away completely. It’s weaker than her last hit. If you were in the mood to give her credit, after that glancing blow on her shoulder, it gets increasingly difficult to actually hit her, especially since she seems to settle on shouting single syllable curses at you instead of trying to form any kind of coherent sentences to insult you. She’s figured out that you only ever charge at her in a straight line, and as long as she’s moving around you in a circle, she won’t get hit. It’s an effective enough counter to your strategy that you should be adapting to try and at least predict her path, but the reason why you’re sticking to this singular strategy isn’t because you lack a tactical mind. If you’re being honest, it didn’t take you long to realise just how satisfying it was to toy with Vixen like this. “I know I was the one to cut you off earlier,” you say, pausing after a charge. “But I’m still curious about if there’s a genuine reason why you can’t shut up. Is your tongue too big for your mouth or something?” Vixen opened her mouth, but snapped it back shut with a glare. “I promise I won’t cut you off this time,” you say. “I promise.” Vixen continues to glare at you suspiciously, but when your posture relaxes and straightens away from the kick-off stance that you use to start your charge, Vixen lets herself settle back down on her hooves, no longer bouncing. “It’s to remind trash like you where you belong,” she pants. “And where would that be?” you ask. “Buried in a shallow grave, or tossed into the ocean,” she says. “Whichever you prefer.” “That…” you say, trailing off as her words give you pause for the first time since you started talking. “That’s not where you put garbage.” “Oh yeah?” Vixen asked, with a hoarse laugh. “Well sorry, but not all of us can be experts on the subject. But, good for you for learning more about your heritage, trash boy.” “You… really get a lot more sloppy when you’re exhausted, huh?” you ask. “I’ll show you fucking sloppy,” Vixen growled, until her voice caught in her throat, her eyes widening at the realisation of what you just said. You smile at her. “You know, you’d probably be a lot less tired if you didn’t try to talk so much,” you say. “Look at me. Fresh as untouched snow.” Vixen starts to snarl at you in response, but for the first time, seems to consider your advice seriously. At the very least, the way her eyes dart to the side seem to imply that she’s focused on something else other than insulting you. Unfortunately for her, when she turns around and darts away, you’re ready for it, the ground exploding out from underneath you as you take your final charge towards her. She hears it, and though she’s not looking at you anymore, she dives to the side, trusting that you’ll be charging at her in a straight line. She’s correct, but she’s still not fast enough to avoid you completely, and you just manage to snag your fingers around her antlers. This time, your hand wraps around her antler firmly. “Caught you,” you say, right before you slam her down, facefirst into the snow. She doesn’t struggle against your grip, but you doubt that she’s given up completely, judging from how Vixen screams out. Though her voice is muffled by the earth that her face is shoved into, you can still easily tell that it’s a scream of frustrated anger rather than pain, if the vaguely audible string of curses is an accurate indication of how she’s feeling at the moment. You expect her to start struggling against your grip, but a little later than you might’ve otherwise expected, since she still seems more interested in wasting her breath, rather than catching it. When you adjust your grip on her antlers for a better angle, she takes the slight shift as a moment of weakness, and tries to push herself to her feet. You’re ready for it though, and you casually place your knee on the back of her neck. Either she doesn’t seem to notice the threat of what might happen if you choose to simply fall forward to place the entirety of your weight on her throat, or she’s too angry to care, but she pushes her head up enough that it’s angled in a way where it’s no longer pressing her mouth against the ground. “You fucking freak,” she growls. “You think that getting lucky once makes you strong, Freak? You won’t be so lucky next time. I’m going to make you wish you never came back to the North Pole, motherfucker. You think you can humiliate me like this and walk away with your life?” Your lips widen into a grin, without you even trying. It’s honestly a little difficult to remember a time where you would have genuinely been afraid of Vixen whenever she threatened you like this. You didn’t mean for it to be a mocking smile, it was just a genuine reaction, but Vixen seems to take it as one, if her increased bucking is any indication. “I’ll fucking kill you!” she says. “You really do get sloppy when you’re tired, huh?” you comment, as you slowly put more weight onto your knee. Immediately, Vixen lets out a choked gasp and her eyes widen as she’s forced to accept how powerless she is in this situation. “Get off me fatass!” she squeaks out, before her words are cut off with a panicked cough. “Get off!” she cries out again, before she finally decides that maybe her breath is worth saving for some things. She lets out a choked cough, and looks up at you with a panicked, wide-eyed expression that only lasts for a moment before you release some of the weight from her throat. You’re honestly surprised by how quickly Vixen seems to forget about the danger of the situation she’s in, as her eyes flare up in anger immediately. “I’ll cut your fucking cock off and shove it up your own ass,” she hisses, right before her eyes widen again when you sigh and press down on her throat. “You know, it’s honestly impressive how confident you are, that you’re still talking shit in this situation,” you say chidingly. “I was thinking of letting you up, but I like my cock where it is, and if I had to put it anywhere else, my own ass would hardly be my first choice. Why use my own ass, when I’ve got a nice volunteer right in front of me?” You’re honestly a little surprised by the comment, even as it exits your own mouth. You suppose you can’t blame yourself for the comment, with how Vixen’s ass is raised high in the air, wagging back and forth frantically in her attempts to escape from under you. You had caught her in the middle of training, and though you know she usually has a much more traditional battle garb that she dons for more official fights, the only thing she wears now is a matching set of light green skin tight shorts and a sports bra that leaves little to the imagination, and no matter how much you hate the reindeer, it’s difficult to deny that she’s incredibly attractive on a physical level. Vixen is the shortest of Santa’s crew, and isn’t particularly considered tall outside of it either. She knew this, and in order to have any chance at competing, she focused her attention on developing her kicks, relying on her relatively long legs to make up for her reach that other reindeer would be able to make up with their arms. The amount of work she’s done to develop said legs is very obvious. Before today, the thought of being intimate with Vixen, or any of your other bullies for that matter, would have probably made you retch violently just at the idea. Even now, you know you would rather die than get into a relationship with Vixen, but you can’t deny the way that your cock hardens at the sudden realisation that what you said had merit. A roar of utter rage suddenly cuts off your thoughts as Vixen bucks violently from underneath you with a surprising amount of strength. “I’ll fucking kill you!” she roars, right before you put more weight back on your knee. “Can I ask you a question?” you ask, as you put more and more weight onto her neck. “What exactly do you expect would happen, if I actually happened to take your threats seriously? What if I believe you when you say you’ll actually try to kill me with more than words, this time around? That you’ll mutilate and maim me as soon as you have the chance? You said I just got lucky, right? Well, I’m not sure if you genuinely don’t remember the sequence of events that led to you being here, but what if I happen to be as stupid as you think I am, and I end up believing you? I’m not particularly interested in dying, Vixen, no matter how many times you’ve tried to convince me otherwise. What would happen if I actually listened to you, and I decided that if I wanted to live, this would be the only chance I have to kill you before you killed me?” Though her eyes widen, you’re not sure if it’s in response to what you’re saying, or if it’s just a physical reaction to her windpipe being crushed under your weight. You assume it’s the latter, with how even her choked coughs are muffled, and her eyes start to glaze over with unconsciousness, barely registering your presence. You sigh, cringing slightly in embarrassment at the realisation that you’d essentially delivered a threatening monologue to yourself, and release some of the pressure on Vixen’s neck. She gasps, greedily sucking in air, as if she’s unsure whether she’ll get another chance. “I can’t breathe,” she rasps out. You’re not ashamed to admit that the thought of just pressing down harder does occur to you, but eventually you decide against it. It’s not because of any sort of moral issue you have against killing, nor is it because you don’t want to disappoint Santa. The only reason you don’t kill her, is because you’re not done with her yet. Killing Vixen wouldn’t undo the years of torment she inflicted on you, every day of your life since you could remember. You suppose that taking revenge on her in other ways wouldn’t do that either, since nothing would really change the past, and your transformation over the last year had given you enough self-confidence that there weren’t really any sort of traumatic barriers that you needed to break down in order to grow as a person, but once again, you’re not particularly concerned with any sort of moral issues behind your actions. Your plans were simple. You planned to bully the reindeer that had once bullied you. You don’t feel like there’s a need to justify yourself. It’s simply what you want to do. You stand up completely, releasing your entire weight from Vixen’s neck, and despite having nothing holding her down anymore, the tension in her legs slackens and they crumple to the floor. You watch as Vixen coughs, struggling to catch her breath, before you grab her around the waist and toss her over your shoulder. She coughs out a huff of breath as the wind is briefly knocked out of her, and she’s stunned enough that she doesn’t shout abuse at you like you might’ve expected, and barely even reacts even as make your way to a tree stump by the edge of the clearing and lift her off your shoulder and place her so she’s lying across your lap. Vixen barely seems to be cognisant, her eyes flickering blearily as she struggles to understand what’s happening to her, or even remember where she is, until you decide to help her along. You raise your hand high in the air, and let out a slow breath, before striking down with the force of justice behind your palm. An explosion of flesh on flesh echoes throughout the forest, accompanied by a squeal of pain. Vixen immediately comes back to life, writhing in pain in your lap, but with your free hand, you quickly grab one of her antlers to secure her. Raising your hand again, you smack her ass, with just as much force as your first strike, causing another cry of pain. “Motherfucking bitch!” Vixen cries out. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you fucking fre-” She lets out a squeal as you slap her ass again. “That’s not my name,” you say calmly. “Do you even remember what my name is, Vixen?” Vixen ignores the question, reaching up to her antlers and grabbing your fingers in an attempt to pry them off. She tries to glare at you, but your grip around her antler is firm, and though her nails dig into your skin, it’s hardly painful enough to be anything but annoying. You sigh, and raise your hand. Vixen freezes, feeling the shift in your body despite being unable to turn her head to see your raised hand. “Wai-” You don’t even let her finish the single word, cutting her off with another slap on her ass. “Frea-” “You-” “Sto-” Every time she tries to speak, you cut her off with a spank to the ass. Though you don’t lighten up, Vixen grits her teeth in an attempt to muffle her screams. When that doesn’t work, her cries still leaking out through gritted teeth, she takes her hands off her antlers and clutches them over her mouth instead. You suppose that you’ve successfully made her shut up for the first time in your life, and you relish in the silence for a moment. When Vixen lowers her hands from her mouth, she stays silent. Her arms go limp, hanging by your hands as she pants for breath. She had no strength in her body, and the only thing that keeps her from draping down over the side of your lap completely is your grip on her antlers, keeping her head raised. Her panting breaths come out in hazy white clouds, and you can see a line of drool forming on the corners of her lips, along with tears accumulating in the corners of her eyes. You don’t expect her to start talking soon, too tired to even notice you raising your hand again. You slap her ass again, and though her hands rise to cover her mouth, she’s not fast enough to stop the sound of her moan from escaping. You’re certain that such a sound, a raw groan filled with pain and pleasure, would have caused your cock to twitch with attention no matter who had made it, but you’re not sure if it made it more or less exciting to hear it coming out of Vixen’s throat specifically. This time, when she tries to twist her head to look at you, you let her. The look of shock and shame on her face is delicious, even more so when she glowers at you in a largely unsuccessful attempt to hide her mortification. She opens her mouth, but for the first time since you’d known her, she seems lost for words. You doubt even she would possibly think that she could talk you out of thinking that you hadn’t heard what you just heard. Eventually, she clicks her tongue and turns her head back, back to how you were holding it a moment before. “I didn’t even say anything that time,” she says, through gritted teeth. It takes you a moment to react. You spank her again. She moans again, through gritted teeth. “I’m just trying to teach you some manners, Vixen,” you say. “I asked you a question, didn't I? Don’t you think I deserve an answer?” Vixen doesn’t react, and you can tell from the way her brow knits together, she has no recollection of what you’re talking about. You think about spanking her again, but you’re starting to wonder if that’s an actual punishment for her, judging by the way her shorts are darkening with moisture, heat emanating from her crotch so thick that you sweat you can see steam rising in the winter air. Your cock hardens at the observation, and it strains against your pants, pressing into Vixen’s stomach with her place on your lap. She groans at the feeling, but before she can try to muffle it, you yank back on her antlers, pulling her head up and backwards until your mouth is directly beside her ears. “What’s my name, Vixen,” you say, your voice rumbling beside her. “Tell me.” A shudder runs through Vixen’s body, violent enough that you can feel the tremor at the tip of her antlers where you’re gripping her. She lets out a low whine, but before you can think about what you might want to do next, she opens her mouth. “Rudolph,” she says. She squeaks through gritted teeth, her voice low like she’s ashamed to be saying it, and rumbling with the furious edge aimed at you for forcing it from her. You grin and whisper into her ear. “Good girl.” Vixen lets out a groan, and though her body tenses and shudders, it’s not because she’s trying to escape. Her fingers dig into your thighs with a surprising strength. You let her ride the wave of pleasure out, until she goes slack in your grip once more. A thin line of drool escapes from her mouth, but despite everything, you can see her teeth gritted into a snarl, and her brow furrowed into an angry glare directed at the world, as if she’s still trying to convince herself that she hasn’t lost herself to you completely. You’re honestly grateful at the sight. It would’ve been a bit disappointing to see one of your greatest tormentors breaking so easily. You roll Vixen over in your lap, and though the feeling of her ass rubbing against your crotch is one that you have trouble breaking away from so quickly, you lift her up as you stand. Vixen seems to think that you’re done with her, relaxing slightly as you lower her down against the stump that you were just sitting on. It’s only when you lay her back, and hook your arms under her legs that she seems to realise that you’re not done with her. She’s flexible enough that it doesn’t seem to hurt her to have her legs raised up past her head, and she seems too confused to fully understand why she’s in this position. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she asks. You smile as a bit of bite returns to her voice. You answer her by lifting her sports bra and exposing her breasts with one hand, while simultaneously reaching down and ripping through her shorts with a violent tug of your fingers. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” she shrieks again, as she tries to buck away from you. With the awkward angle she’s in, and how much of her strength she’s already exhausted, the only thing she’s able to do is to grind her exposed crotch against you. “I thought you were supposed to be more clever than this, Vixen,” you say, feigning disappointment. “What do you think I’m planning to do?” The answer finally seems to click in Vixen’s mind, and though you can see a glimmer of worry in her eyes, she’s quick to revert back to her usual sneer. “You’re going to rape me?” Vixen scoffs. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “You don’t seem too concerned about that,” you can’t help but comment, as you hook a finger around the edge of your own waistband. “Puh-lease,” Vixen says, with a haughty roll of her eyes, like she’s not currently pinned down underneath you with her legs raised above her head. “I doubt your cock would even be big enough for it to count, and that’s if you can even get hard in the first place. Why the fuck would I be worried?” You pause and consider answering her, before you decide you have a better method than using your words. You pull your waistband down, and finally, your cock is freed from its prison. You watch as Vixen’s expression shifts away from snide mockery in slow motion, as she seems to struggle to understand that what you pulled out was not, in fact, a thick slab of Christmas ham, but your cock. Her eyes fixate on it, her mouth turning into a perfect circle of shock at the sight, as she watches it float less than an inch above body. You can see her mentally calculating, as her eyes run along the length of your shaft, widening even further when she realises that if you laid it on her stomach right now, it would be reaching just below her ribcage. There’s a subtle, but sudden cloud of heat that emanates between you, as your bodies prepare for the inevitability of what is about to happen. Snowflakes turn to vapour in front of your very eyes, but more than that, but you’re too focused on vixen to care. You don’t know if you did anything to cause it, whether you let out a subconscious growl of anticipation, or if your cock twitched eagerly at the smell of her pheromones, but she flinches suddenly and looks up at you with a raw expression clear on her face, her usual mask of snideness utterly destroyed by acceptance of her fear and arousal in equal measure. “Please,” she says. “Be gentle.” You almost laugh as you line up your cock against the slick entrance of her pussy. “Of course,” you say. You don’t know if you imagine the look of disappointment in her eyes, but before she can do or say anything, you slam your hips into her as deep and as hard as you can into her tight cunt. She doesn’t make a sound beyond a high pitched whine, though her face is frozen in an expression of pain, betrayal, and pleasure that makes it seem like she should be screaming her lungs out. “Whoops,” you say, before you rear your hips back and slam into her again. Vixen cries out this time, and doesn’t stop screaming as you pound cock deep into her. The sound is a veritable howl, sounding more like it should be coming from an animal rather than a reindeer, as all of Vixen’s thoughts seem to fade away. You have no idea if she’s in more pain than pleasure. You’re unsure of whether the way she clings to you, with her arms wrapping around your body as she pants uncontrollably against your chest, is a way for her to draw you in closer, or if she’s simply trying to grasp at what little comfort she can, even if it’s from the one causing her so much pain. You can’t identify any emotion in her screams, unsure of whether she’s the way she screams is an unintelligible demand for you to keep fucking her, or if she’s begging you to stop. You can’t tell if the way her hips sway from side to side, with what little range of motion you’ve allowed her with your body completely pinning her down, is her weak attempts to away from your animalistic assault, or if she’s trying to match the rhythm of her body with that of your thrusts, twitching and squeezing her cunt as her body begs for more of you, for everything you can give her. You don’t care either way. All thought abandons you, and deep within you lays years of torment, carved into your very soul by the hands of the doe pinned underneath you. You may not be able to think, but the sight of Vixen’s tongue lolling back in her mouth, as she screams out, fills you with an uncontrollably burning need to ruin her completely. It’s not anger that drives you to drive yourself deeper and deeper into her, and more than the feeling of her slick walls, squeezing your cock with every thrust, you feel something deep within you, beyond a mere physical pleasure, growing in intensity at the coming release of justice from your soul that accompanies the growing pressure of heat that rises within your body. You hold back as long as you can, not intending to let Vixen go so easily. You slam into her with no sense of rhythm or technique, simply letting your base instinct take over your body. But it doesn’t take long before you find the heat in your loins growing so hot that you know that it won’t be long before it’ll explode out of you, in one way or another. “I’m about to cum,” you grunt out, though you struggle to find the words in the haze of your lust. Vixen groans along with your increasing thrusts, before her eyes widen in panic once she realises what you just said. “Not inside,” she begs, and this time it’s obvious that she means it. Her desperation only makes you thrust even deeper into her, her words alone almost enough to drive you to the edge. Vixen screams in pleasure at your increased pace, and struggles to speak as you continue to pound into her, biting her own lip in an attempt to maintain her focus. “I said not inside,” she says, and though you can tell she means to be threatening, it comes out as a beg. “Please, you’ll get me pregnant.” There’s a certainty in the way she says it, one that you already knew yourself. For possibly the first time in your life, you find yourself agreeing with your once tormentor, now the future mother to your children. She’s right. You will get her pregnant. “Shut up,” you say, and before she can respond, you place your mouth over hers in a deep kiss. There’s no love in the mashing together of your mouths and tongues, more a way for you to shut her up than any sort of display of affection, but the scent and taste of her saliva, mixed with a slight tang of blood sends you past the point of no return. Vixen’s arms wrap around your neck, as she lets out a long low moan into your mouth, that rises into a squeal as she tries fruitlessly to hold her voice back, like she still doesn’t want to admit that she’s being washed away in the throes of pleasure. You don’t say anything, can’t say anything, as your entire body tenses with your rising orgasm, and she pulls you in closer as your cock twitches inside her cunt and her walls constrict around your shaft. The entire world goes white, as your cock spasms. A gush of heat escapes you, deep into Vixen’s twitching cunt and she lets out a moaning gasp, her own orgasm riding out in tandem with yours. Every time you feel like you’re finished, the pulsing squeezing of Vixen’s orgasm draws more cum out of you, like her body is desperate to be filled despite her words. You fill her greedy womb eagerly, stuffing her completely with your white hot holiday cheer until she’s overflowing with the spirit of Christmas. “Look like it’s a white Christmas,” you say, as you pull your mouth away from hers. “What?” Vixen asks, stunned and weary enough that she hardly seems to know who she is let alone what you’ve said. Thankfully. “Nevermind,” you say, right before standing up. Vixen tries to cling on to your neck while you rise, and whines pitifully when her arms fail to support her weight for more than a second, lifting her and dropping her from only about an inch high, but the small drop seems to be enough to rattle her back into some semblance of higher thought. Expressions of shock and indignant anger war with the remnants of her afterglow, as she struggles to figure out how to react to what just happened, but eventually she settles on a scowl. It lacks her usual edge. “You came inside me,” she growls, but even with her teeth showing, the most she can manage is a neutral statement. “What if I get pregnant, asshole?” You consider telling her off for that, but at the very least she hasn’t called you Freak, this time. Maybe she can learn. “What do you mean, what if?” you ask. She scoffs at you. “What, do you not know basic biology? Do I have to tell you about where babies come from?” “I was under the impression that some of what we did can result in pregnancies,” you say flatly. Vixen gives you a glare, to silently let you know just how funny she finds you. “Well, thankfully there’s only a chance,” she says, touching her dripping pussy experimentally and scowling when she pulls away with a rope of your semen clinging to it, though she holds it closer to her face than she perhaps needs to. You’re a little curious about what she might plan to do with it if you leave her alone, but unfortunately for her, you’re not in a particular mood to wait. “Oh, well in that case, I suppose we’ll have to try again to make sure it sticks properly,” you say, as casually as you can manage. Vixen turns to you with a glower that quickly changes back into the expression of lustful fear that you’d been indulging in a moment before. “Why the fuck are you hard again?” she whines. “Do you not know basic biology?” you ask casually, stepping forward and catching her wrists and pulling them above her head. “Do I have to show you where babies come from?” The question lacks a bit of the dramatic irony that you’d intended, given that your cock is hovering threateningly in front of Vixen’s lips, still dripping with a mixture of both your fluids, close enough for her to kiss if she puckered them, and not her still dripping pussy, but you figure she gets the point. She mewls uncertainly, and though she strains against your grip, there isn’t enough strength in the attempt for you to think that there’s any chance that she’ll escape, nor is there enough effort that you think she particularly wants to. But before you can test that theory, you hear a cough from behind you. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to ask you to stop, Rudolph. I think the rest of us deserve an explanation of what’s going on here.” You smile at the familiar voice. Well, it wasn’t how you were planning to reintroduce yourself to the Christmas village, but you suppose you can improvise. “Blitzen,” you say, turning around with a confident smile. “It’s been too long.” You turn around to see not only Blitzen, clad in her traditional combat garb, but the remainder of the Main Eight as well. They look exactly how you remember them. You see Dasher, a cocky grin on her face as always, as she bounces on her feet. You can’t help but notice a new addition to her outfit, a set of bandages wrapped tight around her arms and fingers, though the way they twitch and flex eagerly seems to suggest that it’s more likely to be for aesthetic purposes, rather than to cover an injury. You suppose there is also a chance that she’s wrapped her hands for its usual purpose, to protect her hands from any injuries that might be induced by punching things too hard, but she’s had a flair for the dramatic, or at least whatever she considers to be “cool”. Even now, she still wears the same oversized hooded robe (coloured in black and red, because those colours are cool) that she usually does, in case she needs to dramatically toss it off of herself before a fight. She’s small, only slightly taller than Vixen, but unlike Vixen, she doesn’t seem to even notice the disadvantages that her size gives her. She’s a veritable powerhouse that relies on brute force rather than wile. She’s always had enough energy to want to burn it off on you, and it seems like she’s raring to go even now. You see Dancer, staring at you with a haughty expression as always. Aside from you, she’s the tallest reindeer here, and though she’s shorter than you as you are now, unless you count the impressive length of her antlers which dwarf yours considerably. She somehow still manages to look like she’s staring down at you. She’s one of the few reindeer in the clearing who’s at least pretending not to care about your sudden arrival, looking at you more with an unspoken sigh than surprise or eagerness. It’s like she always expected you to come back, much like how she’d always expect to find rats hiding somewhere in the walls of an unused barn. She holds herself elegantly, as she always does, and her pale blue suitcoat and pants look pristine as always, looking like they haven’t ever been stained by snow, let alone a speck of dirt. You see Prancer, giving you an annoyed scowl, like you’re offending her by simply being in her presence. Or rather, you suppose there’s no “like” about it. It’s what she’s told you, to her face, several times. While many of the other reindeer have made you think that you would die under their torment, she was the one to actively test how much she could push before you would die, with no qualms about accidentally going too far. It taught you not to eat anything that you haven’t prepared yourself. There are dark rings under her eyes that intensify her glare towards you, probably having lost sleep from her usual schedule of prowling through the night, but there’s no denying the sharpness in her eyes, like daggers might just appear from within them. You don’t see Vixen, but you can feel her struggling in your grasp, quiet sounds of frustration escaping her as she seems to realise what it might mean for her social standing to be seen losing to you, of all people. You assume she might be struggling more, or at the very least stringing curses at you as would be expected of you, but the feeling of her lips against the head of your still erect cock explains why she’s not so eager to open her mouth right now. You see Comet, but you’re not sure if she sees you or not. Her head is bowed and her eyes are closed, while her lips move in what you assume is a silent prayer. You’ve never actually heard what she’s actually saying, but it’s not a difficult assumption to make from the nun’s vestments she wears and the rosary she holds in her hands, thumbing the prayer beads in consistent intervals of time. At the very least, you know she’s a fan of the concept of eternal damnation, and several more “traditional” methods of cleansing the sin that resides in all mortal creatures. Strangely enough, Comet only ever seemed to find issue with the amount of sin that resided in your body specifically. You see Cupid, staring at you with the most open interest out of all of the other reindeer. You don’t know if it’s intentional on her part or not, to give off such an innocent air about her, with not only her kind expression, but the way that her entire body seems to exude an aura of gentleness with her voluptuous curves and the way her both her fur and hand-knitted sweater look soft enough that it makes you think you can sink into her chest and fall asleep in her embrace. You knew from experience, that it would only last a second, before you would start to feel excruciating pain. Narrowing your eyes, you try to figure out what Cupid is even smiling about, when you realise she’s not staring at you in particular, but at your cock, and the way Vixen still struggles in your grasp. A sadistic edge to her eyes urges you on, to grab Vixen’s antlers and force yourself down her throat with a single thrust, uncaring of whether she can breathe, uncaring of how much you would hurt her. You can see even from the distance that you’re at, how much the thought alone excites her, the way her breath whitens the air in front of her with each panting gasp she takes, and the way she crosses her legs over her hands and bites her lip aggressively. You see Donner, the second tallest reindeer in the group before Dancer, but much larger in bulk than her. Donner is a powerhouse. Aside from Blitzen, she’s the only one clad in the traditional Christmas combat garb. Rings of bells wrap around her shoulders, over a red fur-lined capelet that drapes over a simple loose flowing red shirt and skirt lined with white fur and embroidered with gold thread. While her hair isn’t particularly styled, simply tied up in a simple pony tail, her antlers are wrapped in green and silver garland that almost creates a halo around her head with how they shine, but the glare of the reflective silver isn’t enough to obscure her expression towards you. Unlike the other reindeer, it isn’t just anger, or disgust, or even a hint of sadistic edge that shows on her face. She tries to hide it under a false veneer of all those expressions, but Donner isn’t particularly skilled at hiding the anxiety and the hint of fear that she’s always had whenever she looks at you. To this day, you have no idea why she looks at you like she does, but now, you’re determined to properly earn that reaction. And finally you see Blitzen. As your eyes settle on her, you can’t help but admire what you see. You’ve always thought Blitzen was beautiful, moreso than any of the other reindeer. The way she held herself made you feel an unexplainable urge to bow to her, like you were in the presence of not just royalty, but eminence. She was the top reindeer for a reason, and the entire world seemed to acknowledge it. But you refuse to. You feel your emotions rage below the surface of your skin in a maelstrom of hurt and betrayal, as you lock eyes with your once childhood friend. Her expression doesn’t change, just like it hadn’t ever changed when she called you pathetic, when she beat you nearly to death, when she humiliated you in front of Santa himself, calling you too weak to ever even think of stepping foot in the Reindeer Games. She simply gives you a flat, unchanging look. “Are you here because you plan to participate in the Reindeer Games?” she asks simply. “Maybe,” you say, turning around to face Blitzen fully. You hear a sigh of relief from Vixen, as she seems to think that she’s safe just because she’s no longer in immediate danger of being skewered, but the relief is short-lived when you start to walk towards Blitzen with her still in tow. Vixen lets out a yelp and struggles to find her footing, especially with how her half torn shorts have slid down to her knees, and how she’s hunching over to try and hide as much of her exposed body as possible, but you don’t particularly care. You don’t slow down until you find yourself standing close enough to Blitzen that the only thing separating your bodies is your erect cock and less than an inch of empty air. Blitzen doesn’t seem to be bothered by the fact, not even sparing your cock a glance, even with it floating just below her breasts with the height difference between you. That being said, that lack of reaction doesn’t extend to the other reindeer. “You little-” Donner starts, but she’s cut off by a sharply raised hand from Blitzen. Immediately, Donner’s mouth snaps shut in the shape of a snarl, but no sound escapes it. “Do you plan to participate or not?” Blitzen asks again. “I’d appreciate a clearer answer.” “I don’t know,” you say. “Do you think I’d be allowed to? You don’t think I’m too weak to ever step foot into the tournament grounds?” Blitzen glances down by your side, where Vixen is struggling to free wrists from your hand, to little success. She seems to consider what she sees for a moment, before she sighs and shakes her head. “I suppose I can’t argue with your results,” she says. A flash of anger runs through you at the tone of her voice, like she still thinks that you’re weak, but is being forced into agreeing with you. “I suppose you already know that participation in the Reindeer Games is on an invitational basis,” Blitzen says casually, as if she doesn’t remember that it’s been your dream to win it ever since you were both children. “I assume you also know that in order to qualify, you must issue a formal challenge to a member of the previous year’s crew, and that defeating them in combat will grant you an opportunity to take their place in the tournament.” “I’m well aware,” you say, with a strained smile. She glances at Vixen again. “While traditionally, you would have to wait for at least twenty four hours after issuing your challenge to actively begin combat, considering your clear victory in this fight, I would be amenable to allowing this to count as your successful qualification into the tournament.” You feel Vixen stiffen in your hands, and you can tell she’s about to say something in protest, but before she can say anything, you speak first. “No thanks,” you say, with a smile. Blitzen’s expression shifts for the first time since you’d started speaking, into a frown of confusion. “Do you not wish to participate in the Reindeer Games?” she asks. “I do,” you say. “Then why do you not take Vixen’s spot, when offered?” she asks. You grin at Blitzen’s question. It was one that you’ve considered a lot in the final few weeks of your training. Worded differently, the question changed into one of, “How do you plan to take your revenge?” Instead of answering just her, you look up at all the reindeer present. “Because the tournament is too sanctioned and too clean,” you say, addressing each and every one of them. “And I plan on doing much more than beating all of you.” The reactions from the other reindeer are varied, ranging from excitement at the challenge, to disgust at the idea. “What do you plan to do to us, then, that’s so scandalous that you have to do it away from Santa’s watchful eyes?” Cupid asks, with a panted breath, her eyes darting eagerly between your face, to your cock, to the way Vixen curls up behind you, like she’s trying to pretend she’s not there. “Don’t tell me you plan to do something naughty.” You glance at Cupid to see her biting her lip as she anxiously waits for your answer, but when you speak, it’s for everyone present. “I plan to put you all in your proper place,” you say. “Beneath me.” Cupid lets out a low groan, as she doubles over on the spot. The reaction from the other reindeer ranges from disgust to mild amusement, but nobody’s particularly surprised by it. “Santa’s always watching, Rudolph,” Blitzen says, bringing back the conversation to focus. “He know’ll if you’ve been bad or good.” You frown at that, the words giving you more damage than Vixen’s kicks had to your temple. “He isn’t always watching, Blitzen,” you say. “For goodness’ sake, I know it’s not true.” Blitzen’s expression twists, before she shakes her head and sighs. “There are no rules against what you’re doing, I suppose,” she says. “But you must know that every single challenge you issue is just an additional unnecessary fight. If you’re even attempting to win the tournament, it would be smarter to take Vixen’s place.” “I intend to do more than just win, Blitzen,” you say. Blitzen stares up at you, and sighs. She doesn’t say anything, but the sigh alone conveys the clear message that she doesn’t believe you, but doesn’t want to say it out loud. For someone so usually stone-faced, Blitzen is horrible at hiding what she feels. “Then, I suppose we’re finished here,” she says, stomping her foot once and turning around. “We’ll let the worker elves know that the sounds in the forest were just a result of Vixen’s training.” “That’s what you were here for?” you ask, with a laugh. It seemed like you were closer to the Christmas village than you’d thought. Blitzen nods, but pauses. After a moment’s thought she turns to the side to glance back at you. “I would also ask that you either take her deeper into the woods, or find a way to quiet her somehow,” Blitzen says casually. “It’s easier to explain away the sounds of combat more than it is to explain the sounds of sex.” You raise an eyebrow in surprise and can’t help but bark out a laugh at the realisation of what Blitzen was giving you permission to do. Vixen seems to realise it only a few seconds after you do. “Hey!” she shouts, even as half of the reindeer have already started to walk away from the scene at the implied dismissal. “You’re just going to leave me here?!” None of them even react to her words, aside from Blitzen, who turns just enough to look into Vixen’s eyes. “You lost,” she says, before continuing to walk away. You laugh again, shaking your head as she disappears into the forest. You look down at Vixen to see her stunned, though she’s shaken out of it when you give her wrists a hard yank, causing her to stumble and fall on her knees in front of you. “I gotta say, I’m surprised I’m agreeing with Blitzen on anything, but here I am, doing it twice in one day. You lost, Vixen. Now be a girl and open your mouth so I can shut you up for good.” Vixen glares at you, but with a cursory glance around you, it falls quickly when she realises that there’s nobody around that can save you. “Please,” she begs, her eyes flickering from your face to the danger that floats just a breath away from her lips. “I won’t be able to take it.” “Well, that’s not really my problem, is it?” you ask, as you use your free hand to grab one of her antlers. You press against her lips, and though the feeling of her gritted teeth worries you somewhat, you can see the emotional war between Vixen’s eyes as she debates between defiance and cooperation. Eventually though, she opens her mouth nervously, as if she somehow expects you to be gentle if she cooperates with you, as if she’s somehow forgotten the years of abuse that you’d hardly even begun to pay back to her. You smile, and trusting that she won’t pull away too much if you let go, your hand roams down from her antler to stroke her cheek. “Good girl,” you say again. A loud moan echoes in the clearing. You blink in surprise, and turn around to see Cupid, sitting down in the snow with her back against a tree. One of her hands has disappeared into her pants, and one into her shirt, as she twitches on the spot. “Don’t stop now,” she whines. “I’m sooo close.” You blink again, not knowing how to react to the situation. After a moment of thought, you speak again. “Wait your turn,” you say. Cupid groans, and her entire body arches back against the tree. She stays like that for a moment, mewling quietly until she relaxes suddenly, falling back onto the floor. It takes her a few seconds to gather herself and stand up, brushing the snow off the bottom of her pants, before sending a sultry wink in your direction. “I look forward to it. I’ll let you have fun with your appetizer in the meantime,” she says, before merrily skipping away. You stare at the spot in the forest that she’s disappeared through for a few more seconds, before you turn back to Vixen. “I think that was weird enough that it might’ve killed my mood,” you admit. Vixen’s eyes brighten with hope. “Rea-” Her words are cut off with a gagging cough, as you shove the entirety of your cock into her open mouth. “Nah,” you say. You suppose what happens next isn’t particularly quiet, but at the very least, you hope that it’s good enough that the elves don’t hear.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641676/chapters/197815256	{"authors": ["fiveyanderesinatrenchcoat"], "language": "English", "title": "Rudolph's Red-nosed Revenge"}
From Levasseur to Atlantis The whistling of the trains could be heard on the platform while people moved fast, dragging their luggage with them, to get their train on time. The heat reflecting on the ground and the people unaware of what’s around were stifling. That day, the Paris’ train station, Gare du Nord, was crowded. People seemed to be particularly busy because summer came and the temperatures went up quickly. Therefore, it was no exception for a girl who carried a big suitcase in her arms while running to get her train on time. She still had time before the departure but she wanted to have a comfortable seat. This way, she rushed through the crowd. But she wasn’t the only one rushing and ended up pushed away by the shoulder of a man who still wanted to arrive on time. The young girl realized she was in danger when she tipped over and saw that she was abnormally getting closer to the track. Thankfully, the track stopped getting closer as a hand grabbed her arm with strength and pulled her to the platform. When she saw a train passing at full speed right in front of her eyes, she realized her luck. Once back on her feet, she turned to face an aged man wearing a red shirt. He was still holding onto her arm and let go once he was assured she was out of danger. – Goddamn it kid! You almost died here! Thank God I was there! He exclaimed out of relief. He was speaking English. It wasn’t weird for people to speak English here since it was the train station of the French capital city. – Thank you sir, she answered, I almost finished my days, crushed by a train. – You welcome, young one! Derien, as french people say. Then, he turned to leave. The young girl took out of her pocket a golden coin and watched the man leave. Her bad habit as a pickpocket couldn’t go off of her. She stared at the golden coin which looked like a treasure when the sunlight was reflected on the shiny gold. The center was made of glass, and it had engravings on the outer golden part of the coin. The words engraved were neatly done, looking like a piece of art. After a bit of staring, she could read something that seemed like latin “Beati hispani”. When she tried to see through the glass, she couldn’t see much. Then, she turned the coin on the other side but it seemed that there was nothing to be seen except for points engraved. After playing with the coin for a bit, she slid it into her pocket and got into her train with her suitcase in her arms and took a seat. The girl was on her way to her grandparents’ place in Calais. She watched the time on her phone and assumed the train would be leaving soon. And indeed, the train started moving and she stared outside to watch the people and trains go by. Soon enough, the train station was far behind and all she could see was the countryside. The scenery went by in front of her eyes. – How many time until we arrive, Elena? – Sully, we just got off! The girl recognized this voice. She turned to peek at the four seats behind her and saw the man who saved her life — and from whom she stole the coin. He was with another man and a young woman. The man was sleeping and the woman was reading the newspaper. When she noticed the equipment with them, she understood she might have made a terrible mistake when stealing the coin. The black haired teenager turned around and made sure to not be noticed. When she opened her eyes, the teen realized she fell asleep without noticing. She rubbed her eyes while yawning and the first thing she did after that was checking if that weird golden coin was still in her pocket. She felt with her fingers the coin under the fabric of her jeans and felt relieved. She then verified if she did not miss her stop by looking at the screen on the ceiling but, thankfully, the train was still in Lille. Then, she turned to see between the seats if the three people were still behind her. The blonde woman and the aged man were sound asleep but the man was up and seemed focused on the pages of a little notebook in his hands, which seemed to have been in a rough ride before. Since the man had his back turned, she tried to read what was on the notebook. Some things about a pirate named "La Bouse". That wasn’t an unknown name to her. She squinted her eyes to decipher what was written next. Her heart almost stopped beating when the man suddenly turned behind him to see her peek between his seat and the one next to him. She immediately turned back around, surprised and a bit scared for being caught red-handed, staring at his notes. The man didn’t seem to care and continued his mumbling and staring. She turned again, trying to be more sneaky to not be caught reading again. He turned again, noticing she seemed interested but she turned back again. – Hey. You, there. What were you lookin’ at? – Nothin! Sorry sir. – Sir ? Well I'll be damned. It’s true that I already passed the thirties. She couldn’t stop a giggle escaping from her mouth and turned back to the man. – What are you reading sir? –	From Levasseur to Atlantis The whistling of the trains could be heard on the platform while people moved fast, dragging their luggage with them, to get their train on time. The heat reflecting on the ground and the people unaware of what’s around were stifling. That day, the Paris’ train station, Gare du Nord, was crowded. People seemed to be particularly busy because summer came and the temperatures went up quickly. Therefore, it was no exception for a girl who carried a big suitcase in her arms while running to get her train on time. She still had time before the departure but she wanted to have a comfortable seat. This way, she rushed through the crowd. But she wasn’t the only one rushing and ended up pushed away by the shoulder of a man who still wanted to arrive on time. The young girl realized she was in danger when she tipped over and saw that she was abnormally getting closer to the track. Thankfully, the track stopped getting closer as a hand grabbed her arm with strength and pulled her to the platform. When she saw a train passing at full speed right in front of her eyes, she realized her luck. Once back on her feet, she turned to face an aged man wearing a red shirt. He was still holding onto her arm and let go once he was assured she was out of danger. – Goddamn it kid! You almost died here! Thank God I was there! He exclaimed out of relief. He was speaking English. It wasn’t weird for people to speak English here since it was the train station of the French capital city. – Thank you sir, she answered, I almost finished my days, crushed by a train. – You welcome, young one! Derien, as french people say. Then, he turned to leave. The young girl took out of her pocket a golden coin and watched the man leave. Her bad habit as a pickpocket couldn’t go off of her. She stared at the golden coin which looked like a treasure when the sunlight was reflected on the shiny gold. The center was made of glass, and it had engravings on the outer golden part of the coin. The words engraved were neatly done, looking like a piece of art. After a bit of staring, she could read something that seemed like latin “Beati hispani”. When she tried to see through the glass, she couldn’t see much. Then, she turned the coin on the other side but it seemed that there was nothing to be seen except for points engraved. After playing with the coin for a bit, she slid it into her pocket and got into her train with her suitcase in her arms and took a seat. The girl was on her way to her grandparents’ place in Calais. She watched the time on her phone and assumed the train would be leaving soon. And indeed, the train started moving and she stared outside to watch the people and trains go by. Soon enough, the train station was far behind and all she could see was the countryside. The scenery went by in front of her eyes. – How many time until we arrive, Elena? – Sully, we just got off! The girl recognized this voice. She turned to peek at the four seats behind her and saw the man who saved her life — and from whom she stole the coin. He was with another man and a young woman. The man was sleeping and the woman was reading the newspaper. When she noticed the equipment with them, she understood she might have made a terrible mistake when stealing the coin. The black haired teenager turned around and made sure to not be noticed. When she opened her eyes, the teen realized she fell asleep without noticing. She rubbed her eyes while yawning and the first thing she did after that was checking if that weird golden coin was still in her pocket. She felt with her fingers the coin under the fabric of her jeans and felt relieved. She then verified if she did not miss her stop by looking at the screen on the ceiling but, thankfully, the train was still in Lille. Then, she turned to see between the seats if the three people were still behind her. The blonde woman and the aged man were sound asleep but the man was up and seemed focused on the pages of a little notebook in his hands, which seemed to have been in a rough ride before. Since the man had his back turned, she tried to read what was on the notebook. Some things about a pirate named "La Bouse". That wasn’t an unknown name to her. She squinted her eyes to decipher what was written next. Her heart almost stopped beating when the man suddenly turned behind him to see her peek between his seat and the one next to him. She immediately turned back around, surprised and a bit scared for being caught red-handed, staring at his notes. The man didn’t seem to care and continued his mumbling and staring. She turned again, trying to be more sneaky to not be caught reading again. He turned again, noticing she seemed interested but she turned back again. – Hey. You, there. What were you lookin’ at? – Nothin! Sorry sir. – Sir ? Well I'll be damned. It’s true that I already passed the thirties. She couldn’t stop a giggle escaping from her mouth and turned back to the man. – What are you reading sir? – It’s my notes. About Oliver de La Bouse. – The famous pirate ? – Yeah! You know him? – Of course i do. I love pirates. – Well, d’you know what’s my job? – Archeologist? – Nah. I'm a treasure hunter. – So you're unemployed ? – Hey! Treasure hunter IS a job. Should I mention that I gain a lot of money from the treasures I find? – Wait, you don’t give it to the government? – Hell no. Why would I? I don’t think I mentioned being an archeologist. – You're not a treasure hunter then. You're just a grave robber. – Hey! You've got quite the sharp tongue, haven’t you! She chuckled and then put her knees on the seat and turned completely around with her hands on the back of his seat to have a better view of his notebook. – So you're hunting Levasseur’s treasure? With the cryptogram and everything ? – Exactly. And guess what. – What? – The cryptogram is unreadable in that state. Us "grave robbers" found a coin as well as his notebook from a certain person in Reunion Island. – Huh? – There was a lot of stuff in that notebook. But the only thing we understood was that he wrote first “je suis né sous les vagues”. So we assumed we should at least check the town he was born in. – Calais! – You seem to know a lot ’bout him don’t ya. – Err... yea well… actually… wait a second. She sat back on her seat and went through her suitcase to get a little cute notebook and handed it over to the man. She watched him go through the pages until reaching the page on which was written ‘Olivier Levasseur’. He read all the pages and drawings of his numerous flags. – Hey! You got the spirit of a treasure hunter. – Thank you sir. My grandma is in Calais. Since I go every summer there, I've been told the greatest french pirate was born there. So I did the research. – Mind if the grave robber robs the flags? – No! Go on, she answered with a chuckle.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641751?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Lilis_tryin"], "language": "English", "title": "From Levasseur to Atlantis"}
Vulcans can love After the conclusion of the five-year mission Spock had decided to return to Vulcan to go through the Kolinahr ritual. Over the past year he had found himself emotionally compromised and wished to rid himself from all of his emotions to become as Vulcan as one could be. The captain had returned to earth, presumably, to go on another multi-year mission into space. Spock knew that Jim only felt at home on a starship. But before he went to Gol to start the journey to Kolinahr, he visited his parents, his mother had insisted he came to see them before the ritual. After his mother had greeted him with the hug as she had always done in private, his father had asked him to join him in his office. Spock knew it wasn’t logical to care too much about what his father thought about his life decisions, especially after they had not talked for so many years after he had left Vulcan and still, he longed for his father’s approval for his decision. He sat down across from Sarek who took some time to look at him. “I wish for you to know that I’m proud of you,” he said. This was the last thing Spock had expected to hear from his father. “I wanted you to join the Science Academy to become closer to our culture and one day succeed me. Instead, you went to earth and represented our race in Starfleet, which lead to many desirable connections between humans and vulcans. I recognize that I have been mistaken in disapproving your decision.” “Thank you, father,” Spock replied, he felt more pleased than he would have liked about his father’s approval. “I do not disapprove of your choice to attempt the Kolinahr, however it is not in line with your former decisions. Why did you choose it?” “I found myself emotionally compromised and I wish to fully follow Surak’s teaching.” Sarek nodded. “You’re in love with Captain Kirk,” he concluded. Spock shook his head. “Vulcans don’t fall in love,” he insisted. His father himself had told him that his marriage to Amanda was just logical, a great way to strengthen the relationship between humans and vulcans. Sarek breathed in deeply. “Why, do you think I married your mother?” he asked. “As you said, it was just logical, for diplomatic reasons,” Spock replied, recounting what his father had told him when he had been 10 years old. “No, I married her, because I loved her. And after all these years, I still love her and she loves me. I married her because I could not bear the thought of being parted from her.” Spock didn’t know what to say, as several puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place. “And you love Captain Kirk. I believe, you seek Kolinahr for my approval and to rid yourself of these feelings. But it is illogical to now start to seek my approval, you never did before. However, I will approve of whatever choice you will make.” “I believe I have to leave for earth immediately,” Spock said as he got up. He hadn’t even realized he had made a decision but it was there. He would go to earth, hope that Jim hadn’t left yet and confess his feelings. He could still do the Kolinahr afterwards if Jim would reject him. But he needed to tell him. He got the first ship going to earth and arrived only a couple of days after Jim must have come back. Chances were high that he hadn’t been assigned to another mission yet. As he entered Starfleet headquarters, he immediately realized that people seemed to recognized him. He only needed to ask a couple of people until he was pointed into the right direction. Apparently, Jim had been assigned an office and Spock wondered if that meant, Jim was planning to stay on earth. As he reached the door, he stilled for a moment, taking a couple of seconds to organize his thoughts. He had time to explore his feelings a little more during his flight to earth. He had pushed his feelings for his captain away since he realized they were there. He had always known that they were there but he had never examined them until now. Meeting Jim had never made him nervous before. Barely anything made him nervous. But here he was standing now, in the Starfleet headquarters, in front of a door that had Jim Kirk on the other side, feeling incredibly nervous. “It’s illogical to be nervous,” he whispered to himself before he lifted his hand to knock. “Come in.” It was Jim’s voice, of course it was. Spock’s heartrate accelerated as he pushed the door handle down and cursed himself for the reaction to hearing Jim’s voice. Jim sat behind a desk, his head low over a PADD as he read something. Spock closed the door and stayed there at parade rest. It took only a few seconds until Jim looked up but it felt like minutes. The moment he saw him, his face lit up. “Spock!” he exclaimed and got up in a hurry. “Hello Captain,” Spock replied as Jim hurried through the room and came to a stop just in front of Spock. “Permission to hug?” Jim asked. “Always, Captain,” was the only thing Spock could say and just a moment later he was pulled into Jim’s arms. Spock sank into the hug, wrapped his own	Vulcans can love After the conclusion of the five-year mission Spock had decided to return to Vulcan to go through the Kolinahr ritual. Over the past year he had found himself emotionally compromised and wished to rid himself from all of his emotions to become as Vulcan as one could be. The captain had returned to earth, presumably, to go on another multi-year mission into space. Spock knew that Jim only felt at home on a starship. But before he went to Gol to start the journey to Kolinahr, he visited his parents, his mother had insisted he came to see them before the ritual. After his mother had greeted him with the hug as she had always done in private, his father had asked him to join him in his office. Spock knew it wasn’t logical to care too much about what his father thought about his life decisions, especially after they had not talked for so many years after he had left Vulcan and still, he longed for his father’s approval for his decision. He sat down across from Sarek who took some time to look at him. “I wish for you to know that I’m proud of you,” he said. This was the last thing Spock had expected to hear from his father. “I wanted you to join the Science Academy to become closer to our culture and one day succeed me. Instead, you went to earth and represented our race in Starfleet, which lead to many desirable connections between humans and vulcans. I recognize that I have been mistaken in disapproving your decision.” “Thank you, father,” Spock replied, he felt more pleased than he would have liked about his father’s approval. “I do not disapprove of your choice to attempt the Kolinahr, however it is not in line with your former decisions. Why did you choose it?” “I found myself emotionally compromised and I wish to fully follow Surak’s teaching.” Sarek nodded. “You’re in love with Captain Kirk,” he concluded. Spock shook his head. “Vulcans don’t fall in love,” he insisted. His father himself had told him that his marriage to Amanda was just logical, a great way to strengthen the relationship between humans and vulcans. Sarek breathed in deeply. “Why, do you think I married your mother?” he asked. “As you said, it was just logical, for diplomatic reasons,” Spock replied, recounting what his father had told him when he had been 10 years old. “No, I married her, because I loved her. And after all these years, I still love her and she loves me. I married her because I could not bear the thought of being parted from her.” Spock didn’t know what to say, as several puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place. “And you love Captain Kirk. I believe, you seek Kolinahr for my approval and to rid yourself of these feelings. But it is illogical to now start to seek my approval, you never did before. However, I will approve of whatever choice you will make.” “I believe I have to leave for earth immediately,” Spock said as he got up. He hadn’t even realized he had made a decision but it was there. He would go to earth, hope that Jim hadn’t left yet and confess his feelings. He could still do the Kolinahr afterwards if Jim would reject him. But he needed to tell him. He got the first ship going to earth and arrived only a couple of days after Jim must have come back. Chances were high that he hadn’t been assigned to another mission yet. As he entered Starfleet headquarters, he immediately realized that people seemed to recognized him. He only needed to ask a couple of people until he was pointed into the right direction. Apparently, Jim had been assigned an office and Spock wondered if that meant, Jim was planning to stay on earth. As he reached the door, he stilled for a moment, taking a couple of seconds to organize his thoughts. He had time to explore his feelings a little more during his flight to earth. He had pushed his feelings for his captain away since he realized they were there. He had always known that they were there but he had never examined them until now. Meeting Jim had never made him nervous before. Barely anything made him nervous. But here he was standing now, in the Starfleet headquarters, in front of a door that had Jim Kirk on the other side, feeling incredibly nervous. “It’s illogical to be nervous,” he whispered to himself before he lifted his hand to knock. “Come in.” It was Jim’s voice, of course it was. Spock’s heartrate accelerated as he pushed the door handle down and cursed himself for the reaction to hearing Jim’s voice. Jim sat behind a desk, his head low over a PADD as he read something. Spock closed the door and stayed there at parade rest. It took only a few seconds until Jim looked up but it felt like minutes. The moment he saw him, his face lit up. “Spock!” he exclaimed and got up in a hurry. “Hello Captain,” Spock replied as Jim hurried through the room and came to a stop just in front of Spock. “Permission to hug?” Jim asked. “Always, Captain,” was the only thing Spock could say and just a moment later he was pulled into Jim’s arms. Spock sank into the hug, wrapped his own arms around Jim and closed his eyes for a moment. Jim took a step back and looked at Spock with this beautiful smile on his face. “How come you’re here? I thought you wanted to go back to Vulcan. Not that I’m not happy to see you.” “I am also pleased to see you. And I have been to Vulcan but after I talked to my father, I knew I had to come to earth.” “Did you have a fight with your father?” Jim asked, his voice sounded worried Spock shook his head. “No, he advised me to forego Kolinahr and instead to find you and confess my feelings.” Jim blinked at him after he said this. There were several seconds of silence between them. “Your feelings, Spock?” Jim finally asked. “Yes. I have been in love with you for four years, two months and six days now,” Spock explained. Jim took a step closer to Spock and put a hand on his arm. Spock hadn’t considered how probable it was that Jim would return his feelings. But now he would rate them pretty high. “I love you too, Spock,” Jim replied. And Spock now felt all the nervousness from earlier lift. Spock took Jim’s free hand and lifted it up between them, gently caressing Jim’s fingers. And for a long time it was quiet between them as they gently touched hands and faces and finally their lips met in a human kiss.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641766	{"authors": ["dat_carovieh"], "language": "English", "title": "Vulcans can love"}
From A Musician's Heart (Working Title) "Someday, you'll find the people who could see the world the same way you do." In our everyday life, there was always one thing that we could hear. It's from the sound of the cars driving around the streets to the bustling footsteps that they might hear from the sidewalks. In one corner, they may hear someone busking at the park while playing an instrument. And at the other, they might have heard someone laugh about that one inappropriate joke they've heard at the news that morning. The sounds that they hear around them, are simply forms of music. Music does dwell in ways that they didn't even describe. Especially if one person could familiarize it from an angle that no one seems to hear. And if they could put them all together, it creates a catastrophic symphony that instantly bursts out in the most melodic way possible. Sometimes even a little symphony turns into a memorable one. If a single person could even think about having to hear a single melody that instantly encapsulates their life, it does influence them. However for one person like Tabitha Caldwell, having to hear melodies has been quite melancholic for her. But ever since then, when Tabitha was just a little girl, her childhood life was simply as they would expect from a very loving family. Growing up, she does often learn to love the simplest things in life. But unlike any other children that wanted something other than a finicky gadget, Tabitha was strictly that one person who loves to surround herself in the presence of her loving parents. For every single day, she tends to bond with her mother, Marissa, on doing their usual chores. And once they've finished all of their chores, they both huddle back into the bedroom to study with the books they've already had. Even if her mother knew each story's plot from cover to cover, Tabitha wouldn't have to mind rereading those stories again to her. And when nighttime comes, her father comes along with a magic spell that she cannot simply forget. Her father was a pianist. He loved hearing melodies ever since his grandfather had introduced it to him in the form of classical. Classical music has always been a staple in her father's life, and it clearly shows by how he numerously displayed his vinyl discs into a bookshelves ranging from classical all the way to jazz. She had seen and heard him play her favorite tunes on his old wooden piano in the living room. And almost every night, her father serenaded her with a flourish that had swept her off towards her slumber. Tabitha could almost never imagine how whimsical her life was surrounded only by his love for classical music. And those nights with him were memorable enough to encapsulate how grateful she was to have a father like him. But until one unfortunate night, everything changed when her mother decided to break up with him and he eventually left them. Almost as if the melodies had come into a bitter end, she and her mother had left themselves in utter silence. Since then they broke up, her mother had thrown away all the stuff that was implied with her father, including his old piano that she donated to an antique shop. Months after they broke up, her mother had met her stepfather, Daniel. She once mentioned that Daniel used to be the one guy she actually hung out with during the days where she worked as a barista at New Jersey. And then, they actually hit themselves off after a year. They actually got married and they settled down in his home country. But there's always a catch. Like they always say, after marriage, a man could show his true intentions towards his wife. Immediately, things soon arose. Although, Daniel could seem to be an ideal stepfather for Tabitha. But in hindsight, her stepfather doesn't seem to be the kind of person who ain't wanted to pursue an enduring relationship like her father once had. If she had fought enough of him, her mother does so too. For years, they had struggled to make the ends meet. Until now, her mother hasn't even said a word about her stepfather's attitude. And those are the days that felt such a blur to her life ever since she tremendously avoided having to doze off from having to be surrounded by her stepfather's unwavering presence. In a hazy afternoon, the sun bluntly shone underneath the maroon-colored curtains. The sunlight did brighten up her room, luminously projecting the room that shows how disorganized it was. A record player was playing in the background with vinyl discs scattered over the entire cabinets with vinyl covers of jazz greats such as Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday and Bill Evans and some of her favorite classical hits such as Ludwig van Beethoven and Antonio Vivaldi just to name a few. Alongside some modern artists that she'd recently liked, including her favorite artist that she often describes as the person who invented the indies. Polaroid pictures of her friends dangled around above her bed, and the fairy lights flickered through	From A Musician's Heart (Working Title) "Someday, you'll find the people who could see the world the same way you do." In our everyday life, there was always one thing that we could hear. It's from the sound of the cars driving around the streets to the bustling footsteps that they might hear from the sidewalks. In one corner, they may hear someone busking at the park while playing an instrument. And at the other, they might have heard someone laugh about that one inappropriate joke they've heard at the news that morning. The sounds that they hear around them, are simply forms of music. Music does dwell in ways that they didn't even describe. Especially if one person could familiarize it from an angle that no one seems to hear. And if they could put them all together, it creates a catastrophic symphony that instantly bursts out in the most melodic way possible. Sometimes even a little symphony turns into a memorable one. If a single person could even think about having to hear a single melody that instantly encapsulates their life, it does influence them. However for one person like Tabitha Caldwell, having to hear melodies has been quite melancholic for her. But ever since then, when Tabitha was just a little girl, her childhood life was simply as they would expect from a very loving family. Growing up, she does often learn to love the simplest things in life. But unlike any other children that wanted something other than a finicky gadget, Tabitha was strictly that one person who loves to surround herself in the presence of her loving parents. For every single day, she tends to bond with her mother, Marissa, on doing their usual chores. And once they've finished all of their chores, they both huddle back into the bedroom to study with the books they've already had. Even if her mother knew each story's plot from cover to cover, Tabitha wouldn't have to mind rereading those stories again to her. And when nighttime comes, her father comes along with a magic spell that she cannot simply forget. Her father was a pianist. He loved hearing melodies ever since his grandfather had introduced it to him in the form of classical. Classical music has always been a staple in her father's life, and it clearly shows by how he numerously displayed his vinyl discs into a bookshelves ranging from classical all the way to jazz. She had seen and heard him play her favorite tunes on his old wooden piano in the living room. And almost every night, her father serenaded her with a flourish that had swept her off towards her slumber. Tabitha could almost never imagine how whimsical her life was surrounded only by his love for classical music. And those nights with him were memorable enough to encapsulate how grateful she was to have a father like him. But until one unfortunate night, everything changed when her mother decided to break up with him and he eventually left them. Almost as if the melodies had come into a bitter end, she and her mother had left themselves in utter silence. Since then they broke up, her mother had thrown away all the stuff that was implied with her father, including his old piano that she donated to an antique shop. Months after they broke up, her mother had met her stepfather, Daniel. She once mentioned that Daniel used to be the one guy she actually hung out with during the days where she worked as a barista at New Jersey. And then, they actually hit themselves off after a year. They actually got married and they settled down in his home country. But there's always a catch. Like they always say, after marriage, a man could show his true intentions towards his wife. Immediately, things soon arose. Although, Daniel could seem to be an ideal stepfather for Tabitha. But in hindsight, her stepfather doesn't seem to be the kind of person who ain't wanted to pursue an enduring relationship like her father once had. If she had fought enough of him, her mother does so too. For years, they had struggled to make the ends meet. Until now, her mother hasn't even said a word about her stepfather's attitude. And those are the days that felt such a blur to her life ever since she tremendously avoided having to doze off from having to be surrounded by her stepfather's unwavering presence. In a hazy afternoon, the sun bluntly shone underneath the maroon-colored curtains. The sunlight did brighten up her room, luminously projecting the room that shows how disorganized it was. A record player was playing in the background with vinyl discs scattered over the entire cabinets with vinyl covers of jazz greats such as Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday and Bill Evans and some of her favorite classical hits such as Ludwig van Beethoven and Antonio Vivaldi just to name a few. Alongside some modern artists that she'd recently liked, including her favorite artist that she often describes as the person who invented the indies. Polaroid pictures of her friends dangled around above her bed, and the fairy lights flickered through alongside the math and science books that are stacked against each other. Besides the lamp in her white study desk, there are a few sentimental pieces that are gifted by her favorite teachers in her old elementary school. One of them was a keychain that was made with beads that uniquely spells out her name. As Tabitha sat down at the large cushion beside the open window, she inquisitively scrolled down on her phone. Her phone beeped suddenly, and her thumb swiped off towards a post that her mother just shared at her Facebook account. In that post, the photo equally describes it as a biblical quote about marriage. So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, let no one separate. ~ Matthew 19:6 "Love you forever and ever, Dan." her mother said, almost as if her stepfather had meant the world for her. She rolled her eyes at the phone, humiliated by how her mother bluntly stated that post. She soon closed it, then she placed it on her bedside table. She heard a knock on her old beige door, and she turned her sights towards it. "Come in." she murmured, standing up from her seat and she lifted the tone arm of the record player. "I brought the books you've asked." her friend, Lynette greets her as she enters her room with a pile of photographic science books. "Thanks." she glanced back at her, and then opened her laptop to check in some photos that she anomalously took. Lynette sat down on her bed, noticing the pile of laundry that was scattered underneath her. "You know, you should reconsider tidying your place up." she grimaced. "After all, you're gonna be moving out in the next couple of days." Tabitha nods, despite being focused on organizing the photos and editing quite a few of them. Despite how horribly those photos are, she managed to flare those off by simply editing them. Good thing that's the only thing that she learned by herself. "Shit." she murmured, reaching out for her notebook and flipping right into a few pages. "If only I would get those photos to work out." While she churned away at her laptop, Lynette began to tidy things up a bit. She intently piled everything that she saw, and she stored them off in the laundry baskets. At the midst of her chore, Lynette suddenly came upon a folded piece of paper that's neatly tucked in on the very corner of the room, somehow hiding behind the large dresser. She gently picked it up, inspecting it as she noticed the unfamiliar handwriting that's written in front of the folded paper. "Uh, Lyn?" Tabitha called, raising her hand towards the direction to where her white desk table was. "Could you grab my highlighter?" Come on. Lynette stared at the folded paper, her lips quivered upon the urge to read what was in the paper. "Lyn?" Tabitha looked away from her laptop screen, glancing at Lynette. "Are you there?" "Uh, yes! Sorry for the hesitation." Lynette responded. And immediately she placed the folded paper on top of the dresser. She quickly grabbed the highlighter at the white desk table, giving it to Tabitha before she continuously did her chore. When she finally managed to get all of her laundry sorted, she heard the door being shut. "Girls, I brought some food for dinner!" Marissa called them. "Hurry before the food gets cold." Tabitha turned her head around towards the door, and she shut her laptop. "Coming, mum." The two girls bounded off towards the kitchen, and they sat alongside Marissa as they munched down on their dinner—some Filipino-style takeouts that had been mildly heated up like it's still freshly made straight out of a Chinese wok. "I knew that you had done so much from doing photographic work," Marissa beams, staring right towards her daughter. "And from the way that you took them, you really blew me away by how much you're into this thing." Tabitha smiled at her mother, begrudgingly accepting her acknowledgement. "I only do this as a hobby." she acquiesced. "It's not like I liked having to take different photos of objects that I would likely see everyday." "But you could make a job out of this in the future." Marissa reckoned. "Wasn't even that odd for you to have a moment that you'll take at that one particular time?" Tabitha sighed, glancing down towards her takeout food. Mom surely wants to take things seriously. "Say, congratulations on your job promotion." Lynette cheered, her mere excitement piped in as she directly looked at Marissa. "I heard that you're gonna be promoted to become a graphic designer for the New York Initiative." Marissa smirked. "Yes." she responded. "Well, as a matter of fact, in the next couple of weeks, we're gonna be moving out of the state and moving into a sleek apartment that the company has provided." "It must've been so exciting to be in a new city." Lynette nods, spinning her fork towards her plate. "I bet Tabby would have said that otherwise." Tabitha glanced at her friend, knowingly giving her the blunt expression. "I know it's really hard for Tabitha to move out of this state." Lynette adds. "Does her dad know that you two are gonna move out?" "He and his mother had a bit of an argument." Marissa shrugged, gripping her hand onto a glass of cold water. "He somehow managed to make a deal out of her." she pursed her lip. "She eventually agreed, but with one expectation of having to send her money for her meds." Lynette sighed. "It does seem kinda rough for him." she lamented. "I couldn't imagine having a disproving mother like her." Tabitha stared at the two women in front of her, mildly observing how the two had a conversation about her grandmother. Although her grandmother does seem to earn her distrust against her parents, Tabitha does seem to understand her intuitions when it comes to following her religious terms. And she does that strictly, to the point that her own mother did once give her some truthful criticism. In the end, she and her father moved out of her house. For years, her mother has only heard of her grandmother through a series of conversations that her father forms out for her. Although she wanted to meet her grandmother, her parents unfortunately don't allow her so. "Thankfully, I did raise her well." Marissa beamed, looking towards her daughter with a grateful smile on her face. "If it weren't for her father, I would still eventually be stuck in the same ol' life thinking about–" The conversation was interrupted by a single knock on the front door. Marissa quickly bounded towards the door, and immediately she was greeted by a middle-aged man. "Oh, Harold!" Marissa exclaimed, her eyes widened up with surprise. "Hi, uh, I came to pick up my niece." Harold adjusted the long sleeves of his police uniform. "Her mother just called me up." "Hey, uncle!" Lynette greeted him, popping up from behind Marissa. "I was just expecting you!" "Your mother's been worried sick." Harold said, shouldering against his niece as he walked down on the pathway with her. "Oh!" Lynette muttered. "I must've come home then." After the two had said their goodbyes, Tabitha went back to her room to finish her work on her laptop. By the time she finished her work, her mother brought her some old boxes that she took from the attic. "I'm gonna be packing up the room by tomorrow." her mother informed her, causally placing the boxes into the very corner of her room. "Just make sure you don't bump towards them." Tabitha nods, putting her laptop on her desk and she sits down on her bed. She took a glance at some of her stuffed plushies that are placed in front of her pillows. There are some plushies that were sent by her godparents whom they are living abroad. The other smaller plushies are from her old friends from her primary classes. But one particular plush that stood out from the rest was her stuffed lion, particularly with a tuft of an auburn mane on it and it has a mark that reassembles a paw-print. She grabbed on to the lion plush, and she stroked her fingers against its mane. She gazed onto it, reminiscing about the time when she fell in love with it. ----------------- The Guardians was Tabitha's favorite comfort show. And believe it or not, she tends to talk about the show almost every single day. Especially for a 12-year-old tween that wanted something whimsical to watch. And every other day, she pretended to be a princess who held out a magical scepter, and she imagines having a lion cub having to give her some sage advice about how monarchy does serve out in their day to day lives. There was no denying that she loves this show. But somehow, Tabitha does wish that she had a lion cub just like the princess. And one Saturday night, her wish came true. When her mother decided to take her on a trip to the mall to go on for some shopping, Tabitha couldn't risk taking that chance to go with her. They did manage to bring a few toys to give out for charity, but as soon as they walked out of the toy section, she saw it. The lion plush that was sitting there on the shelf, alongside with the other plushies that are scattered across it. As soon as she laid her eyes on it, she immediately snatched it and she embraced it. For the first time since she watched the show, she finally had a plushie of the lion that she desperately wanted. Once they had dropped all of the toys in the respective donation center, they both settled down in a barbecue restaurant. While they are waiting for their lunch, Tabitha relentlessly hasn't stopped stroking her fingers onto it. Her mother soon took notice of it, almost embittered by the looks of her daughter being enamored by the comfort of her own plushie. "Mom, he's too beautiful." she cried, joyfully squishing her plush and holding it as if it was a fragile egg that was waiting for it to crack out. "I know, sweetie. But could you put down that plush?" her mother griped, her lips forming a hard frown. "It's embarrassing for the people eating here." Tabitha hid the plush underneath, and she placed it on her lap with her one hand still grasping for comfort. She gives her mother an apologetic smile, hopefully she ain't giving her a single mortifying moment that could manifest in the restaurant. On the taxi, she firmly held the plush with all of the love that she could give. And even with her mother's concerning looks, she doesn't even care at all. After all, having a lion has set her childish heart a glow. Man, I am so glad that I finally have you. Tabitha thought, carelessly reeling in on the comfort of her plush. ---------------- Tabitha smiled at the long-distant memory. Even for the past four years, that memory still remained sentimental to her. And from time to time, she tends to rely on the comfort of her stuffed lion whenever she felt like the world was too overwhelming. "Dan!" Tabitha overheard her mother's voice from afar, blinking her eyes in the sense that her stepfather was here. "I'm glad you're home safe." Looks like Dad's home. Tabitha thought sadly, her fingers slipped away from her plush toy. At the living room, Marissa stood by the door as Daniel, a man in his mid-30s, entered the room with his forehead covered with dried sweat. As he made his way towards the couch, Marissa glanced around the room as she swiped all of the discarded tissues that were placed on the coffee table into the nearest trash bin. "It sure was a tiring day, Lisa." Daniel sighed, tirelessly placing down his shoulder bag against the sofa. Marissa sat down on the sofa, crossing her arms against her lap. She stared at the man in front of her, pondering the strange expressions that he gave her. "It sure was." she murmured, fidgeting her two fingers against her beaded bracelet. Daniel sat down beside her and he raised her chin up with his hand, their eyes came in contact with one another. "There are days where work does stress me out a bit." he assures her. "At least, I did manage to earn a few this afternoon." Marissa sized up towards him, leaning her head towards his shoulder. "It'll be quiet enough to last us a week here before we move out Saturday." "Exactly." Daniel affirms, holding out Marissa's hand. The phone suddenly rang out from Daniel's side pocket. He took it out, checking the recipient as if he slyly knew who called him. "I'll just talk to someone." Daniel groaned wearily, gradually rising up from the sofa and lifting up his phone towards his ear. As Marissa watched her husband stroll off towards the kitchen, she often wondered about the conversations that her husband had. But oftentimes she does become cynical when it comes to identifying how her husband was, especially if she merely knew him from the standpoint of him being dedicated to being a husband to her. There are times where she tends to ponder about him and the relationship that she formed with him. She and Daniel had made a vow that they should love one another, no matter what the circumstances had come upon them. For two years, she kept loving him consistently despite all of the meaningless arguments that they have. Until now, she felt like there's something missing in her life. Sure enough, the promotion does give her a vast opportunity to go to newer places. At the same time, she would be able to save up for her daughter's dream university. She'll also be able to pay the bills and get to provide for her own family. For once, Marissa does have a straightforward purpose of being the person that works hard for the ones that she cared about. As time goes on, Marissa began to question whenever that purpose was still possible for her. She has done anything that her life has to offer, but sometimes, she often regrets the choices she'd made in the past. It's only one of those moments where she over thinks about her life existence. But again, Marissa was content enough to live the life she wanted. After all, the world doesn't seem to end when she doesn't figure the shit out of her. "Sorry, Lisa." Daniel apologized, looking down on his phone. "Abigail does throw me off by a serious task that I had to do by tomorrow." Marissa's eyebrows drew together at the mention of his husband's workmate. As if she had thought that she had heard that name twice before. He showed her the conversation that they just had, with Marissa slightly scowled at what she just read. She then looked at her husband with a slight unforgivable look. "So you're gonna leave early, then?" she stated firmly. "Yeah." Daniel responded, sounding unsure about how he was unable to speak to her in a most unspecific way. He placed down his phone on the couch, his eyes still focused on her. "You know Abby," he adds. "she always tends to let me do the rest of her damn work in the business of things." Marissa rolled her eyes at him, seemingly suspecting a shift into her husband's gaze. At one second, she intently questioned herself whether his workmate does her job well. Although she doesn't want to brought that topic up to him, having to think about what that person's quirks or how that person does work out was strictly out of her suspicion. "Well, it's not like Abby was quite selfish for asking me to do her work." her husband explains. "And as you see right here, she does need a little assistance with construction." He checked his phone, trying to think of a possible reaffirming response to his workmate. As he texted his workmate, Marissa intently watched him like a stern guard who was waiting for the next possible outcome that could withstand between her and Daniel. "Plus, that work was basically paid." he reassured her, raking his fingers towards her brown hair. "So, it's not like I had to spend the whole day slacking like a damn old man." That phrase alone was enough to make her assume that he is doing what he was actually doing. And knowing Daniel, he doesn't have the straight intention to interact with other women around him. Even once, he literally tries to prove his love for her. And oftentimes, he has to make amends with her in order to win her over. But even if he does give her everything that she needs, Marissa always adores having him shower with all the love that he could give her. After all, Daniel was unlike that other man that she broke up with years ago. She wouldn't have been here today if it wasn't for him. "I could even use some tea, Dan." Marissa requested, her hands resting on her lap. "My throat feels a little sappy." Daniel nods, rising out from the couch and he is bounded towards the kitchen. "I'll have the water heated up." After he had prepared some tea for Marissa, the couple had sat down as they watched a prime documentary on TV. And while Daniel was embracing her upon his arm, Marissa's eyes had locked in on the beautiful chaos that happened within the scene of the largest star in the universe. "What's the point even if you decide to have a job in New York?" Daniel questioned his wife, his voice filled with doubt. "And just...why can't they just decide at the wild chance of you reappointing a job there? They could've chosen someone else." Marissa glanced up at him, seeing the worry being graced at her husband's face. "Honestly, I don't know." she admitted, her eyes trailed down onto her half-filled mug. "After I worked for that company for almost five years, I couldn't even understand how they've managed to promote me." As the scenes on the TV kept on changing, Daniel had kept his eyes on her as he laid his comforting hand on her lap. For a moment, Marissa kept her sight on the mug. "I think, all that matters is that I'll continue to do what I am passionate about." Marissa continues. "I already had a raise in salary and we were able to save up for Tabitha's future." She sighed. "And besides, New York is such a huge city." she adds, a corner of her lip lifts up into a resenting grin. "It's not always about how I could reflect back to the past that I once had. I already had my heartbreak, then you came along and you fixed it." "I'll never get your heart broken again, Lisa." Daniel's voice slightly softened, slightly leaning himself to her. "I promise you that." Marissa smiled softly, his encouraging words had somehow lifted her spirits. She slowly glanced up towards him, her eyes barely giving out a wink. She stretched her one arm out, and she wrapped herself against his shoulders. "I know you'll do great, love." he whispered. "I never doubted you for this." "Thanks, Dan." Marissa said, delightfully indulging her husband's warm presence as she leaned her head towards him, her eyes trailed back at the TV screen. "I love you." he mouthed, implanting a kiss on her forehead before he wrapped his arms around her. As the couple shared a lovingembrace, the two surrounded themselves upon the comfort of their own presences. And while their time constantly began to shift among them, the night continues to implement a sense of peace that lingers through them. Although that feeling of bliss doesn't seem to last forever, at least they've spent every second of their unwavering presence. --------------- Over the past few days, Marissa and Tabitha had started to pack up for the upcoming move to New York City. Although they may have some stuff to pile up, their anticipation simultaneously does go on at an all time high. With thousands of packed boxes scattered throughout the household, Marissa does make sure that she packed everything—literally everything that does need to be packed. Especially for some fragile stuff that she couldn't even handle, to which thankfully, one of their neighbors did actually come in to help. And in no time at all, the furniture was fully wrapped up for the move. While the anticipation of the big move goes on smoothly, Tabitha does have her own set of plans to fulfill. Months ago, her uncle applied for her scholarship at Columbia University, one of the best colleges centered around the climate. At first, her uncle wanted to surprise her as soon as he heard about her mother's promotion. But at the time when she graduated high school, her mother guiltlessly revealed the surprise, much to her uncle's amusement. In the end, her uncle did gave her the acceptance letter just days after she graduated. And once she finished reading it, the young woman was left with an expression that instantly bursts out an unknown feeling of excitement. Tabitha was grateful for this huge opportunity of being in a university that's claimed to be the best in the city. And as she silently stared at her computer laptop, she scanned through the website where all of the lessons that she had to learn were displayed there, including some few notes and reminders that were made by some fellow professors. As she went on to study some lessons that were required for college, she was tutored by one of Lynette's friends, Marco, whom he had studied there since last year. He gave her some wise advice on how to survive the first year of college, alongside some other stuff that she needs to do once she steps up in class. Finally, the day of the move soon arrive, and things began to shake up among them. Of course, they continued packing as usual. Throughout the morning, they moved up every single thing towards the living room. The small rooms soon became empty as they pushed everything out. The movers did eventually arrive by the late afternoon, and immediately they lifted up the furniture and the boxes up towards the moving van. "Make sure you never forget everything," Tabitha heard her mother's voice from the now-empty kitchen. "except for those chairs and that huge table." She packed up the last of her records into one giant moving box, closing it shut with a packaging tape in hand. She taped the opening and she moved the boxes towards one of the movers, whom they are standing beside the door. She stated at it, her smile slowly faded while she watched the two men lift the last of the furniture out of the door. "Alright, the big cabinet over there, lift it up." an old man guides off a younger man towards a wooden cabinet as he lifts it up using a two-wheeled trolley. "Uh, make sure you brought those large boxes off as well." another old man adds, whom he was standing right next to the other boxes that contained all of the kitchen stuff. Shit, now this is when things have gone real. Tabitha thought to herself, laying her one hand against her thigh. After all of the boxes had been moved out of the small room, she slowly turned around and she took a glance at the empty area, realizing how spacious this room was. She looked up towards the posters that were still taped on the wall. One by one, she took them down, folding them up to place them on the small box that's placed beside the window. Once she had cleared up the wall, she glanced at the broom that was placed on the corner of the room. She picked it up, unraveling a small pile of dust that was sitting upon it. She quickly scanned through the room, and she found a rectangular piece of paper to gather all of them off in the bin. "Tabitha!" her mother called her. "Are you almost done packing dear?" "Yeah, I'll just lock it in." Tabitha responded, looking up towards the door in front of her. Just as she was about to toss the paper in, she suddenly caught her attention to a scribbled name that's written in the paper. At first, she thought that the piece of rectangle was one of the scraps she intended to throw out, but actually, it was an old letter that's been regimented for several years. The paper was almost faded to a tint of brown, making it seem that it came from the old times where written letters cease to exist. She held the letter close to her, her eyes narrowing upon the letters written on it. Upon closer inspection, that letter does spell out her mother's maiden name and the date that was written in it. Marissa Marie Caldwell ~ April 14, 2009 At first glance, that date immediately reminded her about the day where she and her stepfather first met. But that was a year after this letter was written. There was no reason this letter came out after years being shoved behind some furniture that's left off to dust. Just as she was about to unravel the letter, she heard a loud honk from her stepfather's van. "Ugh, shit!" she shrieked out, quickly slipped the letter inside of her large backpack. "Tabitha!" her mother called her. "What takes you so long to get outta there?" "I'm..." she stuttered, almost stumbling through words as she grabbed the box with her two shaky hands. "...just picking things up from here." "For goddamn's sake!" her mother spat out, standing at the front door while carrying out her old silver suitcase. "You're standing on that room for almost an hour!" "Sorry, mum." Tabitha apologized, slipping her bag towards her shoulder. "Come along, your father was waiting." As her mother walked out of the door, Tabitha's sight drifted off towards the sight of how empty this house is. With only just the noise from the outside, the walls carried a sense of loneliness that immediately sinks in from the way she stood upon the concrete floor. For a moment, she initially realized that her world is slowly going to be different. Growing up in this old little apartment surely brought her some comforting memories, but as she imagines what life for her could be like now, she breathed in to the feeling that could manifest an unpredictable future. In her mind filled with uncertainty, the world always reassures her with the strength that she needs to push through the days where she needed guidance in her everyday life. Walking out to her old bedroom, she held against the doorknob. And with one last sigh, she reached out towards her light switch and the room finally went dim. Then she firmly closed the door. "Aren't we forgetting anything?" she heard her mother questioned her stepfather. "Do we have some spare change for the gas?" "I had 'em all in my pocket." her stepfather told her. Tabitha swiftly ran out of the house, with the box that she still carried and her large bag on her shoulder. She stared at the moving van that's parked afar from the house, then she glanced at the van where her mother and stepfather was helping each other out with packing up all of their essentials. "Now there you are!" her mother called moments later as she pulls her luggage in. "What's taking you so long?" her stepfather adds, approaching his stepdaughter as he gestured his hands towards the box. Tabitha's eyes darted towards her stepfather, immediately passing on the box to him. "I'm just making sure that never left my things there." "Come on, now." her stepfather retorts, rolling his eyes and turning away from his stepdaughter. "We still have a long way to go. We don't want to waste any more time here." Tabitha stood in disbelief, somehow feeling disoriented by the way her stepfather treated her. She bowed down her head, her fingers intertwined with one another as she fidgets them around. "You alright, sweetie?" her mother said, approaching her with her arm extended towards her shoulder. Tabitha looked towards her, instantly giving her a reassuring half-smile. "I'm okay." Her mother hummed, leading her towards the van. "Your father was just exhausted." she stated. "He only takes a day off from work and he didn't manage to get a full hours of sleep." I guess. Tabitha shrugged, almost getting herself on the verge to let her fingers slip out towards her mother's. She held on to the handle and she slid the van door open. "Hop on in." her mother gestured her hand towards an open seat. "We'll gonna handle the rest of the boxes to the moving truck." Tabitha lifted out her backpack and she sat down at the car seat. As soon as her mother had closed the door, she watched the movers from afar as they carried out the rest of the large boxes, carefully lifted them up into the truck. She saw her parents too, helping with the rest of the items that they need to triple-check before they handle them over to them. After she stared at the scene for almost a minute or two, she slipped her phone out of her backpack. Upon opening her cellphone, she read out a message that Lynette has sent to her. "Good luck on living in the big apple, you dork! Don't forget to send some photos when you move into your new house!" "Thanks Lyn. I promise I'll call you sooner." Tabitha typed in a reply. Then she took a picture of herself with her bag still sloppily placed beside her to send it to her. She moved along to check on other messages. She saw a bunch of them, ranging from her elementary and high school classmates cheering her for the move to New York to her new group chats that was equally centered around her new school that she has yet to step into. After what seemed to be a long while, the moving truck has finally parted off. "Alright, now everything's settled with the truck." her mother beamed out, hopping on to her seat at the front. "We'll better get going." "It'll be a long trip ahead, indeed." her stepfather took out his keys and he started the van. "Good thing there's some shops that we could stop over among the expressway." Tabitha sat upright on her seat, slipping her phone back in her backpack. She peeked at the old house for the last time, reeling herself onto the memories that she'll cherish for the rest of her life. Her stepfather begins to drive away, and the sight of the house is nowhere to be seen. It's okay. the young woman's smile was faint, almost as if she felt like her world was unraveling off to something new. Now's a brand new start for me.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641711/chapters/197815366	{"authors": ["mycah_caranza06"], "language": "English", "title": "From A Musician's Heart (Working Title)"}
Falling for You Like Snow It could be said that Stede Bonnet is a pushover. Not in his daily life, no! It was Stede who initiated his divorce, who left his previous comfortable job in his late forties to start his own company, who’s managed so far to keep his shit mostly together in his new life even when it’s felt like everything is falling apart around him. Hardly the actions of a weak-willed man, though it did take him decades of wishing to do it. It’s been a big year, and he’s come out the other side stronger than he could ever imagine. But you add his parents to the picture—his parents! He’s letting senior citizens push him around!—and suddenly, Stede is helpless. There’s a reason he avoids talking to them as much as possible. And yet, when he got that call from his father, that fateful we’re doing this whether you like it or not, we’re a family call, it seemed like he couldn’t say no. Stupid of him, really. Obviously, his parents don’t approve of the divorce. Of course they’re going to spend the next few weeks giving him hell. And still, here’s Stede, too many suitcases packed, sitting rigidly in the back of a rideshare and twiddling his thumbs nervously as they pull up to the entrance of the ski resort where he’ll be spending far too much of his December in misery. The driver whistles. “Nice place,” he says. “You’ll be having the vacation of a lifetime! Wait, what am I saying, if you can afford this place once you can afford it every year. I know because I once stayed in an even bigger one…” The bald man continues, though Stede’s not paying attention. And in the absence of all of Stede’s troubles, his driver is right: soft white snow lines the neatly plowed paths that lead up to the large glass doors of the hotel he’ll be staying at. Pine trees dot the scenery, lending holiday ambiance just by being there, matching perfectly with the tasteful holiday lights that line the corners of the buildings. In the distance, hills galore, and though they’re too far to really see any skiers, Stede can imagine they’re out there, going up and down without a care in the world. He never liked skiing. Whenever they went during his childhood he tried to spend as long as possible bundling up beforehand and tapping out early to drink hot chocolate after. He wasn’t an athletic child, and though he’s in better shape now his workouts of choice usually involve the comforts of the indoors. Still, Stede’s brought suitcases full of coordinated outfits, figuring that he can at least feel comfortable and confident in his appearance if he’s pressured to ski and doesn’t want to. It’s probably just another thing for people to watch him fail and laugh at. “No, you’re right,” says Stede, cutting off the driver. He’s tense but warm in several wintery layers, and he pulls his coat closer, unnecessarily. “I’m not planning on coming back.” “Oh, yeah?” “It’s a family situation this year. I… won’t be coming back.” This is likely true, seeing as he hopes to confront his parents once and for all. At least, that’s the reason why he’s not getting totally down on himself for agreeing in the first place. “I just need to talk to them about some things, and then it will be over. And I’ll probably be disowned.” “Rough shit, man.” “It’s all right. It’s been a long time coming.” He’s tried to confront his parents before. Tried to tell his father how much of his life he’d wasted trying to live up to his expectations when he could have been learning to be himself. To tell his mother that she’s even worse than Stede, a pushover married to an asshole, letting him tell Stede whatever he wanted even when it broke his spirit. He hasn’t managed it yet. The actual confrontation, even after mentally preparing himself for it. So here he is, still doing things that his parents demand he does. Still unable to make an excuse they’ll accept and let him off. Committed, if he doesn’t just up and leave, to three weeks of hell, starting now and up until a few days after Christmas. He’s working on it. Stede and his many bags are dropped off together at the front door of the hotel that sits at the center of the resort and a concierge immediately greets him and ushers him in. Around him, families trudge through the snow, red-cheeked children and giggling couples enjoying their vacation everywhere, but his own chest feels tight. He’s hardly filled with the holiday spirit even so close to Christmas. You’re supposed to spend these times with people you love, and who love you in return. One of the best rooms at the lodge is reserved for him. His father is paying, not out of any genuine fatherly generosity, just part of the guilt tripping. I paid for this, you ungrateful child, so you’d better come or else you’ve wasted my money and my generosity! Same as always. Stede steps into the elevator, trying not to think about how he’ll probably have to see his parents soon. What are they even trying to accomplish this month? They’d said some vague things about family bonds and	Falling for You Like Snow It could be said that Stede Bonnet is a pushover. Not in his daily life, no! It was Stede who initiated his divorce, who left his previous comfortable job in his late forties to start his own company, who’s managed so far to keep his shit mostly together in his new life even when it’s felt like everything is falling apart around him. Hardly the actions of a weak-willed man, though it did take him decades of wishing to do it. It’s been a big year, and he’s come out the other side stronger than he could ever imagine. But you add his parents to the picture—his parents! He’s letting senior citizens push him around!—and suddenly, Stede is helpless. There’s a reason he avoids talking to them as much as possible. And yet, when he got that call from his father, that fateful we’re doing this whether you like it or not, we’re a family call, it seemed like he couldn’t say no. Stupid of him, really. Obviously, his parents don’t approve of the divorce. Of course they’re going to spend the next few weeks giving him hell. And still, here’s Stede, too many suitcases packed, sitting rigidly in the back of a rideshare and twiddling his thumbs nervously as they pull up to the entrance of the ski resort where he’ll be spending far too much of his December in misery. The driver whistles. “Nice place,” he says. “You’ll be having the vacation of a lifetime! Wait, what am I saying, if you can afford this place once you can afford it every year. I know because I once stayed in an even bigger one…” The bald man continues, though Stede’s not paying attention. And in the absence of all of Stede’s troubles, his driver is right: soft white snow lines the neatly plowed paths that lead up to the large glass doors of the hotel he’ll be staying at. Pine trees dot the scenery, lending holiday ambiance just by being there, matching perfectly with the tasteful holiday lights that line the corners of the buildings. In the distance, hills galore, and though they’re too far to really see any skiers, Stede can imagine they’re out there, going up and down without a care in the world. He never liked skiing. Whenever they went during his childhood he tried to spend as long as possible bundling up beforehand and tapping out early to drink hot chocolate after. He wasn’t an athletic child, and though he’s in better shape now his workouts of choice usually involve the comforts of the indoors. Still, Stede’s brought suitcases full of coordinated outfits, figuring that he can at least feel comfortable and confident in his appearance if he’s pressured to ski and doesn’t want to. It’s probably just another thing for people to watch him fail and laugh at. “No, you’re right,” says Stede, cutting off the driver. He’s tense but warm in several wintery layers, and he pulls his coat closer, unnecessarily. “I’m not planning on coming back.” “Oh, yeah?” “It’s a family situation this year. I… won’t be coming back.” This is likely true, seeing as he hopes to confront his parents once and for all. At least, that’s the reason why he’s not getting totally down on himself for agreeing in the first place. “I just need to talk to them about some things, and then it will be over. And I’ll probably be disowned.” “Rough shit, man.” “It’s all right. It’s been a long time coming.” He’s tried to confront his parents before. Tried to tell his father how much of his life he’d wasted trying to live up to his expectations when he could have been learning to be himself. To tell his mother that she’s even worse than Stede, a pushover married to an asshole, letting him tell Stede whatever he wanted even when it broke his spirit. He hasn’t managed it yet. The actual confrontation, even after mentally preparing himself for it. So here he is, still doing things that his parents demand he does. Still unable to make an excuse they’ll accept and let him off. Committed, if he doesn’t just up and leave, to three weeks of hell, starting now and up until a few days after Christmas. He’s working on it. Stede and his many bags are dropped off together at the front door of the hotel that sits at the center of the resort and a concierge immediately greets him and ushers him in. Around him, families trudge through the snow, red-cheeked children and giggling couples enjoying their vacation everywhere, but his own chest feels tight. He’s hardly filled with the holiday spirit even so close to Christmas. You’re supposed to spend these times with people you love, and who love you in return. One of the best rooms at the lodge is reserved for him. His father is paying, not out of any genuine fatherly generosity, just part of the guilt tripping. I paid for this, you ungrateful child, so you’d better come or else you’ve wasted my money and my generosity! Same as always. Stede steps into the elevator, trying not to think about how he’ll probably have to see his parents soon. What are they even trying to accomplish this month? They’d said some vague things about family bonds and discussing priorities, which probably means that they’re going to lecture him about divorcing a woman that they’d highly approved of. And then—what? Well, the end goal might just be to make Stede feel like shit, which they very much are capable of. The thing he’s been telling himself is that it might not even have to be so bad. He’s an adult, after all; it’s not like he’s going to have to spend the whole month by his parents’ side. He may have agreed to stay, but it’s still a vacation. He can have a bit of fun, ski, drink some hot coca, and try not to get too annoyed by all the other posh nobs hob-knobbing all around him. All he needs to do is find a way to brush his parents off and have his own fun. You’re not a child anymore. You can make your own choices. You have been able to for a while. You are enough. You are adequate. He repeats the mantra as the elevator climbs to the top floor, thankful that he hadn’t arranged to meet them the second he arrived, but still dreading the upcoming confrontation. It should be fun to arrive at a ski lodge, but his chest feels heavy, the familiar old fear from his childhood rearing its ugly head. The elevator reaches its destination with a satisfying ding, and he steps out with the bellhop following behind him, checking his phone to confirm the room number even though he doesn’t really need to. “Watch where you’re—” Before he realizes there’s someone else in the hallway, he’s already collided into them. Oopsie. Stede’s phone clatters onto the ground and Stede falls with it, landing smack-dab on his ass, and there’s the sound of something else falling and shattering, too. Immediately, it’s obvious that it’s not too bad of a fall, but it’s more than enough to cause a shock to the system. “I didn’t mean to do that!” Stede exclaims, trying to find his bearing again without making himself look like too much of a fool. No matter how much his therapist tries to reassure him that he doesn’t need to care so much about what people who don’t matter think about him, he always does—and then he does the stupid thing anyway. Like crashing into a stranger. And possibly breaking something which, in his defense, actually is a problem. “Well you fucking did, didn’t you?” The man sitting on the floor and staring back at him looks just a tad older than Stede, and there’s murder in his eyes. Stede briefly thinks he’s part part of some kind of biker gang—he’s wearing leather and has a few visible tattoos including a rather prominent swallow on his neck, and if the shoe fits—and then he reminds himself that this is a ski resort and not a dark alleyway, and that no matter how much he’s irritated someone here the worst thing they can do is report him to management. And that would be a good thing, frankly. Kick him out before he gets settled in, yeah? “You don’t have to be so rude about it, I said I was sorry!” The other man’s angry gaze doesn’t change as he looks Stede up and down. “No you didn’t,” he says. By now the bellhop’s rushing to help them up, though he goes for the other man first, and by the time he’s done Stede is already back on his feet as well. “That’s because I was— busy!” Stede snatches his phone back from off the ground, noticing broken glass and spilled liquid nearby. “Oh gosh, is that a bottle of something? Ruined?” “Because you weren’t watching where you were going,” the man confirms. He’s not a hint sympathetic to the fact that this was obviously an accident, which frustrates Stede greatly. This could happen to anyone! There was a time when he would roll over and take this, begging for forgiveness. But Stede’s older now, stronger, and damn it, he’s adequate. He can stand up for himself, and he should. “I could say the same thing to you,” he sniffs, projecting derisiveness, not breaking eye contact. It’s a power move: show them you’re not afraid. Whatever’s going on in this man’s life, whatever kind of day he’s having, it’s probably not worse than Stede’s, so he can take it if Stede isn’t a pushover. “I’ll call someone to take care of the glass,” the bellhop, sounding a little nervous, says. He’s smart enough not to touch it, but he retrieves a key card and phone from the vicinity, wiping them off on his uniform awkwardly before handing them back to the man. “Mr. Hands, do you need help getting back to your room?” “No,” Mr. Hands grumbles, taking his things. “But I’ll need this bottle on his bill.” “I’ll, um, work it out. Mr. Bonnet…” “I can get to my room from here,” Stede says, mostly just trying to get away from this Hands fellow as quickly as possible. He shoves his phone into his pocket and takes the luggage cart from the grateful, frazzled bellhop. He’s about ready to scream, and when he does, he’d like to have some privacy. A final glance at the man as he walks away confirms that he’s the kind of person that isn’t half as tough as he probably fancies himself. His shirt and leather jacket are damp, the spilled champagne giving him the air of a wet dog, the kind that might try to bite Stede even if he can’t do much damage. In other circumstances he might even be handsome, with his clothes well kept and his beard neatly trimmed. Broad shoulders, too, for his size. A man that works out. A shame, Stede thinks, about his personality. He might at least try to take it easy on Stede, at least pretend to be forgiving, but when someone makes no attempt to be kind it’s hard to give them kindness in return. At least he’ll never see him again. A certain amount of screaming does happen in the safety of his hotel room, Stede giving himself about a half an hour to yell into a pillow, do some deep breathing exercises, and generally feel sorry for himself. But he gets bored with that fast, and there are things that can be done to make the day slightly less miserable, so he gets to them. He’s got his personal care items all unpacked in the bathroom and he’s halfway through hanging his clothes up in the closet when an old pop song starts to play out of nowhere, startling him so badly he nearly jumps out of his skin. Sometimes I think that you'll never understand me, George Michael croons, and Stede realizes it’s coming from his phone. But this is not his ringtone, or indeed a song that should be coming from his phone for any other reason. He flips open his phone wallet to get to the bottom of this, and notices with a sinking feeling that the name of the contact is Edward. He doesn’t know an Edward that would be listed as such in his phone and calling him, and when the call goes to voicemail the phone wallpaper is a photo of a body of water that he doesn’t recognize. All said: not his phone. And it’s entirely too obvious what must have happened. “Oh, hell,” Stede says. That unpleasant Mr. Hands that he ran into must have the same phone wallet as him, and they’ve gotten things mixed up. The thing on the phone that is right is the time, and Stede realizes it’s almost two pm, which is when he’d agreed to meet up with his parents. Seeing as he’s not intending to be fashionably late, the phone situation will have to wait, and he puts it back in his pocket figuring he’ll give it to the front desk at some point and have them handle it from there. There are several restaurants in the lodge, and of course the family is meeting up at the most expensive one. After taking a few minutes to freshen up, Stede forces himself to get going, noticing as he walks down the hall that the glass and the spill are gone. He wonders if he could have handled that situation better, then decides that it’s all in the past and he should focus on the stresses of the future, of which there will be many. He steps into the elegant room, something or other restaurant and wine bar, and when he gives the hostess his name she leads him to his seat. Of course, everyone else is already there: his mother, quietly fidgeting with a glass of wine and nodding; his father, merrily chatting away; and two people that Stede doesn’t recognize, one woman roughly his parents’ age and another elegant, if severe, woman closer to his. Remarkable that his parents have friends. But then, Stede supposes, money and sucking up will get you far. Stede joins them, bracing himself for an utterly dreadful conversation, and orders a bottle of the restaurant’s most expensive rose. Next time, he promises himself, he’ll do better. Say no, he’s not going to waste his time and energy dealing with this, and let the chips fall where they will. But for now it’s too late to back away; they’ll just chase him and talk him down. And if Stede’s father knows anything, it’s how to talk Stede down and make him feel like absolute shit. “Stede,” his mother nods. “Your father and I are glad to see you. Was your trip up here all right?” It’s just small talk and pleasantries, all to attempt to soften the blow that will inevitably come: that they’re disappointed in him for the job change, for the divorce, for everything. “It was fine, thank you,” Stede replies stiffly. He nods, and his father nods, and the women at the table nod, and this is all entirely stupid. Stede finds himself thinking, out of nowhere, that he’d rather be encountering Mr. Hands again. At least that’s a conflict he’s able to win, and at least Mr. Hands is handsome, with an alluring little spark in his eyes as he attempts, and fails, to get the better of Stede. God, Stede really must be going insane. Where the hell had that come from? Probably that whole other can of worms: the fact that he’s attracted to men. Not that man. But certain men. And that’s something else about Stede that his parents will absolutely hate. “Son, I want you to meet someone,” says his father. “These are my good friends, Adelaide Bonney and her daughter, Anne.” “Oh, nice to—” “Anne owns the hotel and resort.” So that’s why they’re staying here. He hadn’t known that his family was interested in skiing, they’d never gone before, and that does explain it. “Well!” says Stede. “It’s… beautiful.” It’s fine. He hadn’t noticed anything much about the hotel, good or bad. “You’re too kind,” says Anne, shaking his hand. She looks at his face, then drops her gaze, and flutters her lashes. “I’ve heard so much about you.” “I’m sure,” says Stede, tense, kindly avoiding pointing out that he hasn’t heard a single thing about her. “We thought Anne might show you around the resort.” Father sounds like he doesn’t enjoy the idea even though it’s his own, and Stede wonders if he enjoys anything at all. “It would be good for you both.” Stede winces. “Would it?” “You wanted to get out there after your divorce.” Ah, there it is. Stede told his father no such thing, by the way. It’s not wrong—he’s actually gone on a few dates, with men!—but like hell he wants his family involved with any of it. Mary had been someone they’d approved of, and she’d been pressured to find a husband by her family as well, and that was absolutely miserable, which led to both of them wasting years of their lives. He can’t do it again. He just can’t. “Thank you,” he replies, stiffly. It’s kinder than Stede feels like he deserves, but it’s likely none of this is Anne’s fault. “I’ll be all right.” Anne gives him a thin-lipped smile. “Let me know.” “Seeing as you’ve struggled at times to find an appropriate companion, I thought it best to assist,” his father continues, as though he hasn’t made his point well enough already. Stede wonders if his sexuality is more of an open secret than he might realize, if his father is hoping that he can be pressured into heterosexuality. Unfortunately for him, Stede’s already tried that, and it doesn’t work. Stede spends the rest of the meal dazed, first in shock and then also tipsy, desperately looking for an out. The more they talk, the more he thinks that Anne probably doesn’t want to be here any more than he does. His parents take the opportunity to make several more hints at the fact that they want him to take this woman on a date, which Stede does his best to ignore, and by the end of their lunch he’s wine-drunk and exhausted. Before anyone can push, he sputters out some excuse and pretends not to hear that he’s supposed to be eating lunch with the same group tomorrow, already making plans to leave the whole resort if he has to. It’s exhausting, being a people-pleaser, and at the end of the day he knows that he’s not even pleasing anybody at all. In the safety of his room, shoes and jacket off and shirt unbuttoned, he reaches for his phone, figuring that if nothing else Oluwande will be able to provide some perspective on the situation. But when he tries to unlock it, he sees the same familiar unfamiliar background and curses. Hands. Staring at the ceiling isn’t very interesting even when he’s moping, and it’s not as though he’s got the capacity to concentrate well enough to read or work on his embroidery, so with a sigh he heaves himself up and out of bed once more, vowing that once he’s got this nonsense taken care of he’s going to thank Mary again for being so enthusiastic about divorcing him. He steps into his slippers and tosses a bathrobe over his shirt without bothering to do the buttons up again, and begins what feels like the impossibly long trek to the lobby, praying he doesn’t run into his family, or god forbid Anne. The lobby is busy and bustling as Last Christmas plays softly in the background. It’s decorated for Christmas, a concept that Stede appreciates in theory, but there’s something a little boring about a bunch of coordinated blue and white garlands and fake branches and bangles. Honestly, why put all of this effort in just to get something mediocre? Doesn’t matter. He turns a corner, and promptly almost runs into the very man he forgot to hope not to see. Thankfully, there isn’t quite a collision, and it does occur to Stede that talking to Mr. Hands will solve the phone problem, so he opens his mouth to speak. The other man starts talking before he can, his raspy voice low but firm. “You owe me. Play along.” He slides up beside Stede like they’re friends, slings an arm around his back. “My name is Izzy, so use it.” Izzy’s behavior, while baffling, reminds Stede just how long it’s been since he’s been hugged. Up close, the man smells pleasantly like smoke and hair product, and for just a second Stede forgets that he’s already decided to dislike him. “Stede,” says Stede, though he isn’t sure why they’re having introductions now. “Do you have my phone?” Izzy shushes him. Just then, a pair of men come over around one of the many Christmas trees: one tall, with an impressive beard and a very cool leather jacket, and a lankier one who looks a little sheepish. “Wait,” says the bearded man. “You weren’t kidding?” “Have I ever told a joke a day in my fucking life?” says Izzy. “Yeah, no, that’s fair.” He turns to Stede, shakes his head like he’s already done with Izzy, and holds out his hand. “Hey man, I’m Ed. And this is my boyfriend, Frenchie. I figure Izzy’s probably told you everything already.” “Oh, sure,” says Stede, who has no idea what the hell is happening. “But maybe remind me, just so we’re on the same page?” Izzy pinches him, hard. Ed raises an eyebrow, but his dark brown eyes are so disarming that it’s impossible for Stede to be unhappy about his cynicism. “Izzy told me he was here with his new guy?” “That is what I told you, yeah,” Izzy says, a sharp edge in his voice like he’s daring Stede to object. “He certainly is here, with a guy, who is new, and who is me!” says Stede, more confused than ever, but figuring that somehow not agreeing will turn out worse for them. “Who is Stede, and he is I!” On top of his confusion, both of the men are rather handsome, which doesn’t make things any easier for him. “Good to meet you, Stede,” says Frenchie, who looks a little bit uncomfortable about this whole thing. “Let me know if you’re free for dinner, Stede. We’ll be here all month.” Ed nods. “Bring Izzy, if he’ll listen to you, but I know he’s stubborn as fuck. And he hates me now.” “I don’t hate you,” Izzy grumbles. “Yeah, well, you sure fucking acted like it for the last year of our relationship.” “You fucking cheated on me!” “Because I didn’t think you’d take the breakup well so I figured it would be better if I just–” “What the fuck Edward–” “Okay!” says Frenchie, brightly. “Let’s leave these two new lovebirds to their cuddling in front of the tree!” He tugs Ed away, and Ed lets him even as he and Izzy get a few more jabs in at each other, and the whole thing leaves Stede feeling very, very tired. “Fuck,” sighs Izzy once he’s gone. He doesn’t let go of Stede, whose heart is beating wildly from, he tells himself, the tension in the air and not Izzy’s iron grip on his body. “Did you just ask me out?” Stede asks, still utterly baffled. “I just… needed someone. You were convenient.” “You asked me out and you didn’t even mean it?” “Do you think that’s worse?” “Yes!” Stede exclaims, though he can’t really put his finger on why. He doesn’t appreciate when expectations aren’t clear, he supposes, even if he intends to immediately ignore those expectations. “Don’t play with people’s hearts, Izzy. Look, I just wanted to switch our phones back. I didn’t want to get recruited into a… love triangle!” “Right,” says Izzy. “The phones. It’s not a triangle, Edward and I are through. Have been for a while.” “He’s your former partner,” says Stede. It’s hitting him only now that this means that Izzy is queer, which even in the midst of this mess is a little exciting. He has a few queer friends, but that world is still all so new to him, one he only began to enter once he left Mary. This, at least, is a reason to want to get to know Izzy—or Ed and Frenchie. “He’s handsome.” Izzy looks annoyed. “He’s an asshole.” Stede shrugs. “So are you,” he says, a dig that probably isn’t going to help anything but feels good to get out. “Which makes me wonder: why should I be on your side? Why not follow right after him and explain the whole thing and be his friend instead?” “Can’t fucking stop you, can I?” “You can’t,” Stede agrees, but stays. He’d like to hear more. “Edward… had problems. He’s getting better now, I think. He’s seeing someone. It’s good for us to be apart.” Izzy seems visibly tense as he explains this, but then, being tense might just be Izzy’s default state. “We used to come here every year, and I guess we both decided to book our own trips here this time.” “So he got over you, and you’re still stuck in the past, so you lied to him and told him you had a new partner.” It’s a strange situation, but not so confusing when he thinks about it like that. “And you picked me because I was convenient.” “I picked you because you owe me. For spilling my champagne.” “Oh, that was ages ago.” “It was today,” Izzy hisses, which might be intimidating coming from someone who wasn’t several inches shorter than him. He hasn’t been paying much attention to the world around him, so Stede startles when someone else speaks. “Everything all right?” asks Anne, who’s appeared out of nowhere. They’ve separated, but now Stede inches closer to Izzy, a sudden revelation striking him. “Wonderful!” he says, flashing her what he hopes is a disarming grin. If she assumes what he hopes she’ll assume… “But I’ll have to pass on that tour offer for now. I’m busy, as you may be able to see.” “I can indeed see that,” she says, nodding. “Well then, I’ll leave you two to it. We’ll be lighting the Christmas tree tonight, the big one outside. Feel free to join us if you’d like, it’s always a fun time.” If she thinks anything in particular about their relationship, she doesn’t say it, and she seems similarly unphased by the rejection. “Thank you,” Stede says, noncommittal. Izzy is blessedly silent. Until she walks away. “I just did what you did,” Stede says, before Izzy can get more than a curse word or two in. “She owns the place, and she’s friends with my parents, and I don’t want to date her.” “That’s… yeah, that’s fair, actually.” Stede heaves a sigh, more at the absurdity of the situation than anything else. “So our predicaments are similar,” he says, hoping that Izzy will catch on to what he’s suggesting. It’s a wild thought, but it could work. Why not? “And we might be able to solve them together.” “You pretend to be my boyfriend in front of Edward and his new guy, and I pretend to be yours when that woman is around. That about sums it up?” “Anne or my parents,” Stede confirms. “Which more or less means…” “We pretend to be a couple all the time.” “It could work.” “It could.” “Even if I don’t like you.” Izzy scowls. “You ran into me, you twat,” he says. Unfortunately, he’s kind of cute when he’s mad, and Stede can’t resist goading him on. “And now I’m solving your problems! So, do we have a deal?” “Suppose we do. As long as you’ll be here until Christmas.” “Stuck here for the rest of the month! And I think that gives us plenty of time to have a little fun.” Stede adds that last part just to see the look on Izzy’s face, which is incredulous. “What, aren’t you having fun right now? I know I am.” Still. “I can’t believe this was my idea,” Izzy says. Does he have fun at all? Maybe that’s why Edward left him. “I’ll take the credit, assuming it works out. Which it will,” says Stede. At worst, he’ll get his parents to decide he’s a lost cause either way. “And I wouldn’t say no to getting to know Ed a little better. Do you think he’d want to go on a double date?” “I think you shouldn’t push your luck. I’m proving to Edward that I’m over him, I don’t want to fucking hang out wth him.” “Hmm. Think whatever you think, Sweetpea.” If Izzy’s look could kill, Stede would be long dead by now, and there’s something delightful about knowing that no matter how much he irritates this man, they’ve got a deal for the next few weeks. It’s hardly the Christmas of his dreams, but it just might be a good time. Pretending to be in a relationship. He can handle that. But how exactly does one do it convincingly? So convincingly, in fact, that it successfully makes Izzy’s ex-boyfriend jealous and convinces Stede’s parents that he’s a lost cause and should be disregarded? It seems like a challenging task, and Izzy isn’t all that interested in talking about it. “We should come up with a story,” says Stede as they step into the elevator together, a bright a capella cover of Silver Bells playing in the background. “So when they ask how we met, why we’re together…” “Just tell the truth. You ran into me, ruined my champagne, and agreed to take me out as compensation. Pretend it happened a few months ago. Simple.” “What, are you a bad liar? You seem like a bad liar, Ed wouldn’t have believed you without my help.” “I’m a good liar. It’s easier if most of it is true” Izzy’s tapping his foot to the music, which serves as a surprisingly charming contrast to his sour attitude. “But I wouldn’t ask you out to pay you back for the champagne, it was an accident. At most, I’d just give you money.” “Not looking for a sugar daddy, am I?” Stede’s about to reply that he doesn’t know, but just then the elevator stops. “I’m going this way,” he says instead, pointing down the right side of the hallway. “Our rooms are next to each other,” Izzy says, flatly. “That makes things easier,” Stede lamely replies. It’s not a long walk, but doing it in silence sounds agonizing, and Izzy isn’t taking the initiative to fill it. “So, what do you like to do? Besides mope about your ex,” Stede asks. He grins when Izzy flinches a little. “Nothing interesting,” says Izzy. “I do my job. I work out. I go to bars on the weekend.” “And that’s… it? No hobbies? No family?” Stede can never keep up with all of the books he wants to read, the shows he wants to see, the arts and crafts he wants to try–and that’s after giving Mary full custody of the children. Maybe Izzy can lend him some of that time he spends being bored all day. “What about Christmas, what do you do?” “I go here.” Not much to work with. But they’ve reached Stede’s door now. “Well, this is me. Where are you?” “Just down there,” says Izzy, gesturing across the hall. “Perfect. I’ll pick you up for the tree lighting ceremony in four hours–no, don’t decline, I won’t let you.” Stede adds that last bit before Izzy, surprised as he looks, can object. “If we’re going to take this seriously I’m going to show Anne what a happy couple we are so she knows she doesn’t have a chance with me.” “Does she even want you?” Izzy asks as Stede slips through the door, but Stede pretends not to hear. True to his word, Stede knocks on Izzy’s door four hours later. That’s just the right amount of time to take a short nap, freshen up, and reflect a little on next steps. He decides that they can pull this off without acting too mushy around each other; Izzy, certainly, is not the type, and Stede never felt the need to be very outwardly affectionate with Mary so he supposes that he isn’t either. Still, the facade requires some effort, and spending time together in public seems like just the ticket. The Izzy that he finds is freshly showered and a little dressed up, his hair still damp against his neck. He really does look like boyfriend material, not that it matters. You can do this, Stede tells himself. He almost reaches for Izzy’s hand as Izzy shuts the door to his room, but decides better of it. You can date Izzy Hands. He might even be Stede’s type. He always had been able to appreciate a man who looks good in black. But no, that’s not a route he can afford to go down, not when this is all a farce. It’s cold outside, colder than before now that it’s nearly dusk, so as Stede walks down the paved, tree-lined paths he instinctively huddles closer to Izzy. Soon, they’re not alone, and merge with the groups of other guests on the way to the biggest evergreen on the property. Here, too, is seasonally decorated, with lights already in the smaller trees and wreaths attached to the signs that point their way to their destination. He sees Ed and Frenchie, or at least someone that could be them, and thinks: if I were really in love with Izzy, what would I do? And then he does it. Izzy doesn’t protest as Stede slings an arm around his shoulders, affectionate and protective all at once. Immediately he feels a little more secure, sure that they won’t lose each other in this crowd. This close, Stede can see that Izzy’s winter hat is well-loved, and he starts to imagine a side of Izzy that’s careful, gentle with his things. Maybe gentle with a lover, too. “Walk slower, I’ve got a bad leg,” Izzy says, sounding rather irate, and not careful or loving at all. Well, then. They make it to the big tree with time to spare, and Stede looks around at the moderately sized stage that’s been set up in the snow. A group of staff gather there, with Anne among them. “They could do with a punch bowl or something,” he remarks. “Some mulled cider, maybe.” “You’d spill it,” says Izzy. “That was uncalled for. I’ll have you know that I can hold onto liquids just fine most of the time,” Stede says, although there have been some memorable punch-spilling incidents in his life. “Are they here?” “They’ll see us,” says Izzy. “They came all this way.” “To find you? Or does Edward just like this vacation spot?” “He doesn’t even ski, he just likes the idea of going to a ski resort.” “And I don’t like the idea of going to a ski resort, so he has that going for him at least.” “Then why are you here? Just for your shitty parents?” Stede sighs. “They’re hard to say no to.” “So you could have avoided this whole fucking thing and you just chose to… you know what, never mind.” “I’m hoping they’ll piss off once they realize I’m gay,” Stede says, feeling a little lightheaded as he does, because he’s never actually said that out loud. “And that I’m dating a bad boy in leather to boot, not even someone they’d like if they did accept my sexuality–which they won’t.” A speaker system mostly hidden in the trees cackles and comes to life, making Stede jump a little. “Friends and family of the lodge, welcome!” comes Anne’s voice through it. “Who’s here to party?” The crowd cheers, including Stede. Izzy doesn’t, but he seems to lean into Stede a little bit. “Figured your people were probably nearby,” he explains when Stede looks at him, surprised. “And besides, you’re nice and warm and I’m freezing my fucking balls off out here.” His parents, and Anne’s mother, actually are near the stage. Though they’re clearly not helping the staff get things set up. Stede waits until—there! He catches his father’s eye and nods, his arm never loosening around Izzy. “Look excited,” he whispers, tucking Izzy under his chin. There’s a beat, and his father scowls, and he pulls his mother away. The world around Stede and Izzy is suddenly awash with light as the tree is turned on, but Stede’s barely paying attention to that. For perhaps the first time in his life, he’s shown the people who raised him who he really is, and there’s such power in that he can hardly believe it. Stede’s heart pounds so hard it just might pop right out of his chest. In his arms, Izzy is strong and warm.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75641731/chapters/197815406	{"authors": ["surprisepink"], "language": "English", "title": "Falling for You Like Snow"}
Sought and Safе Behind A Wing, My Farewells To The Fields Daisy’s garden was perhaps one of Sera’s favourite spots in the settlement. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be found doing menial tasks surrounded by the greenery and crops. It reminded her of a simpler life, before the virus and the flames, the wings and the loss. Oftentimes, Daisy would accompany her, going about the garden and tending to the plants. Daisy appreciated Sera’s shared interest in nature and her affinity for catching garden pests. Sometimes Sera would sit and listen to Daisy talk about her plants and their torrid affairs they apparently had, and sometimes the two would sit in comfortable silence. On rare occasions she would sit in the garden alone, listening to the birds and rustling of leaves. Today was not one of those rare days. Sera sat cross-legged in the field, dirt creasing in her robes, two steadily-growing piles of rats in front of her. The left pile was deemed worthy of consumption, the right destined for compost. Daisy stood above her, watering can in hand, recounting the day’s drama between the potatoes and the carrots. “ —and of course she would be dramatic about the weather change, she always complained about it when she was alive back at work. But there’s no need to take it out on the potatoes as well, she’s leeching all the nutrients from them being all temperamental! Oh,” Daisy paused, glancing down at the rat piles and pointing at the smaller of the two. “Are those the ones for the compost?” Sera nodded, standing up swiftly and grabbing the corners of the cloth they were laid on, effectively making a makeshift bag. “I’ll drop these off at the compost bin. Would you like me to take the weeds to dispose of too?” She gestured to the basket of dandelions Daisy had extricated a few minutes ago. A small flower chain sat atop the basket, woven when Sera had gotten bored of counting rats and wanted a break. It was something her sister had taught her—the repetitive motion was soothing. Daisy’s eyes followed her gaze to the basket. “Hm? Oh, no, those aren’t for disposal, they’re my snack later!” Sera blinked. “...Dandelions are edible?” “Yeah, they’re my favourite! Wait, here,” the farmer reached down to gingerly pick up the flower chain, taking the yellow petals between her thumb and forefinger and plucking them off. She offered them brightly to Sera, who glanced down at her bloodied hands, wiped them swiftly on her robes, and took the petals with little hesitation. She popped them in her mouth. Her eyes widened. “It's sweet. Like honey.” Daisy nodded excitedly, putting the flower chain around her neck. “You should teach me how to make these chains. It's like I’m wearing one of those candy necklaces. Except the candy is made up of my dead coworkers. Sorta. Like twice removed.” Sera’s brow furrowed. “What’s a candy?” * She finds glimpses of her previous companions in everything once she leaves. Every meal she manages to scrape together for the little girl she found in her travels (Faith, she’s decided to call her—Faith seemed to like it a lot when she suggested it), she thinks of Val and his suspicious stews. Every doll she finds for Faith, she remembers the Miku figurine Boone brought home for her, tucked away in her abandoned room at the settlement. Shattered phone screens remind her of Awi’s videos, flashes of green camo remind her of Dean, and so on and so forth. It's comforting in its own way, but Sera would be lying if she said it didn’t hurt a little every time. One day, Faith runs up to her in a field, something clutched behind her back. She’s rosy in the cheeks, her tiny legs having made the trek from the cabin to here more of a feat than Sera would’ve had, but she’s beaming nonetheless. Sera smiles, crouches down to her level. Points behind the little girl. “What do you have, Faith?” The tiny girl bounces up and down a few times before revealing her hand. Sera is half-expecting a bug, but instead finds a mound of bright yellow flowers clutched in Faith’s tiny fist. Not for the first time, Sera is hit with a sense of bittersweet endearment. She takes a flower carefully from Faith’s hand, plucking a few dandelion petals off of one of the flowers. “A very wise farmer once taught me you can actually eat dandelions, see?” She points to her mouth, sticking her tongue out and gesturing for Faith to do the same, and placing the petals on the girl’s tongue. Her eyes widen comically, grinning ear to ear, and Sera laughs. “The farmer’s name was Daisy, she’s very smart. I used to sit in her fields and she would teach me about growing crops, it's how we have our plants at the cabin now—” * It's a warm sunny day on the settlement, and Sera sits in the soft grass. Dirt sifts into the creases of her robe, but she’s never minded it. Though she doesn't regret leaving, she's missed the settlement with every fibre of her being. After months away, everything is the same but so, so different. The breeze is steady as she weaves another	Sought and Safе Behind A Wing, My Farewells To The Fields Daisy’s garden was perhaps one of Sera’s favourite spots in the settlement. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be found doing menial tasks surrounded by the greenery and crops. It reminded her of a simpler life, before the virus and the flames, the wings and the loss. Oftentimes, Daisy would accompany her, going about the garden and tending to the plants. Daisy appreciated Sera’s shared interest in nature and her affinity for catching garden pests. Sometimes Sera would sit and listen to Daisy talk about her plants and their torrid affairs they apparently had, and sometimes the two would sit in comfortable silence. On rare occasions she would sit in the garden alone, listening to the birds and rustling of leaves. Today was not one of those rare days. Sera sat cross-legged in the field, dirt creasing in her robes, two steadily-growing piles of rats in front of her. The left pile was deemed worthy of consumption, the right destined for compost. Daisy stood above her, watering can in hand, recounting the day’s drama between the potatoes and the carrots. “ —and of course she would be dramatic about the weather change, she always complained about it when she was alive back at work. But there’s no need to take it out on the potatoes as well, she’s leeching all the nutrients from them being all temperamental! Oh,” Daisy paused, glancing down at the rat piles and pointing at the smaller of the two. “Are those the ones for the compost?” Sera nodded, standing up swiftly and grabbing the corners of the cloth they were laid on, effectively making a makeshift bag. “I’ll drop these off at the compost bin. Would you like me to take the weeds to dispose of too?” She gestured to the basket of dandelions Daisy had extricated a few minutes ago. A small flower chain sat atop the basket, woven when Sera had gotten bored of counting rats and wanted a break. It was something her sister had taught her—the repetitive motion was soothing. Daisy’s eyes followed her gaze to the basket. “Hm? Oh, no, those aren’t for disposal, they’re my snack later!” Sera blinked. “...Dandelions are edible?” “Yeah, they’re my favourite! Wait, here,” the farmer reached down to gingerly pick up the flower chain, taking the yellow petals between her thumb and forefinger and plucking them off. She offered them brightly to Sera, who glanced down at her bloodied hands, wiped them swiftly on her robes, and took the petals with little hesitation. She popped them in her mouth. Her eyes widened. “It's sweet. Like honey.” Daisy nodded excitedly, putting the flower chain around her neck. “You should teach me how to make these chains. It's like I’m wearing one of those candy necklaces. Except the candy is made up of my dead coworkers. Sorta. Like twice removed.” Sera’s brow furrowed. “What’s a candy?” * She finds glimpses of her previous companions in everything once she leaves. Every meal she manages to scrape together for the little girl she found in her travels (Faith, she’s decided to call her—Faith seemed to like it a lot when she suggested it), she thinks of Val and his suspicious stews. Every doll she finds for Faith, she remembers the Miku figurine Boone brought home for her, tucked away in her abandoned room at the settlement. Shattered phone screens remind her of Awi’s videos, flashes of green camo remind her of Dean, and so on and so forth. It's comforting in its own way, but Sera would be lying if she said it didn’t hurt a little every time. One day, Faith runs up to her in a field, something clutched behind her back. She’s rosy in the cheeks, her tiny legs having made the trek from the cabin to here more of a feat than Sera would’ve had, but she’s beaming nonetheless. Sera smiles, crouches down to her level. Points behind the little girl. “What do you have, Faith?” The tiny girl bounces up and down a few times before revealing her hand. Sera is half-expecting a bug, but instead finds a mound of bright yellow flowers clutched in Faith’s tiny fist. Not for the first time, Sera is hit with a sense of bittersweet endearment. She takes a flower carefully from Faith’s hand, plucking a few dandelion petals off of one of the flowers. “A very wise farmer once taught me you can actually eat dandelions, see?” She points to her mouth, sticking her tongue out and gesturing for Faith to do the same, and placing the petals on the girl’s tongue. Her eyes widen comically, grinning ear to ear, and Sera laughs. “The farmer’s name was Daisy, she’s very smart. I used to sit in her fields and she would teach me about growing crops, it's how we have our plants at the cabin now—” * It's a warm sunny day on the settlement, and Sera sits in the soft grass. Dirt sifts into the creases of her robe, but she’s never minded it. Though she doesn't regret leaving, she's missed the settlement with every fibre of her being. After months away, everything is the same but so, so different. The breeze is steady as she weaves another dandelion chain, explaining how as she goes. When she’s done, it will join the rest of the chains that sit atop a gravestone, the name “Daisy” carved into it.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75636256	{"authors": ["Kindofamessss"], "language": "English", "title": "Sought and Safе Behind A Wing, My Farewells To The Fields"}
Riftbound The late afternoon sun poured through the partially open shutters of Ekko’s room, casting playful shadows that danced across the walls. In a corner, scattered about like lost hopes and dreams, lay decks of cards, each adorned with vibrant illustrations and intricate designs, the lifeblood of their latest obsession — Riftbound. “C’mon, Jinx!” Ekko called out, his voice infused with youthful exuberance. “It’s your turn. Are you even paying attention?” Jinx, sprawled lazily across the floor, a sticky lollipop dangling from her mouth, flicked her sparkling blue hair over her shoulder. “I am so paying attention!” She retorted, grinning mischievously. “I’m just thinking about how to absolutely crush you, that’s all.” Ekko chuckled, shaking his head. “You can’t just win by playing mind games, you know. It’s about strategy! Not just chaos.” “Chaos is the best part!” Jinx exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “That’s what makes the game fun!” With a dramatic flourish, she picked up her cards, carefully scanning the vibrant artwork depicting bizarre creatures and heroes from across Runeterra. Each card carried its own weight, its own possibilities. Ekko, with his innate knack for tactics, meticulously considered his hand. In contrast, Jinx was all about spontaneity — a whirlwind of unpredictability that made every session an adventure. He could already sense her plotting something chaotic. “Right then, I’ll play the Voidling card!” Jinx declared with a delighted cackle. She laid down the card, which illustrated a creature brimming with dark energy. “It adds two chaos points! How's that for strategy, hmm?” “Very clever,” Ekko remarked, impressed despite himself. “But I counter with my Jade Guardian, which negates any chaos points!” He grinned, reveling in the banter. “Boring!” Jinx huffed, flicking her hand dismissively. “You’re such a strategist! You need to shake things up! Let’s add some explosions — how about a Boomerang Trap?” “Explosions always lead to destruction,” Ekko replied, laughing. “But fine, as long as you promise not to make things too chaotic!” The banter continued, their voices rising and falling with playful jabs and laughter. Unbeknownst to them, a magic spark flickered in the air with each playful accusation, weaving a tapestry of love that blossomed amidst the chaotic nature of their personalities. As the evening wore on, the room filled with echoes of their camaraderie, punctuated by the sharp sound of cards hitting the table. Each victory — each defeat — was met with exaggerated reactions. Jinx would pout or cheer depending on the outcome, while Ekko continued working his brain, plotting out each move. “Okay, last game,” Ekko said, glancing at the setting sun that cast an amber hue across the room. “Just one more!” Jinx insisted. “And I get to choose the rules!” “Fine, then!” He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “But I’m not going easy on you!” Jinx beamed, her competitive spirit ignited. “You’re going to regret that, Ekko! Get ready for the most chaotic round of your life!” With renewed energy, they shuffled the decks, the intricate cards reflecting their shared enthusiasm. In that moment, under the soft blanket of dusk, two lovers were united in an ever-expanding cosmos of laughter, rivalry, and the joy of simply being together. The challenges of the outside world receded as they plunged into the enchanting chaos of Riftbound, where each turn promised something unexpected and every game solidified their unbreakable bond. As the night deepened outside, the laughter sifted through the air, echoing through the narrow streets of Zaun, a reminder of the joy and chaos that only such a relationship could bring.	Riftbound The late afternoon sun poured through the partially open shutters of Ekko’s room, casting playful shadows that danced across the walls. In a corner, scattered about like lost hopes and dreams, lay decks of cards, each adorned with vibrant illustrations and intricate designs, the lifeblood of their latest obsession — Riftbound. “C’mon, Jinx!” Ekko called out, his voice infused with youthful exuberance. “It’s your turn. Are you even paying attention?” Jinx, sprawled lazily across the floor, a sticky lollipop dangling from her mouth, flicked her sparkling blue hair over her shoulder. “I am so paying attention!” She retorted, grinning mischievously. “I’m just thinking about how to absolutely crush you, that’s all.” Ekko chuckled, shaking his head. “You can’t just win by playing mind games, you know. It’s about strategy! Not just chaos.” “Chaos is the best part!” Jinx exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “That’s what makes the game fun!” With a dramatic flourish, she picked up her cards, carefully scanning the vibrant artwork depicting bizarre creatures and heroes from across Runeterra. Each card carried its own weight, its own possibilities. Ekko, with his innate knack for tactics, meticulously considered his hand. In contrast, Jinx was all about spontaneity — a whirlwind of unpredictability that made every session an adventure. He could already sense her plotting something chaotic. “Right then, I’ll play the Voidling card!” Jinx declared with a delighted cackle. She laid down the card, which illustrated a creature brimming with dark energy. “It adds two chaos points! How's that for strategy, hmm?” “Very clever,” Ekko remarked, impressed despite himself. “But I counter with my Jade Guardian, which negates any chaos points!” He grinned, reveling in the banter. “Boring!” Jinx huffed, flicking her hand dismissively. “You’re such a strategist! You need to shake things up! Let’s add some explosions — how about a Boomerang Trap?” “Explosions always lead to destruction,” Ekko replied, laughing. “But fine, as long as you promise not to make things too chaotic!” The banter continued, their voices rising and falling with playful jabs and laughter. Unbeknownst to them, a magic spark flickered in the air with each playful accusation, weaving a tapestry of love that blossomed amidst the chaotic nature of their personalities. As the evening wore on, the room filled with echoes of their camaraderie, punctuated by the sharp sound of cards hitting the table. Each victory — each defeat — was met with exaggerated reactions. Jinx would pout or cheer depending on the outcome, while Ekko continued working his brain, plotting out each move. “Okay, last game,” Ekko said, glancing at the setting sun that cast an amber hue across the room. “Just one more!” Jinx insisted. “And I get to choose the rules!” “Fine, then!” He threw his hands up in mock surrender. “But I’m not going easy on you!” Jinx beamed, her competitive spirit ignited. “You’re going to regret that, Ekko! Get ready for the most chaotic round of your life!” With renewed energy, they shuffled the decks, the intricate cards reflecting their shared enthusiasm. In that moment, under the soft blanket of dusk, two lovers were united in an ever-expanding cosmos of laughter, rivalry, and the joy of simply being together. The challenges of the outside world receded as they plunged into the enchanting chaos of Riftbound, where each turn promised something unexpected and every game solidified their unbreakable bond. As the night deepened outside, the laughter sifted through the air, echoing through the narrow streets of Zaun, a reminder of the joy and chaos that only such a relationship could bring.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75636266	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "Riftbound"}
Cellar Door Pray to your god, open your heartWhatever you do, don't be afraid of the darkCover your eyes, the devil's inside The Honmoon never wavers in its nebulous choices. When it chooses a new hunter to train, those who protect the honmoon must heed its call. The song of the honmoon's flowing music leads the hunters to the forest just outside their hanok, skirting the edge of the training grounds. Odd. Usually the songs lead to civilization or at least some sign of humanity, to bring a new hunter into their fold. This time, the song is different. The faint song of the honmoon hums in their ears as the hunters trek into the forest, careful in their steps so as to not disturb the surrounding wildlife. They hear the cries of... A woman? A screeching, wailing, shrill sobbing sound, and then animalistic panting and yipping. Oh. That's no sobbing woman, that's a fox making those sounds. At least, that was their first assumption. The hunters feel the honmoon song sour to a warning note as the fox shrieking turns into brief silence, and then growling. Demonic growling. The hunters summon their weapons, the honmoon-formed blades casting a soft glow into the night. It is a moonless night, in a dense forest, so only their weapons and their shared oil lamp serves to light the way. A pair of glowing golden-yellow eyes catches in the light, reflecting it back. The eyes raise up from a fox's height to a child's height as... A child's face becomes visible in the lamplight. Well, not quite a child, at least not a normal once. The child is the one growling at them, a mud-caked little girl in a tattered dress with claws for nails and sharp teeth and foxlike ears protruding from her head. The trees around her are decorated with clawmarks - marking her territory. Another pair of glowing eyes shines in the light, but the eyes shrink away and dart back into the darkness when the hunters press forward. They all hear the whine of the other set of eyes calling the girl back. When the hunters step closer to the child, the second set of glowing eyes leaps forward into the light, revealing a demonic white fox with glowing eyes and numerous tails. The fox, growling and spitting and gnashing its teeth at the hunters. As if... To protect the little girl? The little fox-eared girl growls in tandem with the fox, baring her teeth at the hunters. The fox wraps its tails around the girl's legs protectively. A gumiho. This must be a gumiho and possibly one of its half-breed offspring. They know of legends of gumihos having half-human children, and other legends still that claim that this type of demon has a chance at redemption. That if they starve the demon of human flesh and human souls for long enough, the demonic flesh may shrivel away to reveal a human body. That must be what the honmoon wants. What the song humming in their ears wants. This child, this dirty demonic little girl, got chosen for the next generation of hunters, as a test. If they can turn a demon into a human, then maybe there is hope non-lethal methods can work to fend them off. Too busy mentally debating this conundrum set before them, the hunters flinch back when the gumiho fox leaps at them to attack. Though in the form of a fox, they all hear through its growl the distorted demonic voice of a woman, shouting 'stay away from my baby!' Nonsense, demons don't care or love, they don't feel anything. That's what the hunters have been told from generation to generation to maintain the honmoon. They can't dare to let compassion color their view of these heartless monsters, this demon is clearly trying to trick them! The hunters jump into action, working to fend off the gumiho and get the half-breed child safely away from the creature. There may not be hope for the demon, but perhaps there is hope they can save its half-breed child. Of course, the halfling brat doesn't go down without a fight either. She screams, bites, claws, kicks, wriggles against them with all the fervor of a terrified cornered animal. She shouts 'Eomma!' when one of the hunters successfully lands a hit on the fox-demon, and the demon cries out in pain as it jumps away. It takes two of the hunters to restrain the child enough so that she can't claw or bite them anymore, and the third chases after the gumiho further into the forest. The child is distressed, she thrashes in the hunter's arms screaming for her eomma. "Silly girl, that demon doesn't care about you! We're here to save you! The honmoon chose you!" Still she screeches out eomma, eomma, eomma, making the hunters' ears ring at the shrill tone. Each scream of her voice makes the honmoon tremble around them. The third hunter loses track of the fox-demon in the darkness of the forest. Perhaps it teleported away, back to the demon king, the demons' cruel master. It is not an easy task, getting a half-breed feral child back to the hanok. The petulant thing keeps yipping and whining for her mother, as if that fox-demon would ever care enough to see	Cellar Door Pray to your god, open your heartWhatever you do, don't be afraid of the darkCover your eyes, the devil's inside The Honmoon never wavers in its nebulous choices. When it chooses a new hunter to train, those who protect the honmoon must heed its call. The song of the honmoon's flowing music leads the hunters to the forest just outside their hanok, skirting the edge of the training grounds. Odd. Usually the songs lead to civilization or at least some sign of humanity, to bring a new hunter into their fold. This time, the song is different. The faint song of the honmoon hums in their ears as the hunters trek into the forest, careful in their steps so as to not disturb the surrounding wildlife. They hear the cries of... A woman? A screeching, wailing, shrill sobbing sound, and then animalistic panting and yipping. Oh. That's no sobbing woman, that's a fox making those sounds. At least, that was their first assumption. The hunters feel the honmoon song sour to a warning note as the fox shrieking turns into brief silence, and then growling. Demonic growling. The hunters summon their weapons, the honmoon-formed blades casting a soft glow into the night. It is a moonless night, in a dense forest, so only their weapons and their shared oil lamp serves to light the way. A pair of glowing golden-yellow eyes catches in the light, reflecting it back. The eyes raise up from a fox's height to a child's height as... A child's face becomes visible in the lamplight. Well, not quite a child, at least not a normal once. The child is the one growling at them, a mud-caked little girl in a tattered dress with claws for nails and sharp teeth and foxlike ears protruding from her head. The trees around her are decorated with clawmarks - marking her territory. Another pair of glowing eyes shines in the light, but the eyes shrink away and dart back into the darkness when the hunters press forward. They all hear the whine of the other set of eyes calling the girl back. When the hunters step closer to the child, the second set of glowing eyes leaps forward into the light, revealing a demonic white fox with glowing eyes and numerous tails. The fox, growling and spitting and gnashing its teeth at the hunters. As if... To protect the little girl? The little fox-eared girl growls in tandem with the fox, baring her teeth at the hunters. The fox wraps its tails around the girl's legs protectively. A gumiho. This must be a gumiho and possibly one of its half-breed offspring. They know of legends of gumihos having half-human children, and other legends still that claim that this type of demon has a chance at redemption. That if they starve the demon of human flesh and human souls for long enough, the demonic flesh may shrivel away to reveal a human body. That must be what the honmoon wants. What the song humming in their ears wants. This child, this dirty demonic little girl, got chosen for the next generation of hunters, as a test. If they can turn a demon into a human, then maybe there is hope non-lethal methods can work to fend them off. Too busy mentally debating this conundrum set before them, the hunters flinch back when the gumiho fox leaps at them to attack. Though in the form of a fox, they all hear through its growl the distorted demonic voice of a woman, shouting 'stay away from my baby!' Nonsense, demons don't care or love, they don't feel anything. That's what the hunters have been told from generation to generation to maintain the honmoon. They can't dare to let compassion color their view of these heartless monsters, this demon is clearly trying to trick them! The hunters jump into action, working to fend off the gumiho and get the half-breed child safely away from the creature. There may not be hope for the demon, but perhaps there is hope they can save its half-breed child. Of course, the halfling brat doesn't go down without a fight either. She screams, bites, claws, kicks, wriggles against them with all the fervor of a terrified cornered animal. She shouts 'Eomma!' when one of the hunters successfully lands a hit on the fox-demon, and the demon cries out in pain as it jumps away. It takes two of the hunters to restrain the child enough so that she can't claw or bite them anymore, and the third chases after the gumiho further into the forest. The child is distressed, she thrashes in the hunter's arms screaming for her eomma. "Silly girl, that demon doesn't care about you! We're here to save you! The honmoon chose you!" Still she screeches out eomma, eomma, eomma, making the hunters' ears ring at the shrill tone. Each scream of her voice makes the honmoon tremble around them. The third hunter loses track of the fox-demon in the darkness of the forest. Perhaps it teleported away, back to the demon king, the demons' cruel master. It is not an easy task, getting a half-breed feral child back to the hanok. The petulant thing keeps yipping and whining for her mother, as if that fox-demon would ever care enough to see her again. All hunters know demons don't feel, don't love, don't care for anything but selfish gain and to sate their hunger. When the child bites one of the hunters, that's when they decide leaving her unmuzzled was a bad idea. They must tame this half-breed child if they want a hope of fulfilling their duty to the honmoon. It chose this girl, and it is up to them to raise her into the hunter the honmoon needs her to be. They know the girl must be capable of some level of speech, given her wailing out for her eomma whenever she has the energy. Between sleep and hunger in the dark cellar room they've shackled her in, all she can do is cry and call for her mom and beg to be let out to see her again. It hurts their hearts to hear a child crying, but they know their mission; the hunters steel their hearts to endure it, for it is for the good of the child that they starve the demon out of her. The old texts have conflicting accounts on how long it takes to turn a half-breed human. Either a hundred days, or a thousand. The hunters count each day down with bated breath, in hopes the hundreth day would be the one. One night of the hunterOne day I will get revengeOne night to rememberOne day it'll all just end A hundred days of a yipping, screaming, wailing, crying, insolent child using her dwindling demonic wiles to bewitch them into freeing her from the cellar. The walls and door are covered in claw marks by the time they open the door again. They wait until the hundreth day, waiting for the screaming to stop, for the child to stop crying and fall into silence. When they finally unlock that door, they find an emaciated girl with a broken spirit. Her voice too hoarse to yell for her momma anymore. Her body too dehydrated to produce any more tears. Her eyes dull and unfocused in the darkness. The fox ears that they first saw on her head gone, the claws retracted, the fangs receded. If she were fully human, she would not have lasted a week locked alone inside that cellar. By all appearances, it looks like they succeeded in their test. Starve the demon out of a half-breed, and now they are to make a hunter out of her. The three hunters gather to bring the thin girl out of the cellar. She numbly shuffles after them, eyes downcast and wrists raw from the shackles they kept her in. It's jarring when the hunters are nice to her for the first time. They crouch down to introduce themselves to her, to tell her she's been chosen by the honmoon, how it's such a great honor to be its protector. They even ask if she has a name, or if they must choose a name for her. The girl glances up at the three hunters with weary eyes, her voice cracking as she responds. "My name is Celine. When can I see my eomma again?" Honest to God, I will break your heartTear you to pieces and rip you apart	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75636271?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Arorumi (Razzberrydazz)"], "language": "English", "title": "Cellar Door"}
Re:Forgetting to Verify Your Clock From Zero! A week earlier… 『...Save my beloved from the dungeons of Priestella…』 Present time… ===Sergey Taboritsky POV=== Step, Step.. Step, Step… I looked around the hall as my Death squad hurriedly walked down it. It was a dungeon for criminals. The bars were rusted, the air rank with rot. Such horrid conditions… to think he was being held here. Utterly despicable. The inferior people of this world should be cleansed. But that was that, and this was this. If the Witch was right, then… he had to be close. Now. After everything, I was finally going to meet him. The Tsar. A̶l̶l̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶s̶i̶n̶s̶ All my effort All my blessings. It would finally be worth it… My men broke through the door. I saw his figure in the dark. Dark hair, golden crown, cloak of ermine. His Tsar. His Alexei. His God-made-man. We—I had finally found him! I tried to kneel, but my body refused to move. Every muscle turned to stone as tears ran down my cheeks. I was breathless. For who could not in the presence of such divinity? “M—my Tsarevich! Alexei Nikolaevich.” The Tsar’s eyes met mine and he opened his mouth. I braced in anticipation for the first words, the first Royal Decree! That this humble regent would receive from the Tsar! “…Alexei? Isn’t he that dead Russian monarch?” My stomach dropped. The Tsar vanished from view and in his place was replaced by a gaunt, starving… chinese boy? Chained to the wall. “T—this cannot be!” I searched the room frantically. Yet I could no longer find him. No… NO! NO! NO! He was right there! “This…” I trailed off. This must be a test of faith… It has to be. “---WHO ARE YOU!? TELL ME YOUR NAME!” “...M-my name is Natsuki Subaru.” … My brain TREMBLES. “...YOU PRETENDER! HOW DARE YOU USE HIS FACE!” “H-his face? P-please calm down, aren't you guys from Earth like me..?” “Calm down? CALM DOWN!?” I clutched my head, fury and disbelief tearing me apart. How could I calm down when I had yet to find the Tsar? “She —SHE LIED TO ME! THAT WITCH!” “…No. He’s simply in another chamber. He has to be…” Why else would I be here in another world, if not to find the Tsar? I raised my pistol. The boys eyes widened. “If you are not the Tsar… then you are simply another obstacle.” “WAI—” BANG	Re:Forgetting to Verify Your Clock From Zero! A week earlier… 『...Save my beloved from the dungeons of Priestella…』 Present time… ===Sergey Taboritsky POV=== Step, Step.. Step, Step… I looked around the hall as my Death squad hurriedly walked down it. It was a dungeon for criminals. The bars were rusted, the air rank with rot. Such horrid conditions… to think he was being held here. Utterly despicable. The inferior people of this world should be cleansed. But that was that, and this was this. If the Witch was right, then… he had to be close. Now. After everything, I was finally going to meet him. The Tsar. A̶l̶l̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶s̶i̶n̶s̶ All my effort All my blessings. It would finally be worth it… My men broke through the door. I saw his figure in the dark. Dark hair, golden crown, cloak of ermine. His Tsar. His Alexei. His God-made-man. We—I had finally found him! I tried to kneel, but my body refused to move. Every muscle turned to stone as tears ran down my cheeks. I was breathless. For who could not in the presence of such divinity? “M—my Tsarevich! Alexei Nikolaevich.” The Tsar’s eyes met mine and he opened his mouth. I braced in anticipation for the first words, the first Royal Decree! That this humble regent would receive from the Tsar! “…Alexei? Isn’t he that dead Russian monarch?” My stomach dropped. The Tsar vanished from view and in his place was replaced by a gaunt, starving… chinese boy? Chained to the wall. “T—this cannot be!” I searched the room frantically. Yet I could no longer find him. No… NO! NO! NO! He was right there! “This…” I trailed off. This must be a test of faith… It has to be. “---WHO ARE YOU!? TELL ME YOUR NAME!” “...M-my name is Natsuki Subaru.” … My brain TREMBLES. “...YOU PRETENDER! HOW DARE YOU USE HIS FACE!” “H-his face? P-please calm down, aren't you guys from Earth like me..?” “Calm down? CALM DOWN!?” I clutched my head, fury and disbelief tearing me apart. How could I calm down when I had yet to find the Tsar? “She —SHE LIED TO ME! THAT WITCH!” “…No. He’s simply in another chamber. He has to be…” Why else would I be here in another world, if not to find the Tsar? I raised my pistol. The boys eyes widened. “If you are not the Tsar… then you are simply another obstacle.” “WAI—” BANG	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75636286?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["IdioticEd"], "language": "English", "title": "Re:Forgetting to Verify Your Clock From Zero!"}
What Becomes of the Unready Your head swam in nauseous sea of agony and distress, anything thought you attempted to form felt like a bushel of pincushions prodding at your nerves. How long have you been here? Weeks? Months? You knew you were being irrational, it’s probably only been a few days. Time started to blur together after the first few hours. Your location was a mystery. Best guess? Based on the acoustics of the rain echoing off the walls as it hit the roof, and general villainy predictability, a warehouse. Obvious, but just teetering on the edge of cliché enough to be overlooked. You could barely lift your head–god–everything ached. The world spun. Your throat was dry. Sore, like a bad cold. Your breath hitched, caught before it could fully pass. Every breath clawed at your throat like raking a stamped grater into your trachea. A drip of water hit the floor somewhere around you, mocking.Not close enough to matter or aid you. Your wrist stung as you yanked at your restraints, rope burning as it rubbed and bit into raw skin. You weren’t tied like most in a situation like this would be, hands held behind them and tied together. No, you were blind folded, hands were separated, each armed secured to opposite sides of the metal chair at the wrist, elbow, and bicep. Avowedly, it was smart. No leverage. No room to flex. Think. You were on patrol—unofficially and without any sort of approval from Bruce whatsoever—but still on patrol nonetheless. You were close to him. Not close enough where it’d give away your position, but still within enough distance where you could see him, and if you made any slip up he’d without a doubt be alerted of your presence. So, what happened?All you remembered was crouching down to pick up your phone when it slipped from your pocket then…black. Okay. Your phone was still charged when you dropped it. Cell towers. Bruce would check. He always checked those first if he even had an inkling of something amiss. It wouldn't give an exact location but it sure as hell would put him close. Your fingers twitched. Not enough to be useful. Just enough to confirm that your circulation hadn't been fully cut off. They tingled, in that half asleep, awful, painful way that you could only describe as the feeling of what TV static looked like. A breath shuddered out of you. Raw, shaky. Focus. Don’t drift. Drifting only ended up wasting energy. You rolled your shoulders, well—as much as you could under the restraints—you were looking for a shift. Any asymmetry, whether it be the one chair leg slightly shorter than the others, or the ground being a tad unleveled. Any imperfections could aid you, it was far easier to teeter and scoot across a non flat surface then it was an unvarying plane. You swallowed hard against the dryness in your throat, forcing down whatever little saliva you had, and let your head tilt to one side. Slowly, carefully, you pushed your weight against the restraints. Not trying to break them, or knock yourself off balance. You weren't stupid enough to try that, it was beyond clear doing so would only further injure yourself. Just… feeling. There. The faintest creak.It wasn't a lot. Hardly anything, maybe a few millimeter gap at best, but it was still something. You locked in on it immediately, pushed again. It was something on your right side. Somewhere near the elbow restraint. A loose screw, bolt, worn down tapped hole, whatever it was, it wasn’t secured the way it should have been. Odds were, if it was a loose screw, a few careful shifts would be enough to knock it free. A distant laugh rang through the space, whiny. Its sound bouncing off the walls like one's reflection in a carnival mirror maze. It wasn't close. Not particularly far either. Impossible to pinpoint with the acoustics and visual deprivation throwing off your sense of direction. Footsteps followed. Slow. Deliberate. In pace with that dripping of water just out of reach. Your pulse spiked. Heart hammered against bone. You knew panicking wouldn’t help. You tensed, breathing out, short breaths from your nose, muscles taut as you stiffened when you sensed it's form stop directly in front of you. Cold, thin fingers roughly grabbed your chin, tilting your head up and to the side, the other hand forcibly pulling your cheek as they stretched the skin on your face—not quite baby fat, but still plush enough to where it showed your age—to force you to bare your teeth. You strained against the seat, jerking at the rope to get away from their touch, ignoring as the cord practically chewed through your worn flesh. “Y’know, I didn’t believe it til now,” the figure said with a hum, further squishing your face in their hand as nails dug into flesh, “the Bat really does have replacements ready to go like a Russian nesting doll. What are you, the fifth? Sixth? Hmp, so young. What, ‘couldn’t find any older kids to playDaddy with til he needed another meat shield?” the silhouette laughed, dropping your face with a scoff. You	What Becomes of the Unready Your head swam in nauseous sea of agony and distress, anything thought you attempted to form felt like a bushel of pincushions prodding at your nerves. How long have you been here? Weeks? Months? You knew you were being irrational, it’s probably only been a few days. Time started to blur together after the first few hours. Your location was a mystery. Best guess? Based on the acoustics of the rain echoing off the walls as it hit the roof, and general villainy predictability, a warehouse. Obvious, but just teetering on the edge of cliché enough to be overlooked. You could barely lift your head–god–everything ached. The world spun. Your throat was dry. Sore, like a bad cold. Your breath hitched, caught before it could fully pass. Every breath clawed at your throat like raking a stamped grater into your trachea. A drip of water hit the floor somewhere around you, mocking.Not close enough to matter or aid you. Your wrist stung as you yanked at your restraints, rope burning as it rubbed and bit into raw skin. You weren’t tied like most in a situation like this would be, hands held behind them and tied together. No, you were blind folded, hands were separated, each armed secured to opposite sides of the metal chair at the wrist, elbow, and bicep. Avowedly, it was smart. No leverage. No room to flex. Think. You were on patrol—unofficially and without any sort of approval from Bruce whatsoever—but still on patrol nonetheless. You were close to him. Not close enough where it’d give away your position, but still within enough distance where you could see him, and if you made any slip up he’d without a doubt be alerted of your presence. So, what happened?All you remembered was crouching down to pick up your phone when it slipped from your pocket then…black. Okay. Your phone was still charged when you dropped it. Cell towers. Bruce would check. He always checked those first if he even had an inkling of something amiss. It wouldn't give an exact location but it sure as hell would put him close. Your fingers twitched. Not enough to be useful. Just enough to confirm that your circulation hadn't been fully cut off. They tingled, in that half asleep, awful, painful way that you could only describe as the feeling of what TV static looked like. A breath shuddered out of you. Raw, shaky. Focus. Don’t drift. Drifting only ended up wasting energy. You rolled your shoulders, well—as much as you could under the restraints—you were looking for a shift. Any asymmetry, whether it be the one chair leg slightly shorter than the others, or the ground being a tad unleveled. Any imperfections could aid you, it was far easier to teeter and scoot across a non flat surface then it was an unvarying plane. You swallowed hard against the dryness in your throat, forcing down whatever little saliva you had, and let your head tilt to one side. Slowly, carefully, you pushed your weight against the restraints. Not trying to break them, or knock yourself off balance. You weren't stupid enough to try that, it was beyond clear doing so would only further injure yourself. Just… feeling. There. The faintest creak.It wasn't a lot. Hardly anything, maybe a few millimeter gap at best, but it was still something. You locked in on it immediately, pushed again. It was something on your right side. Somewhere near the elbow restraint. A loose screw, bolt, worn down tapped hole, whatever it was, it wasn’t secured the way it should have been. Odds were, if it was a loose screw, a few careful shifts would be enough to knock it free. A distant laugh rang through the space, whiny. Its sound bouncing off the walls like one's reflection in a carnival mirror maze. It wasn't close. Not particularly far either. Impossible to pinpoint with the acoustics and visual deprivation throwing off your sense of direction. Footsteps followed. Slow. Deliberate. In pace with that dripping of water just out of reach. Your pulse spiked. Heart hammered against bone. You knew panicking wouldn’t help. You tensed, breathing out, short breaths from your nose, muscles taut as you stiffened when you sensed it's form stop directly in front of you. Cold, thin fingers roughly grabbed your chin, tilting your head up and to the side, the other hand forcibly pulling your cheek as they stretched the skin on your face—not quite baby fat, but still plush enough to where it showed your age—to force you to bare your teeth. You strained against the seat, jerking at the rope to get away from their touch, ignoring as the cord practically chewed through your worn flesh. “Y’know, I didn’t believe it til now,” the figure said with a hum, further squishing your face in their hand as nails dug into flesh, “the Bat really does have replacements ready to go like a Russian nesting doll. What are you, the fifth? Sixth? Hmp, so young. What, ‘couldn’t find any older kids to playDaddy with til he needed another meat shield?” the silhouette laughed, dropping your face with a scoff. You clenched your jaw, biting the inside of your cheek as you tilted your head, following it's movements as it circled you. Your eyelids twitched, nails pricking the inside of your palms as you clenched your hands into tight balls. Your stomach churned over. It didn’t even need to move closer for you to feel the weight of it's attention. Clammy hands came up once more to your face, removing the blindfold. As your eyes adjusted to the newfound light the gaze of the both of you settled on each other. One set of eyes constricted in terror, the other blown out and deranged as painted red lips curled up into an unnaturally wide smile. The air thickened. Your mouth—you didn't think it was possible—became drier. You felt bile rise to the top of your throat, but forced it back down. “Ahhhh… don’t look so glum,” he said, voice suddenly close to your ear, breath warm, pungent with the stench of cigars and something tangy, “I’ve never had the chance to break a Robin on their first flight, we’ll have fun.” His hands rested on your shoulder, nails slightly digging in. Metal clanged a few feet behind you. You began to turn your head toward the sound but he promptly forcibly turned you back straight. “We should play a game,” his grip from you released, blood rushed to your adrenal glands, you could hear your heart beating in your ears, “hey Robin, you know how to play baseball, right?” you stayed quiet, there was no right answer to his question anyways. “Well, shy aren’t we? That’s alright.” He paced around you in a lazy orbit, humming ‘Pop Goes the Weasel' off key as if only mildly interested. His grin never faltered, sharp, like an orca watching its prey from below the ice, as he laughed and leaned back in, “since you don't know how to play,I’llbe batter,you’ll bethe ball.” Your stomach plummeted so fast it felt like the ground had given way beneath you. All reason and rationality left your mind as you thrashed against your restraints. You knew you shouldn’t fight. Save your strength for later, it was what Robin’s had been taught to remember. But you weren’t a Robin. Not yet. Not really. You were a kid, still missing a front tooth that you promptly had hid under your pillow since you still hadn’t lost all your baby teeth. All you wanted to do was prove you could handle a patrol on your own like your brothers. But you didn’t have Dick’s calm, or Damian’s stoicism. What youdidhave was the very normal, very human instinct to yank against the restraints with everything you had, because Joker was close and laughing and that was enough to make any child want to run. And Joker, oh, he relished every flail. He crouched so his painted eyes were level with yours, watching the fear flicker across your face like a dying street lamp. “There it is,” he whispered, delighted. “That little spark I was looking for.” He flicked a hand, casual, and got up again, too fast, too fluid–over exaggerated like a cartoon court jester. “Well!” he announced to the empty room. “This has been fun. Truly. But I’m getting awfully bored waiting for the cavalry.” Your phone buzzed.Your pulse stuttered. Joker didn’t seem to hear it over his own rambling monologue. “…and honestly, I thought Batsy would be here hours ago. Did I not leave enough clues? Should I have mailed him a finger? Kids heal, right?—” Your phone buzzed again, clearer this time. Joker’s eyes snapped to your pocket, head tilting slowly to one side like a curious cat, pupils dilated as his unhinged gazed now focused back on you.“Naughty, naughty.This party was invite only.You,broke the rules,” his tone had a drastic switch, once over enthusiastic, now hollow, empty, If you didn't know any better you could’ve swore it had an echo. But then he smiled, only with his eyes as his lips didn't quite follow the path. “But, since I’m such ageneroushost, I suppose they can join!” He immediately snatched the phone from your pocket, throwing it to the floor as your eyes jolted toward it, and stomping the device under foot. The sound of the phone cracking under his heel echoed through the empty room, sharp and final. Joker tilted his head, as if listening to a secret song only he could hear, then bounced on the balls of his feet. “Oops, who did that...? What a shame. Awe. Hope they took a screen shot,” Joker lifted his heel from the demolished phone with a little spin and outward flick of both his wrist, like he’d just finished a grand magic trick and was waiting for applause. Bits of glass clung to the tread of his loafer, glittering. “Well!” he chirped, clapping his hands together, sharp enough to make you flinch as he cocked his head to an angle, grin now spanning ear to ear, “since you’ve called in a special guest before I fully finished setting up, I guess we should roll out the red carpet now incase they arrive early.” His grin stretched even farther—if that was even possible—too wide, cracking the greasepaint at the corners. Turning on his heel, he dramatically rolled out a literal red carpet from seemingly nowhere, then sauntering toward the shadows where that metal clang had come from. You could only see the shape of it now. The long item leaned against the wall. As he came back into the light he lifted the shape with a casual one-handed swing. A baseball bat. Dinged and dented. Aluminum. He twirled it like a baton. “First pitch!” he announced brightly. “First impressions are so important. We want Batsy to see what a natural athlete you are!” Your breath hitched. You tried to suck in air, tried to swallow the terror that was clawing up your throat, and threatening to spill over, but your lungs felt too small. Too shallow. Still being chewed and clawed by the discomfort of dryness. Joker sauntered back toward you, dragging the bat along the concrete floor. He stopped inches from your face. “Now, I know what you’re thinking,” he purred, feigning a more pensive, innocent look. “He wouldn’t.” The clown leaned forward, forehead bumping yours with an almost affectionatethunk. “Oh, sweet pea.” The smile dropped all at once–gone again, replaced with a ‘toonishly deep frown, in any other case, one could applaud how fluid his motions were, how he almost moved like nothing held him together but the limitless reign of a Henry Selick film. But in this case, you wished hedidn’tmove like that. You wished he looked human. You wishedyoudidn’t feel so human. Joker’s eyes bore deep into yours, too delighted in contrast to the sunken, downward contortion of his lips, and his voice dropped back into something cold enough to frost bone. “I absolutely,” he whispered, “would.” The bat lifted. He stood up fully, height towering over your seated form as he roughly shoved your head whilst walking behind you. Your instincts screamedpull back, tuck in, make yourself small,but the restraints held you open, exposed, like a cadaver waiting for a scalpel happy intern to slice your flesh apart. “Now hold still,” Joker crooned, stepping back one exaggerated hop.You barely process the hit before it connects.Not to you though. He struck the leg of the chair. Your whole body shuddered, mind swimming as you had braced for impact that never came. From behind you Joker made a hum of confusion, then another noise you could only describe as one of…pity? No, it was to be more kin to the sound of a hurt dog. Suddenly, he came back around from behind, crouching down in front of you as he crooked his neck. “Hey,” he said softly. His hand rose, dragging the backside of his gloved pointer finger down your cheek, pouting his lips in mock worry. “There you go, I love that look,” his voice was delicate in manic affection, “that's the look that screams‘well maybe if i look pathetic enough, or try to make myself smaller, or if i stay quiet enough he’ll let me go with most of my appendages.’”His grin returned, all teeth as it met his eyes. “Oh, don’t fret. I’m not going to kill you.” A beat. A tilt of the head. “Not before your Daddy gets here.” He stood in one bouncing motion and swung the bat up onto his shoulder, whistling a cheerful little tune as he skipped away. “So!” he declared brightly. “Let’s make sure he’s motivated.” He pushed something on a device sitting atop a nearby crate. A loudbuzzing, mechanical soundrang through the space, your head jerked up, a low whirring began to creak from the overhead lights as the panels under them separated, making way for the object ascending from the now open space beneath. A camera. A live stream. A direct line. You didn’t know if the dread or the hope hit harder. “And just like that…” Joker hummed, tapping the side of the camera lightly with the bat as the red light blinked on, “our audience is officially seated.” He planted his feet, stretching his back as he wound up the bat like a cartoon slugger, and winked. “Batter up.”	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75636221/chapters/197799511	{"authors": ["NewYorke"], "language": "English", "title": "What Becomes of the Unready"}
the nightingale The moment he saw her, Ethan knew that she was the one for him. With wide blue-grey eyes, short bangs and a slightly wavy bob, she was a vision dressed in an azure blue sweater and a black pencil skirt. Color crept into his vision at the edges the first time their eyes met — just a fleeting moment but enough for Ethan to be sure of how special she was. Her song snuck into his ears, curling into his ribcage and winding around his heart. And sure he is, even still — even if he can't have her in any way that matters. Sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. A singer. A nightingale. Virginia. He knows her name now — knows it better than his own from repeating it over and over it in his head day in and day out — Virginia was everything. Virginia, who made him feel like he was seeing color for the first time in a world full of black and white. Virginia, who said his name so sweetly, who touched him like no one else had before. Virginia, who'd gone and ripped his heart out of his chest, crushed it beneath her heel like nothing. Virginia, who'd ruined him. Draping his coat over her shoulders, giving her a ride home. That first night, her voice rasping something dangerous into his ear before she took him in her mouth on the couch. God, it was such a mistake. All of it. He tilts his head back, taking another large mouthful of beer. The golden liquid goes down smoothly enough, warmth seeping into his limbs and tingling on the way down to his gut. He's long since passed the point of fuzzy vision, but it's not enough. Never enough to get her out of his head. His face feels hot. Too hot. He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. There was a girl tonight. She's gone now, and Ethan couldn't describe her face if someone asked him to. Maybe it's from the drink, maybe it's from something else. He doesn't even know. She was no one special. Someone who Ethan passed in the halls on occasion, never enough to pick up hints of personality or any details on her life. He thinks her name might be Rita. He'd been rough. Too rough, probably — he's aware enough to know at least that much. He remembers leading her over to the low couch, one hand on her hip and the other working at her skirt, slipping it down her legs. Pushing her down against the cushions, running a hand up her spine to grab the back of her neck. Quick and entirely unsatisfying, just as everything else since Virginia has been. Rita hadn't seemed upset when she left, but guilt tugs at him regardless as he remembers what he did. Nothing could compare to Gini, though. So, he drinks. One more drink. And another. And another. And another… The room spins around him, nausea churning in his gut. He'd graduated to liquor some time ago, a decision he was quickly regretting. Guilt. Love. Longing. Shame. They all war inside him, a sickening cocktail mixed with the alcohol. The nausea becomes the most prominent feeling, though, and Ethan finds himself stumbling down the hall and into the washroom. He barely makes it, falling to his knees in front of the toilet and clinging to the sides of the bowl with shaking hands as he empties the contents of his stomach. It feels like hours, retching and coughing, hunched over and shaking like a child, but finally, the worst is over. He spits one last time, desperate to clear the taste of vomit from his mouth. Pointless, of course, but he tries nonetheless. Even now, even like this, her song comes to him. Fingers trailing down his back and sides, voice husky in his ear. A siren, calling him to his ruin. The clarity of her laughter, the brush of her lips on his. Love in its most pure form, at least he thought it was. His eyes sting, tears threatening to fall, and he clenches his jaw so hard that he thinks he hears his teeth crack. He's meant to be strong, he tells himself. Stronger than this. Crying is for women and sissies — his father made sure he knew that, had imprinted the fact into his very bones. But the tears come regardless, and a deep seated self-hatred joins the other emotions warring in his mind. Some sick part of him is glad that his father died years ago so he couldn't see him spiral like this. He'd be disgusted. The nausea returns in full force, and he lurches up once more, hovering over the toilet. It's nothing but bile now. His head aches, and with a startling kind of clarity, Ethan realizes he doesn't even know who he is anymore. He slumps against the wall, staring up at the ceiling as he falls apart on the tile. His apartment is falling into disarray around him — he hadn't even bothered to turn the light on when Rita walked in, too ashamed of the mess. Dishes piling up in the sink, clothes haphazardly strewn about. God, he's a wreck. Hitting Gini is the worst thing he's ever done, he's sure of it. He shouldn't have done any of it — shouldn't have yelled at her, shouldn't have thrown that glass. He gets angry when he's drunk, turns into someone else. Someone he can't recognize, and	the nightingale The moment he saw her, Ethan knew that she was the one for him. With wide blue-grey eyes, short bangs and a slightly wavy bob, she was a vision dressed in an azure blue sweater and a black pencil skirt. Color crept into his vision at the edges the first time their eyes met — just a fleeting moment but enough for Ethan to be sure of how special she was. Her song snuck into his ears, curling into his ribcage and winding around his heart. And sure he is, even still — even if he can't have her in any way that matters. Sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. A singer. A nightingale. Virginia. He knows her name now — knows it better than his own from repeating it over and over it in his head day in and day out — Virginia was everything. Virginia, who made him feel like he was seeing color for the first time in a world full of black and white. Virginia, who said his name so sweetly, who touched him like no one else had before. Virginia, who'd gone and ripped his heart out of his chest, crushed it beneath her heel like nothing. Virginia, who'd ruined him. Draping his coat over her shoulders, giving her a ride home. That first night, her voice rasping something dangerous into his ear before she took him in her mouth on the couch. God, it was such a mistake. All of it. He tilts his head back, taking another large mouthful of beer. The golden liquid goes down smoothly enough, warmth seeping into his limbs and tingling on the way down to his gut. He's long since passed the point of fuzzy vision, but it's not enough. Never enough to get her out of his head. His face feels hot. Too hot. He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. There was a girl tonight. She's gone now, and Ethan couldn't describe her face if someone asked him to. Maybe it's from the drink, maybe it's from something else. He doesn't even know. She was no one special. Someone who Ethan passed in the halls on occasion, never enough to pick up hints of personality or any details on her life. He thinks her name might be Rita. He'd been rough. Too rough, probably — he's aware enough to know at least that much. He remembers leading her over to the low couch, one hand on her hip and the other working at her skirt, slipping it down her legs. Pushing her down against the cushions, running a hand up her spine to grab the back of her neck. Quick and entirely unsatisfying, just as everything else since Virginia has been. Rita hadn't seemed upset when she left, but guilt tugs at him regardless as he remembers what he did. Nothing could compare to Gini, though. So, he drinks. One more drink. And another. And another. And another… The room spins around him, nausea churning in his gut. He'd graduated to liquor some time ago, a decision he was quickly regretting. Guilt. Love. Longing. Shame. They all war inside him, a sickening cocktail mixed with the alcohol. The nausea becomes the most prominent feeling, though, and Ethan finds himself stumbling down the hall and into the washroom. He barely makes it, falling to his knees in front of the toilet and clinging to the sides of the bowl with shaking hands as he empties the contents of his stomach. It feels like hours, retching and coughing, hunched over and shaking like a child, but finally, the worst is over. He spits one last time, desperate to clear the taste of vomit from his mouth. Pointless, of course, but he tries nonetheless. Even now, even like this, her song comes to him. Fingers trailing down his back and sides, voice husky in his ear. A siren, calling him to his ruin. The clarity of her laughter, the brush of her lips on his. Love in its most pure form, at least he thought it was. His eyes sting, tears threatening to fall, and he clenches his jaw so hard that he thinks he hears his teeth crack. He's meant to be strong, he tells himself. Stronger than this. Crying is for women and sissies — his father made sure he knew that, had imprinted the fact into his very bones. But the tears come regardless, and a deep seated self-hatred joins the other emotions warring in his mind. Some sick part of him is glad that his father died years ago so he couldn't see him spiral like this. He'd be disgusted. The nausea returns in full force, and he lurches up once more, hovering over the toilet. It's nothing but bile now. His head aches, and with a startling kind of clarity, Ethan realizes he doesn't even know who he is anymore. He slumps against the wall, staring up at the ceiling as he falls apart on the tile. His apartment is falling into disarray around him — he hadn't even bothered to turn the light on when Rita walked in, too ashamed of the mess. Dishes piling up in the sink, clothes haphazardly strewn about. God, he's a wreck. Hitting Gini is the worst thing he's ever done, he's sure of it. He shouldn't have done any of it — shouldn't have yelled at her, shouldn't have thrown that glass. He gets angry when he's drunk, turns into someone else. Someone he can't recognize, and doesn't want to think about. His cheeks are wet, tears streaming down onto his dress shirt and dampening the fabric. He tugs at it, disgust churning in his belly at the physical manifestation of his weakness. He'll go to work tomorrow, just like always. Smile at his patients, greet the other staff, act like nothing is wrong. It's bad enough that he's breaking down like this — he doesn't need other people bearing witness to his sorrow, this wrongness that's buried into his chest, rotting it from the inside out. Knowing he has to see her makes it even worse. Hearing her voice in the hallways, the click of her shoes as she flits about the hospital. Talking about Bill. To Bill. God, he has no clue how good she is, does he? But despite that, she persists. Helps him with his doomed study even though it's been kicked out of the hospital and moved to a cathouse on Third and Sutter. Sometimes he thinks she might be in love with Bill and that's why she stays, but the thought is too ridiculous for him to dwell on it too much. One thing that Ethan does know, though, is that Virginia despises him. She'll barely even look at him when he passes her in the halls, nothing but fire and vitriol in those blue eyes when she does spare him a glance. The flowers, the fervent apologies in person and over the phone — Virginia wants none of it. At this point, Ethan can hardly blame her. It hurts nonetheless. Aches like nothing else he's ever felt. His nightingale. She'll never sing her song for him again, but he'll hear it for the rest of his life anyways.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75631271	{"authors": ["soupermarket"], "language": "English", "title": "the nightingale"}
Back to Friends -- Xicheng Jiang Cheng walked around Caiyi town with his usual frowning expression. The beautiful night of a festival with its loud music being taken in by his eyes and ears as he walked with caution, careful enough to watch for his people, to do his duty;protect them. True, he was a cranky person, but that didn't mean he was nonetheless a human with feelings and thoughts of his own. He was more than just an angry sect leader that yelled at everyone. His gaze ran everywhere. The beautiful maidens dancing like flowers, the handsome and strong men fishing, his disciples running around with joy, their laughter filling the air, the bright moon, the chilly yet comforting wind that tugged at his robes when it howled by. Everything was like before. Loud but comforting. A sense of closure that made you feel warm. A type of night that would make you wish you had someone. Someone to love, someone that loved you. The only thing missing was his family. His martial brother was married, roaming around the world with his husband glued to his hip. His nephew didn't have enough time to stick to Jiang Cheng like before, the once young child, now taking care of his own sect, having his own responsibilities, having his own mind. Jiang Cheng let out a big sigh, his frown softening, a small smile tugging at his lips every now and then. The night was beautiful, it always was beautiful. But, this time, it just felt better. The once longing pain, deep into Jiang Cheng's core elevated its weight on him. It wasn't anything big, but it was something. “Sect Leader! Care to buy anything tonight?” A seller asked him. It was an old man. Old but wise, their long white beard being stroked by his hands. Jiang Cheng looked at him, raising his eyebrow yet walking close to the stand, looking down at the gorgeous hair pins being sold. “May I ask what they are made of?” Jiang Cheng grabbed one–it was decorated beautifully, it was the color purple, mixed with a little bit if white and blue, making it stand out with the silver lotus imprint. “These hairpins you see, are made of jade. They are carefully handmade. Every step to make it has its own risk,” the old seller answered. “Would you like to buy one?” Asked the old seller. Jiang Cheng hummed, looking down at the hairpin on his hand, turning it over and over, the hairpin somewhat screaming at him to buy it. “I'll take this one.” Said Jiang Cheng, pulling out his money pouch, grabbing the necessary amount and giving it to the old man. “Sect Leader, if you don't mind, there's something about that hairpin that you must know,” added the old seller. “Spit it out.” Replied Jiang Cheng. “That hairpin,” the old seller paused, “Pain, misunderstanding, love, and devotion, that is what it carries.” stated the old seller. Jiang Cheng stared at the old man. “Alright, alright. I'm still buying it.” insisted Jiang Cheng. The older man let out a chuckle. “Of course, Sect Leader.” Finally getting his hairpin, Jiang Cheng walked away, thanking the older man for the piece of art on his hand. Getting tired from walking around, Jiang Cheng searched for a place to spend the night. A few blocks away, was an inn, even though he wasn't far from his home, he could drink away his sorrows and sleep there at least one night. He walked in the inn, his presence lurking in the air. "S-Sect Leader Jiang!” said the innkeeper, walking up to him, bowing formally at Jiang Cheng like his life depended on it; which it did. Jiang Cheng looked at the innkeeper, rolling his eyes. "Please prepare a room for me," he said, his eyes averting away from those of the innkeepers. “Leave some Emperor's Smile in there, too.” "Of course! Right away, Sect Leader!" Said the man, walking over to the innkeeping staff. Jiang Cheng didn't remove his eyes from the crowd inside the inn. Many cultivators from other sects were laughing as they drank away with joy, their faces scrunching with their smiles. Jiang Cheng huffed and walked to a table further away, far from anyone. He put his chin on his palm as he finally stopped staring at the people. Now, looking down at the table, listening to the joy he didn't have. "Sect Leader Jiang...?" asked a familiar voice that seemed to inch closer as the seconds passed. Jiang Cheng froze. He could recognize that voice anywhere. A voice that would forever be embroidered in his brain and ache his heart at the thought. "Sect Leader Lan?" Replied Jiang Cheng, his eyes now looking at the person that stood in front of him with a delicate smile that didn't quite feel like a smile. Lan Xichen came into clear view. His usual smile felt like strings were holding it up. "Jiang-zongzhu, It's you,” His gaze forwarded towards the empty seat across from Jiang Cheng, “May I sit?" He asked quietly. Jiang Cheng nodded. "What are you doing here, in Caiyi Town? Weren't you in seclusion?" asked Jiang Cheng, watchingLan Xichen sit down with modesty. “𝘞𝘢𝘴 in seclusion. I decided to... start again," Added Lan Xichen. He	Back to Friends -- Xicheng Jiang Cheng walked around Caiyi town with his usual frowning expression. The beautiful night of a festival with its loud music being taken in by his eyes and ears as he walked with caution, careful enough to watch for his people, to do his duty;protect them. True, he was a cranky person, but that didn't mean he was nonetheless a human with feelings and thoughts of his own. He was more than just an angry sect leader that yelled at everyone. His gaze ran everywhere. The beautiful maidens dancing like flowers, the handsome and strong men fishing, his disciples running around with joy, their laughter filling the air, the bright moon, the chilly yet comforting wind that tugged at his robes when it howled by. Everything was like before. Loud but comforting. A sense of closure that made you feel warm. A type of night that would make you wish you had someone. Someone to love, someone that loved you. The only thing missing was his family. His martial brother was married, roaming around the world with his husband glued to his hip. His nephew didn't have enough time to stick to Jiang Cheng like before, the once young child, now taking care of his own sect, having his own responsibilities, having his own mind. Jiang Cheng let out a big sigh, his frown softening, a small smile tugging at his lips every now and then. The night was beautiful, it always was beautiful. But, this time, it just felt better. The once longing pain, deep into Jiang Cheng's core elevated its weight on him. It wasn't anything big, but it was something. “Sect Leader! Care to buy anything tonight?” A seller asked him. It was an old man. Old but wise, their long white beard being stroked by his hands. Jiang Cheng looked at him, raising his eyebrow yet walking close to the stand, looking down at the gorgeous hair pins being sold. “May I ask what they are made of?” Jiang Cheng grabbed one–it was decorated beautifully, it was the color purple, mixed with a little bit if white and blue, making it stand out with the silver lotus imprint. “These hairpins you see, are made of jade. They are carefully handmade. Every step to make it has its own risk,” the old seller answered. “Would you like to buy one?” Asked the old seller. Jiang Cheng hummed, looking down at the hairpin on his hand, turning it over and over, the hairpin somewhat screaming at him to buy it. “I'll take this one.” Said Jiang Cheng, pulling out his money pouch, grabbing the necessary amount and giving it to the old man. “Sect Leader, if you don't mind, there's something about that hairpin that you must know,” added the old seller. “Spit it out.” Replied Jiang Cheng. “That hairpin,” the old seller paused, “Pain, misunderstanding, love, and devotion, that is what it carries.” stated the old seller. Jiang Cheng stared at the old man. “Alright, alright. I'm still buying it.” insisted Jiang Cheng. The older man let out a chuckle. “Of course, Sect Leader.” Finally getting his hairpin, Jiang Cheng walked away, thanking the older man for the piece of art on his hand. Getting tired from walking around, Jiang Cheng searched for a place to spend the night. A few blocks away, was an inn, even though he wasn't far from his home, he could drink away his sorrows and sleep there at least one night. He walked in the inn, his presence lurking in the air. "S-Sect Leader Jiang!” said the innkeeper, walking up to him, bowing formally at Jiang Cheng like his life depended on it; which it did. Jiang Cheng looked at the innkeeper, rolling his eyes. "Please prepare a room for me," he said, his eyes averting away from those of the innkeepers. “Leave some Emperor's Smile in there, too.” "Of course! Right away, Sect Leader!" Said the man, walking over to the innkeeping staff. Jiang Cheng didn't remove his eyes from the crowd inside the inn. Many cultivators from other sects were laughing as they drank away with joy, their faces scrunching with their smiles. Jiang Cheng huffed and walked to a table further away, far from anyone. He put his chin on his palm as he finally stopped staring at the people. Now, looking down at the table, listening to the joy he didn't have. "Sect Leader Jiang...?" asked a familiar voice that seemed to inch closer as the seconds passed. Jiang Cheng froze. He could recognize that voice anywhere. A voice that would forever be embroidered in his brain and ache his heart at the thought. "Sect Leader Lan?" Replied Jiang Cheng, his eyes now looking at the person that stood in front of him with a delicate smile that didn't quite feel like a smile. Lan Xichen came into clear view. His usual smile felt like strings were holding it up. "Jiang-zongzhu, It's you,” His gaze forwarded towards the empty seat across from Jiang Cheng, “May I sit?" He asked quietly. Jiang Cheng nodded. "What are you doing here, in Caiyi Town? Weren't you in seclusion?" asked Jiang Cheng, watchingLan Xichen sit down with modesty. “𝘞𝘢𝘴 in seclusion. I decided to... start again," Added Lan Xichen. He paused, then spoke again , "A new beginning." Jiang Cheng looked at him and gave a small, quick smile. He looked into the eyes of the older male, feeling the world go slower and the pain in his chest decreasing. Blushing, Jiang Cheng looked away to the side where a big round window gave a beautiful view that one couldn't take their eyes off. "Hmph. You have a lot of work to complete now that you're restarting. " He said, returning his eyes to Lan Xichen again. Lan Xichen gave his stringed smile again, with a slight chuckle, "Mm. I do," He looked down at his hand, fidgeting with his fingers. "Actually, Jiang-zongzhu–" Lan Xichen was cut off by the voice of the innkeeper. "Sect Leader Lan, Sect Leader Jiang,” said the innkeeper, once again, bowing at the sect leaders. “Would you like something to drink?" Jiang Cheng turned to look at the innkeeper. "I would appreciate some Emperor's Smile,” said Jiang Cheng, sarcasm hidden in his words, “Sect Leader Lan, what will you get?" He turned his attention at Lan Xichen. "I'd also like some of what you are getting, Jiang-Zongzhu." Replied Lan Xichen, smiling at the innkeeper. The innkeeper nodded, “Right away!”, he answered, leaving the two cultivators in silence. "Since when do you drink wine?” Asked Jiang Cheng as he raised his eyebrow, his hands forwarding to play with his martial weapon in the form of a ring;Zidian. "Since never,” Lan Xichen kept smiling. "I would just like to try it. Before going back to Cloud Recesses." "You do know you're breaking your own rules, right...?" "..." "I am the sect leader, I can break my own rules." Lan Xichen replied, chuckling. His gaze lowered down to his hands once again, silence creeping up in the air. “Jiang Zongzhu, I have a question,” Lan Xichen added, now looking at the man in front of him. “Ask away,” answered Jiang Cheng. “Do you, perhaps, miss Wei-gongzi?” There was another silence between them. Jiang Cheng stared at Lan Xichen. “You don't have to answer. Forgive me for being so bold as to ask something deeply personal.” Lan Xichen broke the silence. "Here are your drinks,” said the sudden voice of the innkeeper, placing down their cups. He gave a smile and bowed before leaving. "About time,” Mumbled Jiang Cheng, grabbing his drink and sipping from it. Lan Xichen ,like Jiang Cheng, grabbed his cup and took a sip. His face immediately flushing in a light shade of pink. Jiang Cheng stared with an amused expression at Lan Xichen and his now, new condition. "Are you okay?" Jiang Cheng asked, confused yet concerned about Lan Xichen's new state. "C-Completely fine." replied Lan Xichen before his eyes closed, suddenly sleeping in his sitting position. Jiang cheng was dumbfounded. He stared for a second. Two seconds. Three seconds. He kept staring and finally let out a loud sigh as he chuckled. “Sect Leader Lan?” He asked outloud, making sure the man really was asleep. Getting no answer, he stood up from his seat, walked towards Lan Xichen and grabbed the older sect leader by the arms. ‘Do Lans have no alcohol tolerance? Whatever, I'll take him to my room, then leave.’ Jiang Cheng said to himself, slowly walking the sleeping man to Jiang Cheng's prepared inn room. Once they finally got there, he let out a huff, ‘How is one so heavy?!’ thought Jiang Cheng, placing Lan Xichen on the bed, tugging him in, trying to make him comfortable. Once done, he stared down at the man's face. "Stupid Crush." He mumbled, leaving the room and going down stairs. "Prepare hot tea, and bring it up to my room once done. " Jiang Cheng told the innkeeping staff. The staff nodded, "Right away, Sect Leader Jiang!" They said in union. Jiang Cheng nodded, leaving , going back up to his room. Entering the room, he sighed, his eyes darting over to the sleeping man, wondering what he should do if the other man suddenly woke up. Jiang Cheng waited a few minutes before finally getting the desired tea. Thanking the staff, he walked over to the bed, placing the hot tea on the close counter. He sighed, waiting and standing there, looking at the steaming water, inhaling the sweet scent from the tea. "Maybe I shouldn't bother him right now. What if he burns himself?" Jiang Cheng grumbled, looking at Lan Xichen sleeping comfortably. Jiang Cheng looked away, he stood up and walked to the door, his hand not opening the door as his thoughts roamed around his head like bugs. He didn't notice when Lan Xichen got off the bed, standing behind him. He felt a strong pair of arms wrapped around his waist. Jiang Cheng froze. ‘What the?!’ he thought, looking down at the arms that encircled his waist. "Wanyin," Mumbled Lan Xichen, inhaling Jiang Cheng 's scent. "B-Back off. Get off of me! When did we even get to dropping formalities?!” said Jiang Cheng, trying to take the older man's strong arms off of him. It was in vain. "No." Replied Lan Xichen. "Seriously?! You drink one cup of Emperor’s Smile and turn into this ridiculous mess?! " Jiang Cheng was already blushing. His hands, still trying to get Lan Xichen's arms off of his waist. "Lan Xichen!" He yelled. "Get off of -" Jiang Cheng was cut off by a pair of soft lips pressed against his. Lan Xichen's eyes staring right into his as he grabbed Jiang Cheng's chin to keep his face in place. "Wait, Lan Xichen!" He muttered through the kiss, feeling Lan Xichen backing him towards the bed. He fell on the bed, looking up at Lan Xichen, the other man taking off his outer robes. "L-Lan Xichen, Sect Leader Lan! You're drunk," He stood up, then fell back again, Lan Xichen pushing him onto the bed. "You're not leaving." He said, getting on top of Jiang Cheng. "Wait, damn it!" He tried pushing Lan Xichen off of him. "You don't want to do it?" Asked Lan Xichen, backing up a little, raising his eyebrow in confusion. Jiang Cheng stared at him, his eyes softening at the man, his heart clenching tightly. He didn't say anything, he didn't want to. Of course he wanted to, but it just felt wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, or how it was supposed to be. "You don't have to do it, Wanyin," said Lan Xichen as he organized his robes. He stood up and started walking to the door. As he opened the door, Lan Xichen suddenly felt arms turning him around strongly. His lips crashed into Jiang Cheng 's lips. His eyes widened. He was drunk, but he had a teeny tiny bit of consciousness left. Closing the door again, he wrapped his arms around Jiang Cheng's waist, dragging their bodies to the bed. They flopped on the bed, the kiss deepening, the room getting heated with lust and desire. The night, now, getting longer than the two sect leaders anticipated.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75631276?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["jxc_lx"], "language": "English", "title": "Back to Friends -- Xicheng"}
Kids, man "I said it’s fine!" a voice shouts, cracking like a whip down the hallway with its ferocity, and Enjin blinks from his chair in the dining hall. "No, it ain’t!" Oh. That’s Zanka. "Don’t tell me what to do, turdface!" Rudo. "I’m your teacher! I’m s’pposed to tell ya what to do, so listen to me, ya skuzzball!" These two. Enjin heaves a long sigh and gets up from the table. Well. Time to stage an intervention.It's not like he'd been eating, anyway. He's mostly been sitting around after finishing his food seven minutes ago. He exits the mess hall and runs straight into Gris, who also happens to be walking down the hallway in the same direction. Knowing him, he’s on his way to split up the fight just like Enjin is. Sure enough, Gris looks at him with eyes drained of all soul and says, "Why can’t they be normal?" Enjin barks out a short laugh. "You think anybody here’s normal, man?" "No," Gris admits. He pinches the bridge of his nose as they start walking down the hallway together. Rudo and Zanka’s argument is still going full-force. "You think we should just leave them alone?" Enjin shrugs. He’s wondered the same before, to be entirely honest. There’s something to be learned from resolving issues on your own, and though the kids certainly haven’t been deprived of that lesson, it’s certainly one that could use reinforcement. Especially Rudo. That kid still has a lot to learn, just in general. "Probably," he says. Zanka lets out a particularly loud shriek of outrage. Probably not. There may be a lesson learned from resolving arguments, but maybe not so much if things come to blows. Zanka should know better than to let that happen, and Enjin trusts that he does, but even so— Their pace quickens just a little, from a walk to a… mildly brisker walk. They round the corner in a matter of seconds and find that the argument is taking place right smack dab in the middle of the hallway, and both boys are seething, Zanka towering over an angry Rudo with a twitching right eye. Zanka’s attention flits to their movement and his eyes widen immediately, mortified. Rudo, who is too buried in his frustration to notice their arrival, lets another insult fly. "Why don’t you just piss off and—!" Zanka’s hand shoots forward and claps over Rudo’s mouth, cutting him off. Rudo lets out a muffled protest, gloved hands raising to scrabble at Zanka’s firm grip, before Zanka hisses, "Quit it, ya idiot!" "Something going on?" Enjin asks. Finally, Rudo notices them. He stops moving. One foot tucks itself behind the other, and Enjin arches an eyebrow at it, suspicious. Zanka’s face flushes red. He opens his mouth to answer and lets out a remarkably high screech instead, jerking his hand away from Rudo’s face and flapping it around wildly. "Wh— Did ya just— just lick me, ya fuckin’—?" Rudo glares and crosses his arms like a stubborn, very indignant cat. Enjin tries not to laugh, because laughing means he approves, and he doesn’t really want to positively reinforce this behavior. But it is funny. Apparently he’s not hiding it well enough, though, because Gris shoots him a stern warning look. Gris, at least, has an easier time getting it together. "Zanka. What happened?" Rudo looks even more annoyed at the fact that Zanka gets to speak first, but he knows enough to keep quiet. "Rudo ain’t cooperatin'," Zanka says, frustrated. "Won’t go get help even though he needs it. I told him—" "Wait," Gris says, stopping Zanka before he can go on a rant with a raised hand. "Back up. Get help for what, exactly?" "An injury?" Enjin asks, pointedly staring at Rudo’s tucked foot. Zanka gives a single, damning nod. All eyes turn to Rudo. "Kid," Enjin starts warningly. The kid folds like wet cardboard. "It’s just an ankle sprain," he mumbles. "Just an ankle sprain?" Gris practically yelps. "Kid! What the hell?" "How long have you been injured?" Enjin asks. Eishia can still heal infections fine, but it takes her more concentration to expel the exact amount of electricity to break them down. He’d rather spare her the spiral of self-doubt that often comes with her uncertainty. It also doesn’t necessarily bode well that Rudo tried to hide a sprain at all, especially in their line of work. Going out on a mission with an injury is practically a death wish. Rudo is a weird kid. Enjin doesn’t know what his life was like before coming to the Ground, so he doesn’t know whether to attribute this to learned behavior or if he’s just being stubborn because Zanka is telling him what to do. It’s probably some mixture of both, because above all, Rudo is a kid. And, as Enjin has come to learn at least two times over, kids hate doing what they're told to do. "At least since this morning’s mission," Zanka answers for them. Their mission, as Enjin recalls, had been at ten AM. It’s around a half hour into the afternoon now. "Rudo," Gris sighs again, shaking his head. "It doesn’t hurt," Rudo mutters. "You were limpin’ like there was no tomorrow," Zanka, ever so reliable,	Kids, man "I said it’s fine!" a voice shouts, cracking like a whip down the hallway with its ferocity, and Enjin blinks from his chair in the dining hall. "No, it ain’t!" Oh. That’s Zanka. "Don’t tell me what to do, turdface!" Rudo. "I’m your teacher! I’m s’pposed to tell ya what to do, so listen to me, ya skuzzball!" These two. Enjin heaves a long sigh and gets up from the table. Well. Time to stage an intervention.It's not like he'd been eating, anyway. He's mostly been sitting around after finishing his food seven minutes ago. He exits the mess hall and runs straight into Gris, who also happens to be walking down the hallway in the same direction. Knowing him, he’s on his way to split up the fight just like Enjin is. Sure enough, Gris looks at him with eyes drained of all soul and says, "Why can’t they be normal?" Enjin barks out a short laugh. "You think anybody here’s normal, man?" "No," Gris admits. He pinches the bridge of his nose as they start walking down the hallway together. Rudo and Zanka’s argument is still going full-force. "You think we should just leave them alone?" Enjin shrugs. He’s wondered the same before, to be entirely honest. There’s something to be learned from resolving issues on your own, and though the kids certainly haven’t been deprived of that lesson, it’s certainly one that could use reinforcement. Especially Rudo. That kid still has a lot to learn, just in general. "Probably," he says. Zanka lets out a particularly loud shriek of outrage. Probably not. There may be a lesson learned from resolving arguments, but maybe not so much if things come to blows. Zanka should know better than to let that happen, and Enjin trusts that he does, but even so— Their pace quickens just a little, from a walk to a… mildly brisker walk. They round the corner in a matter of seconds and find that the argument is taking place right smack dab in the middle of the hallway, and both boys are seething, Zanka towering over an angry Rudo with a twitching right eye. Zanka’s attention flits to their movement and his eyes widen immediately, mortified. Rudo, who is too buried in his frustration to notice their arrival, lets another insult fly. "Why don’t you just piss off and—!" Zanka’s hand shoots forward and claps over Rudo’s mouth, cutting him off. Rudo lets out a muffled protest, gloved hands raising to scrabble at Zanka’s firm grip, before Zanka hisses, "Quit it, ya idiot!" "Something going on?" Enjin asks. Finally, Rudo notices them. He stops moving. One foot tucks itself behind the other, and Enjin arches an eyebrow at it, suspicious. Zanka’s face flushes red. He opens his mouth to answer and lets out a remarkably high screech instead, jerking his hand away from Rudo’s face and flapping it around wildly. "Wh— Did ya just— just lick me, ya fuckin’—?" Rudo glares and crosses his arms like a stubborn, very indignant cat. Enjin tries not to laugh, because laughing means he approves, and he doesn’t really want to positively reinforce this behavior. But it is funny. Apparently he’s not hiding it well enough, though, because Gris shoots him a stern warning look. Gris, at least, has an easier time getting it together. "Zanka. What happened?" Rudo looks even more annoyed at the fact that Zanka gets to speak first, but he knows enough to keep quiet. "Rudo ain’t cooperatin'," Zanka says, frustrated. "Won’t go get help even though he needs it. I told him—" "Wait," Gris says, stopping Zanka before he can go on a rant with a raised hand. "Back up. Get help for what, exactly?" "An injury?" Enjin asks, pointedly staring at Rudo’s tucked foot. Zanka gives a single, damning nod. All eyes turn to Rudo. "Kid," Enjin starts warningly. The kid folds like wet cardboard. "It’s just an ankle sprain," he mumbles. "Just an ankle sprain?" Gris practically yelps. "Kid! What the hell?" "How long have you been injured?" Enjin asks. Eishia can still heal infections fine, but it takes her more concentration to expel the exact amount of electricity to break them down. He’d rather spare her the spiral of self-doubt that often comes with her uncertainty. It also doesn’t necessarily bode well that Rudo tried to hide a sprain at all, especially in their line of work. Going out on a mission with an injury is practically a death wish. Rudo is a weird kid. Enjin doesn’t know what his life was like before coming to the Ground, so he doesn’t know whether to attribute this to learned behavior or if he’s just being stubborn because Zanka is telling him what to do. It’s probably some mixture of both, because above all, Rudo is a kid. And, as Enjin has come to learn at least two times over, kids hate doing what they're told to do. "At least since this morning’s mission," Zanka answers for them. Their mission, as Enjin recalls, had been at ten AM. It’s around a half hour into the afternoon now. "Rudo," Gris sighs again, shaking his head. "It doesn’t hurt," Rudo mutters. "You were limpin’ like there was no tomorrow," Zanka, ever so reliable, chimes in. Rudo bares his teeth at him, protest building, and Zanka sneers back. Enjin clicks his tongue to interrupt whatever fight's going to start back up. "Thank you, Zanka. Well!" He claps his hands cheerfully. "Off to the infirmary we go!" Rudo’s face twists like he’s swallowed a lemon. He doesn’t exactly protest, to his credit— or at least not out loud— but then he starts shuffling forward as if to walk. "Nope. None of that," he chides, stopping the kid with a hand on his shoulder. Then he bends and hoists Rudo into a cradling position, careful not to jostle the kid’s ankle. Now that he has a closer look at it, he can see the sprain, even with the chunky shoes. "There we go! That’s better." Rudo gapes, seemingly at a loss for words. Gris huffs— a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Zanka is not nearly so subtle at hiding his amusement, openly grinning, an edge of smugness there in the way he eyes Rudo, who is still dumbstruck and blinking. Is this what sibling fights look like? He’d thought Riyo and Zanka were bad enough. They get into petty squabbles all the time. Granted, they do get along for the most part, and when they butt heads it never gets personal. They brush themselves off and are back to normal in minutes. Eh, he'll have these two make up again later. He hums. "Hey, Zanka." Zanka turns to him with rapt attention. Man, the kid looks at him like he’s hung the stars every time. "Yeah?" "When did you notice Rudo’s injury?" "When we got back to HQ." Huh. Probably around noon, then. So they've been arguing for, what, thirty minutes? He turns his head to look at Rudo, who has buried his chin into the high collar of his uniform to the point that only his eyes peek out. They stare resolutely away, refusing to meet Enjin’s gaze. He glances at Gris, then back to Rudo to say, "We’re gonna have a talk later." An incomprehensible, barely audible mumble. Eh. Good enough. — — — Surprisingly enough, when they get to the infirmary, Eishia isn’t there— she’s scheduled to be in today, so she’s definitely somewhere in the building, maybe seeing her brother— but Tamsy is. The guy is sitting on one of the stools on the far side of the room, bathed by the sunlight streaming through the windows. Why he’s in here by himself, Enjin has no idea. When they enter the room, Tamsy looks up. His eyes find Gris, Enjin, and land lastly on Rudo. He blinks slowly. "What’s this?" "Hey, Tamsy," Gris greets, waving. "Are you off today?" "Hello. No," he replies politely, then goes quiet, seemingly content without providing any elaboration. The silence that follows is a little awkward, considering the fact that he’s at the very end of the room while Enjin and his group are closer to the doorway, and the infirmary is by no means a small space. Tamsy's always been a weird guy. Again, who here isn't— but something about Tamsy, even by Enjin's standards, is a little off-kilter, and Enjin has never been able to put his finger on why. Whatever Tamsy has got going on is really none of his business, though. Treat others how you want to be treated and all that. Enjin knows he wouldn't want anybody dragging the skeletons from his closet, so he has the decorum and the decency not to do it to a fellow Cleaner. After another beat of quiet, Tamsy tilts his head. "An injury?" "Somebody thought it was a good idea to hide a sprained ankle!" Enjin answers cheerfully. Rudo grumbles. "What? Am I wrong?" "Hmmm," Tamsy just says, a lazy smile stretching across his face. "Shall I fetch Eishia, then?" Gris shakes his head. "I was going to. Wouldn’t want to bother you. Thanks for the offer, though, Tamsy." "Oh, no. It’s no trouble at all." Tamsy stands. "I happen to know where she is at the moment anyway." He walks over from across the room, his footsteps echoing lightly against the tile. He draws closer and stops. "Hiding injuries is no good, you know. They cause lots of trouble when they’re left to fester." His eyes narrow in a smile. He turns to Gris and Enjin. "I’ll make sure Eishia hurries over." Gris nods. "Thanks, Tamsy." "Of course." And with that Tamsy is gone. His footsteps pad down the hallway and disappear.What a guy. "Well. Let’s get you sitting in a bed," Enjin says. He peers at the white infirmary beds set up in rows lining both sides of the room. "You’ve got a lot to choose from. Any favorites?" "I’m not a baby," Rudo protests. Even so, he doesn’t move from Enjin’s arms. "You sure are acting like one," Enjin points out plainly. He stops in front of the first bed and deposits Rudo onto it. "Eishia will probably make it here in a few minutes." Gris glances out the doorway, then back to Enjin and Rudo, who has started fiddling with the sheets. He lingers on Enjin and shrugs. "You talk to him? I need to head out." "Yeah, no problem. Mission?" "With Team Child, yeah." "Good luck," Rudo mumbles, not looking up. Gris grins and ruffles his hair. "Don’t get into any more trouble when I’m out." Rudo flushes. His shoulders cave inward. "Uh huh." "Good luck," Enjin echoes as Gris makes his exit. When Gris' footsteps finally fade out of earshot, he lets out a long, heavy exhale and seats himself next to Rudo on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. Rudo pauses his fixation on the sheets to eye him. Obviously, he's sensing the imminent talking-to that's about to take place. When Enjin looks back at him, his eyes dart back to the bedsheets, avoiding his gaze. Too bad, kid. Can't wriggle your way out of this one. "So…" Enjin starts slowly, "…rough mission today, then?" Rudo pauses even more, then mutters, "Not really." He raises his eyebrows. "No?" A shake of the head. "How'd you get that sprain, then?" "I got it after the mission was over." Rudo's face twists a little. "Jumped down from a trash heap and landed wrong." He whistles. "Yup, that'll do it." He glances down at Rudo's foot. "Did you realize right away?" A nod. "Zanka was with you, wasn't he? He didn't notice?" Rudo shrugs. "He was happy 'cause the mission went good. Talked a lot about how I'm better with 3R now and stuff." "So you didn't want to disappoint him?" Enjin asks. He fights a sigh when Rudo glares at the ground and doesn't reply. There's also another part of him that feels a little bit endeared by the idea. Damn. "Okay. You walked back to HQ on that thing?" "Yeah." Yeesh. "Didn't it hurt?" "My arms've hurt worse." That's not great news, either, but that's not the point right now. "That wasn't the question, kid. It hurt, right?" Rudo nods reluctantly. "I don't think I need to tell you why that's not great." He actually sighs this time, running a hand through his hair. "Zanka probably told you that already when you were fighting. Hell, Tamsy did too. Listen, you have to let us know when you get hurt. Every time. No exceptions." "I don't want to be coddled." Enjin gives a short, dry laugh. "We'd only coddle you if we didn't trust you. Reporting your injuries won't make us not trust you." He nudges the kid a little. "You know what would, though?" Rudo's face sours even more. Clearly he's figured out what Enjin's about to say next. He grins. "That's right. Not reporting your injuries." He accentuates each word with a poke to Rudo's shoulder. When his hand is inevitably swatted away, he sits back. "So." "…So?" "I think you've got the idea at this point." Enjin can hear light footsteps running towards them. That's Eishia, then. "You've learned your lesson. You're lucky Gris wasn't the one lecturing you, you know. You'd probably have been getting an earful for the rest of the day." Rudo doesn't have time to respond, because, right on cue, Eishia runs into the room and skids to a stop in front of them. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry— Tamsy said— he told me— Rudo has an— and I wasn't there, oh, I'm so—!" "It's fine," Enjin says. If only August's self-confidence could be transferred over to his sister. Poor kid, honestly. "Yeah, he's got a sprained ankle." Rudo looks as awkward as Enjin feels and just nods along. Eishia stutters out a few more hasty apologies before her electrical cord plugs into one of the outlets in the wall. Electricity hums in the air as she closes her eyes in concentration. It's a quick affair. Before long, Rudo is back on his feet and his expression is clear of pain. "Thank you." "Oh, it's nothing at all!" Eishia insists. Her hands grab at the skirt of her dress nervously. "I really should have been here! I'm sorry for not— I mean— yes." "Thanks for your help, Eishia," Enjin says. "Is there anything you need? Rudo here can run errands for you." "No, no," she says, shaking her head. "No, I— I'm okay. Bye, now." Rudo shoots Enjin a glare before waving back. "Bye. Um, thank you again." They walk back out. The only noise is, again, their footsteps echoing against the floor. Rudo has his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Okay," Enjin says, "now you promise not to hide your injuries anymore." "Um. Okay. I promise." "And! You're going to talk to Zanka." Rudo sputters, freezing to a halt. "Huh?" Enjin stops with him, sidesteps so he's right behind him, and starts nudging him forward. "Hup! That's it. Here we go. Zanka's probably still somewhere around here, don't you think?" "Why?" Rudo squawks. "Why is Zanka still around here?" Enjin repeats with faux confusion. He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Good question. That guy might have picked up another mission already." "That's not what— No, I mean— Why do I need to talk to Zanka?" Rudo snaps, mortified. "Because he's your teacher, obviously." Enjin arches an eyebrow. "What, you're not gonna explain what happened to your teacher? You're going to meet him one on one eventually anyway. Why not make up for that fight now? Hey, let's check the mess hall." Rudo is still only moving thanks to Enjin's pushes. He lets out many half-baked protests along the way. When they get back to the cafeteria, Enjin peers inside. There's more people here than before, various Supporters and Givers alike scattered at each table, and there— Aha. Enjin steers Rudo in a beeline to where Zanka is trying to eat his food, parks Rudo in front of him, and says cheerfully, "All yours! No fighting this time, right? Right. You two will sort it out." And then he turns on his heel and heads back out. What can he say? He's great at this stuff. Kids, man.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75631301	{"authors": ["pill0wcas3"], "language": "English", "title": "Kids, man"}
Unsolvable The chandelier must have been worth at least what she earned in a year and a half. That’s how majestic it was, but still, beyond thinking of its monetary value, she focused on the glow that the biggest crystal produced. Not only did it seem to do it like a star, but an orange glimmer flickered at its tip. With every step, the glow became larger. Judy walked under hypnosis, guided by the orange spark that led her until she faced someone familiar amongst the gala attendees. It was a different face, an identifiable one, not just another in the sea of fur and skin that wore their finest attires. But that didn’t mean that he was dressed worse than the others. Quite the opposite. His tuxedo irradiated some kind of elegance fitted with a nonchalant attitude; as if he naturally belonged in the world that amazed Judy. It was Nick. As soon as she put a name to the figure, she felt a sudden lurch in her stomach, and a feeling of being not that well-dressed for the occasion. Even though she believed yellow was her color, she thought that, maybe, she should've chosen the pink gown from the display instead. The chiffon one that had a heart neckline and made her look less sweet and a little more daring and eye-catching. But then she remembered that she could barely walk in that dress, and that yellow complimented the color of her eyes in a better way. As much as she kept thinking about it, nothing could’ve helped with getting rid of that feeling. Even if she managed to build a time machine to buy that other dress, she would always be stuck with the idea of always having a second, better option for the gala. The day of her cousin Hilda’s wedding she wore the same outfit, and felt the prettiest bunny of the party, but now, nothing seemed enough. Not to match the fox that seemed to fit in perfectly in the atmosphere of the Lynxley Manor. “You took your time, Carrots” her partner said, offering his arm. Judy didn’t know what to say but to take him. “What are you doing here, Nick?” Judy asked, genuinely not remembering what they were doing at the gala without their earpieces to communicate. Nick gave a shrug. “Couldn’t let this opportunity slip away”. Judy didn’t ask what he meant. She assumed he was referring to the event, which was the best place to mingle with Zootopia’s upper crust, something that although Nick Wilde could almost taste with his fame after the Night Howler case, still felt far out of reach compared to the places he had gotten into with his mischief. Nick’s experience was evident with every step he took, and even more when he took a drink and sipped it without a single grin, no hesitation on how he grabbed the glass, and without looking like a hardened drinker or an inexperienced rookie. Yet, despite all the posture and the image that he projected, his way of walking gave him away. It was the same old Nick. That led Judy to think that even with all the insecurity that being a countryside bunny could bring, there was no reason for her to feel out of place. She was with him, at home. Judy relaxed to the point of making a joke about the frequency of Nick’s showering habits. The fox rolled his eyes in a playful way and slightly pushed her with his arm while they were walking towards the back of the dance floor. Why did she suddenly get nervous? “It doesn’t make any sense”, she thought. Just as she was starting to talk about job and the possibilities of working at the station, he dragged her out of her comfort zone again. “What do you say, Carrots? Do you dance?” he asked. The bunny nearly choked on the vegetarian canapé she was putting in her mouth. Just looked at him in awe, with her purple eyes practically popping out and her jaw slightly dropped. The ease in which he asked was bewildering; not because of the tone, that was mostly like any other phrase he had said that evening, but the request itself was, at least, unusual. Nick Wilde… dancing? Correction: Nick Wilde taking the initiative to dance? It’s not that she hadn’t seen him dance, after all, they went together to Gazelle's concert and she encouraged him to do it. But him asking her to dance? She didn’t even have the chance to think of an excuse, to react in a clever way, to avoid the question, when she felt Nick’s paw taking hers. As they walked, she felt how the other paw took its place in her back, around her waist. His touch, similar to many other times she felt it, was both a known experience and some kind of novelty. An arbitrary discovery. On the one hand, she felt like running. Jumping, using her bunny abilities to run away and hide just to get farther from feeling him that close. There’s always a first time for everything, Judy, even for feeling adrenaline for Nick’s approach. But on the other hand, she had the impulse of being much closer, to give in to the electrifying sensation of his warmth. To become the pole of a magnet that cannot dodge the magnetic field and take advantage of the request that she knew was once in a lifetime.	Unsolvable The chandelier must have been worth at least what she earned in a year and a half. That’s how majestic it was, but still, beyond thinking of its monetary value, she focused on the glow that the biggest crystal produced. Not only did it seem to do it like a star, but an orange glimmer flickered at its tip. With every step, the glow became larger. Judy walked under hypnosis, guided by the orange spark that led her until she faced someone familiar amongst the gala attendees. It was a different face, an identifiable one, not just another in the sea of fur and skin that wore their finest attires. But that didn’t mean that he was dressed worse than the others. Quite the opposite. His tuxedo irradiated some kind of elegance fitted with a nonchalant attitude; as if he naturally belonged in the world that amazed Judy. It was Nick. As soon as she put a name to the figure, she felt a sudden lurch in her stomach, and a feeling of being not that well-dressed for the occasion. Even though she believed yellow was her color, she thought that, maybe, she should've chosen the pink gown from the display instead. The chiffon one that had a heart neckline and made her look less sweet and a little more daring and eye-catching. But then she remembered that she could barely walk in that dress, and that yellow complimented the color of her eyes in a better way. As much as she kept thinking about it, nothing could’ve helped with getting rid of that feeling. Even if she managed to build a time machine to buy that other dress, she would always be stuck with the idea of always having a second, better option for the gala. The day of her cousin Hilda’s wedding she wore the same outfit, and felt the prettiest bunny of the party, but now, nothing seemed enough. Not to match the fox that seemed to fit in perfectly in the atmosphere of the Lynxley Manor. “You took your time, Carrots” her partner said, offering his arm. Judy didn’t know what to say but to take him. “What are you doing here, Nick?” Judy asked, genuinely not remembering what they were doing at the gala without their earpieces to communicate. Nick gave a shrug. “Couldn’t let this opportunity slip away”. Judy didn’t ask what he meant. She assumed he was referring to the event, which was the best place to mingle with Zootopia’s upper crust, something that although Nick Wilde could almost taste with his fame after the Night Howler case, still felt far out of reach compared to the places he had gotten into with his mischief. Nick’s experience was evident with every step he took, and even more when he took a drink and sipped it without a single grin, no hesitation on how he grabbed the glass, and without looking like a hardened drinker or an inexperienced rookie. Yet, despite all the posture and the image that he projected, his way of walking gave him away. It was the same old Nick. That led Judy to think that even with all the insecurity that being a countryside bunny could bring, there was no reason for her to feel out of place. She was with him, at home. Judy relaxed to the point of making a joke about the frequency of Nick’s showering habits. The fox rolled his eyes in a playful way and slightly pushed her with his arm while they were walking towards the back of the dance floor. Why did she suddenly get nervous? “It doesn’t make any sense”, she thought. Just as she was starting to talk about job and the possibilities of working at the station, he dragged her out of her comfort zone again. “What do you say, Carrots? Do you dance?” he asked. The bunny nearly choked on the vegetarian canapé she was putting in her mouth. Just looked at him in awe, with her purple eyes practically popping out and her jaw slightly dropped. The ease in which he asked was bewildering; not because of the tone, that was mostly like any other phrase he had said that evening, but the request itself was, at least, unusual. Nick Wilde… dancing? Correction: Nick Wilde taking the initiative to dance? It’s not that she hadn’t seen him dance, after all, they went together to Gazelle's concert and she encouraged him to do it. But him asking her to dance? She didn’t even have the chance to think of an excuse, to react in a clever way, to avoid the question, when she felt Nick’s paw taking hers. As they walked, she felt how the other paw took its place in her back, around her waist. His touch, similar to many other times she felt it, was both a known experience and some kind of novelty. An arbitrary discovery. On the one hand, she felt like running. Jumping, using her bunny abilities to run away and hide just to get farther from feeling him that close. There’s always a first time for everything, Judy, even for feeling adrenaline for Nick’s approach. But on the other hand, she had the impulse of being much closer, to give in to the electrifying sensation of his warmth. To become the pole of a magnet that cannot dodge the magnetic field and take advantage of the request that she knew was once in a lifetime. She gulped and started walking among the other animals to the center of the dancefloor. “I…” she said “didn’t know you could dance”. “Pa, pa, pa” he shushed her “I’ve always said I didn’t like it, not that I didn’t know. When you step into worlds like this, Hopps, you’ve got to learn everything”. Hopps. She never liked being called by her last name by him. Sounded too cop-y. There was too much of her in her last name; there was her blood, her history, her legacy. But in Nick’s mouth it didn’t feel like her; she should be just Judy, her only name. Or “Carrots”, that absurd and ridiculous nickname that at the beginning annoyed her, but now was adopted as an extension of her identity. She didn’t know how to dance. Judy remembered Nick’s words at the last Christmas party at the precinct; there, he confessed that he actually wasn’t one of those “active animals” at parties. He preferred to have conversations, gorge himself on food and take notes on the gossip from the mouths of those who had too many drinks. Or even, not attend at all. But that night at the gala, he was giving himself away as a great dancer. The idea of him pairing on the dance floor with someone else crossed Judy’s mind. A vixen or a jaguar. Some other mammal with some not-that-yellow dress and without all the flowers. Someone that was not her. She felt distressed and Nick seemed to notice because he distracted her by twirling her under his arm. They kept dancing, her holding him by the arm and him with his right paw in her waist while the left gave rest to Judy's paw. Both swayed softly as the music played. “Aren’t the schools at Bunnyburrow teaching this kind of useful stuff?” he asked in an attempt to break the thin layer of ice that had formed between them. “Meh, just a couple of family gatherings. And yeah, prom at school but I never attended any”. She then remembered that time Fowler asked her out and she refused in order to have a study night at the library. Looking back, she regretted it: “maybe if I had accepted, I could’ve learnt to dance and I wouldn’t be feeling this dumb”. Instead of following the train of disgusting thoughts, she decided to complain about Nick’s unwillingness of clearing the mission instead. But when Judy tried to remember what was the mission she was talking about, there was no memory that explained their presence at the gala. Nothing made sense. They were just there, for no apparent reason. She got distracted again with Nick’s proximity; he looked particularly good-looking around the dry ice at the party. He was surrounded by a nebula-like kind of vapor, as if Nick were a planet encircled by cosmic dust. If only I was a sun then, she thought. “You should teach me to mingle in these kinds of places. You know, for future cases”. “It’s natural, Judy. You either nail it or you don’t… but lucky for you, I can give it a try”. In that moment, he swirled her again and all of a sudden got her close to his body. Their eyes were centimeters away, and their torsos heaved with each breath. Nick raised his eyebrows, in a gesture of surprise, and moved away again. He was always doing that; getting close and pulling away, both on the dance floor and in life. The only thing that surprised Judy was his nonchalant way of acting, without a bit of nervousness or the insecurity that had started to make her tremble. They kept dancing for another song, this time in silence, keeping their attention fixed in the invisible rope that seemed to be attached to them. The bunny and the fox were joined by a spring that revealed the tension palpable when stretching, but while approaching, it was more comfortable. But it was always there, asking for less distance. Nick pulled Judy’s body close to him and looked into her eyes. He gulped when he saw the bunny’s purple irises, as if it was the first time she was in front of him. Judy wondered to herself whether he liked her yellow dress; whether she looked pretty. She wanted to look pretty. She wanted Nick to know that she was pretty. “You look nice,” he said, reading her mind. She blushed, and to disguise it, she punched him softly in the arm. He rubbed his arm while still swaying with her. “Thanks. You look really nice too, Nick”. “Miracles can happen with a tuxedo. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about that dress”. “What?” Judy’s heart broke a little. Confusion hit her, didn’t he just say that she looked nice? Nick smiled and let a giggle out. “Yes, Carrots. It’s just that… Any dress would look excellent on you. It’s a little unfair for the gown, if you think about it”. Now, she was nervous. Her heart skipped a beat, hopped as high as she could have, living up to her last name, she felt embarrassed. She threw another soft punch to Nick’s arm. “Stop, Judy, or he’ll think you are just friends”, she thought. Weren’t they exactly that? Was that evening one of those times she had feelings for a guy and ended up ruining everything for the dream of going big in Zootopia? But, if she was already big in Zootopia, what could she ruin? Or was she just avoiding something? “Wait a sec”, she thought, “Why am I thinking about this if I’m just with Nick?”. And One doubt led to another, until she arrived at the question at the root of it all: what was the nature of her feelings for Nick? The fox made some comments on the event —answered by Judy with minimum effort— while she discreetly and carefully analyzed him. From his orange fur to his round, expressive eyes; his mocking laugh, his exasperating sense of humour… His actions that made her feel as the most important bunny in the world, and the warmth that struck her from her guts to the tip of her fingers, every time he said her name. The rumble of a memory pattered her shoulders and caressed her mind; a tight hug, deep, the kind that makes you desire to merge with someone and hide beneath their skin. It emerged when Nick stroked her arm with the back of the paw. Then she remembered: Tundratown, after almost dying, shivering from the fear and the cold, but imbued with the impulse of getting closer. How? That hasn't happened yet. The anxiety chased Judy, and she chose to pull herself together. “It’s a nice place, huh? The best thing is the lighting. I’ve always said it’s what sets the mood at a party”. “And definitely, those drinks have nothing to do.” Judy’s disapproval gaze made an apparition along with her smile. Same as always. “No, but seriously” Nick said and stopped dancing “this is one of the finest places I’ve ever been in. And well, I like that I’m with you, Carrots”. Both looked around, trying to take in the luxurious details and the atmosphere that shifted between magenta, blue, and pink. But all the other mammals disappeared, and around them only a mist remained, turning everything into some sort of wall that drew them even closer. Nick looked at Judy and Judy looked at him. They were near once more. Close enough to notice the details in their eyes and memorize them. It was the moment, Judy, it was definitely the moment. “Go on,” she said to herself. It wasn’t even necessary to ask what, she already knew it: what difference would it make if she kissed him? Nick would reject her, or maybe, he would kiss her back and his paws would be again on her waist as he had done just moments earlier. What will you do, Judy Hopps? Instead, she said with a tremor in her voice: “My fa-favourite is the biggest chandelier. Yeah, I need one of those for my apartment”. “It fits the moldy gray paint on your walls”. Both giggled. From their places, they gazed out of one of the mansion’s windows; the moon crowned the night. Without saying anything, she turned to Nick, to read his face and tell if he was thinking the same as her. It seemed so. Close again. Closer. Nick caressed Judy’s cheek with his paw. “This is it, Judy, don’t mess it up”. But that was all. In that instant, having Nick’s face only centimeters away, he took a few steps back. “You know?...” he said walking backwards “it’s such a shame that all this place is seized…” The music stopped, the dance did too, and the walls lost all their vibrancy. The last thing she could see fully in color was Nick’s bright orange fur reflected in the chandelier, which gradually grew dull. Judy’s yellow dress faded into the blurry mass that was her mind. Even though everything felt slow and eternal, reality hit Judy instantly as she sat abruptly in the bed. By her side was her notebook —where she had been writing down details for the report on the Lynxley case— and her carrot pen. She wasn’t writing with it due to the avoidance of using it that way, to prevent it from breaking in its joined parts, so later rushed to set it carefully on the nightstand. The bunny vowed to never bring it near when in bed again, to avoid falling asleep and accidentally break it. Judy tried the recorder: “love you, partner”. Yeah. It did work, it was intact. Saturday in the morning. The reminder of the seizure of the Lynxley Mansion made her come back to the earthly world. The fantasy broke to push her to assume the dreamlike nature of the whole scene. From the dancing to the phrases that make her sweat. And even though she clung to the vivid details, Judy did what we all do: start to forget the dream. But Judy Hopps doesn't know when to give up, so as soon as she felt the memories fade away, she got up and started writing her dream in a notebook. Almost like a ghostly possession, she wrote as much as she could with a vigorous determination to preserve her memories, in her paws, the feeling of the dance’s sway. Of what almost happened with Nick. Judy told herself that the reason for all that was the chandelier that enchanted her, but she barely wrote about it. The real motive embarrassed her. In the notebook she described the moon in the window, the last thing she saw before having Nick Wilde in front of her face, and felt her heart rushing with every word. She scribbled Nick's name with her pen. Once. Twice. Three times. Like an invocation. Sighed and left the pen to the side before tracing the letters with the fingertips. She smiled to herself, still confused by the feelings that stirred in her but euphoric to recognise them. She laid on the desk after reaching an object from the nightstand. “Love you, partner”, echoed in the room. Judy looked at her notebook to observe the details of the only case she feared to discover, yet longed to decipher. Nick.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75631311	{"authors": ["punknugget"], "language": "English", "title": "Unsolvable"}
- Heaven // A Teen Soukoku Fic - Dazai's POV: The only thing on my mind now-a-days is nature and suicide, its almost as if I forgot how to think of anything else. I'm walking along a sidewalk beside the beach as the sun is setting, I then pause to look at the view, to look at the orange, yellow and pink sunset that illuminates the Water, the sand is a medium tan color which has a bit of a sparkle to it's unevenly spread grains, a beautiful sight to the naked eye, with a deep meaning behind it to those who search for meaning. I step down onto the dusty sand and take a deep breath, my hands in my pockets as I stare at the sunset, but not at the sun itself (i would rather not go blind), the breeze is running trough my hair, a glorious feeling, if you'd ask me, because there isn't a single human being around to ruin it. My name is Osamu Dazai, I'm 15 and don't give a shit about people because High-school has drained me of all my willingness to interact with my own so-called "kind", all the fun i lost from the repetitive nature of talking, the continuous lack of reasoning behind these students unkind and unfair ways, the lack of my own motivation to get up in the morning, it's all from school and social interaction. I study the water for a moment, the way its waves crash lightly against the sand, the blue colour it gives to the sunset reflecting off of it like a mirror, not even its beauty can convince me to stay on this wonderful planet which we slowly destory as each day comes. I debate sitting down, watching it from the sands of which have been here since the dawn of time, yet i decide against it. I sigh and turn back to the sidewalk, I continue my walk, looking at my bandaged hand and wrist, stupid me. I then run into someone, and not just anyone, A Orange-Blond-haired boy, he is shorter then most, his temper is short, yet i feel as if he understands me, i feel that he knows the reality if our world. His name is Chuuya Nakahara, He is a popular boy who semi-tolerates me, and he's pretty, especially in this golden hour. "My Apologies," I said, pretty Emotionlessly, glancing at him, taking in his hair which glows in the radiant light from the sunset, and his sky blue eyes that i believe is like the ocean. "Hey! Watch where your going asshole!" The shorter boy begins but pauses, seemingly recognizing me and my... intricate style of existing, "Wait, Dazai? "The one and only," I Reply, looking up at him fully, If i'm being completely honest, i'm a bit intimidated by him. His friends bully me, yet he acts... kind towards me, I wonder why. "What're you doing here?" Chuuya Asked, he seemed to be studying me, if i'm correct. "Enjoying the view, Chibi..." I reply. "It could be my last, y'know." He paused, a look of slight shock on his face. "Seriously?" "Yes, seriously." I reply with a sigh. "God, Mackerel." Chuuya paused, "This is another suicide scheme, isn't it?" He Asked. "Yes, you caught me in the act of death like no other! I shall have to postpone my plans now, thanks to you." I Justify, He knows me too well, but i would never take my life in the beauty of nature. "For fucks sake, just stop." He Sighed. "I... I care, Dazai, okay?" My eyes widened, did i hear that right? "You.? Care..?" I keep my tone playful, he cannot know how much this means to me. Shit, is that why he's so nice to me..? "Yes, Dipshit, i care a lot." The shorter boy scoffed. "Oh.." I smile a little. He does not see my smile. Good. "I'll text you later, I've got business to attend." He said and walked off. Not even a goodbye? Classic Chuuya Nakahara. Always in a rush, aren't you, Mr. Popular? I stare into the sunset as i sit down, Maybe life was worth living, if it was for him. He would call me cringe for these words but what if. We could live together, i could live for him... this sounds gay, well i guess it is, huh. Maybe i'll live for Chibiko, Maybe... No. I cannot like him, it's not acceptable. The weird kid, Osamu Dazai, In love with Mr. Popular, Chuuya Nakahara? Never in a million years would that work out well, Or maybe, it will work out well... guess we'll have to find out. As much as i hate to admit it, he makes me feel sane, though i always say i've reached a point of Inhumanity, that i'm "No Longer Human," he makes me feel Human, he makes me feel alive. I wish to do the same for him, because deep down, i can tell He is suffering, not as bad as i am, not even close, but he'd suffering... But aren't we all suffering? Some in silence and others out loud. All of us seeking help in different ways, silently and not. Yet in the end, we're all just seeking attention, right? Well, i avoid attention, and my calls for death are never for attention, so maybe others suffer the same? I wish i knew. Chuuya's POV Popularity. Almost everyone wants it, but not everyone gets it. I am of the lucky few who did become popular. I consider myself lucky, i always have, but next time, i might not be as lucky. I am walking down the sidewalk of our wonderous	- Heaven // A Teen Soukoku Fic - Dazai's POV: The only thing on my mind now-a-days is nature and suicide, its almost as if I forgot how to think of anything else. I'm walking along a sidewalk beside the beach as the sun is setting, I then pause to look at the view, to look at the orange, yellow and pink sunset that illuminates the Water, the sand is a medium tan color which has a bit of a sparkle to it's unevenly spread grains, a beautiful sight to the naked eye, with a deep meaning behind it to those who search for meaning. I step down onto the dusty sand and take a deep breath, my hands in my pockets as I stare at the sunset, but not at the sun itself (i would rather not go blind), the breeze is running trough my hair, a glorious feeling, if you'd ask me, because there isn't a single human being around to ruin it. My name is Osamu Dazai, I'm 15 and don't give a shit about people because High-school has drained me of all my willingness to interact with my own so-called "kind", all the fun i lost from the repetitive nature of talking, the continuous lack of reasoning behind these students unkind and unfair ways, the lack of my own motivation to get up in the morning, it's all from school and social interaction. I study the water for a moment, the way its waves crash lightly against the sand, the blue colour it gives to the sunset reflecting off of it like a mirror, not even its beauty can convince me to stay on this wonderful planet which we slowly destory as each day comes. I debate sitting down, watching it from the sands of which have been here since the dawn of time, yet i decide against it. I sigh and turn back to the sidewalk, I continue my walk, looking at my bandaged hand and wrist, stupid me. I then run into someone, and not just anyone, A Orange-Blond-haired boy, he is shorter then most, his temper is short, yet i feel as if he understands me, i feel that he knows the reality if our world. His name is Chuuya Nakahara, He is a popular boy who semi-tolerates me, and he's pretty, especially in this golden hour. "My Apologies," I said, pretty Emotionlessly, glancing at him, taking in his hair which glows in the radiant light from the sunset, and his sky blue eyes that i believe is like the ocean. "Hey! Watch where your going asshole!" The shorter boy begins but pauses, seemingly recognizing me and my... intricate style of existing, "Wait, Dazai? "The one and only," I Reply, looking up at him fully, If i'm being completely honest, i'm a bit intimidated by him. His friends bully me, yet he acts... kind towards me, I wonder why. "What're you doing here?" Chuuya Asked, he seemed to be studying me, if i'm correct. "Enjoying the view, Chibi..." I reply. "It could be my last, y'know." He paused, a look of slight shock on his face. "Seriously?" "Yes, seriously." I reply with a sigh. "God, Mackerel." Chuuya paused, "This is another suicide scheme, isn't it?" He Asked. "Yes, you caught me in the act of death like no other! I shall have to postpone my plans now, thanks to you." I Justify, He knows me too well, but i would never take my life in the beauty of nature. "For fucks sake, just stop." He Sighed. "I... I care, Dazai, okay?" My eyes widened, did i hear that right? "You.? Care..?" I keep my tone playful, he cannot know how much this means to me. Shit, is that why he's so nice to me..? "Yes, Dipshit, i care a lot." The shorter boy scoffed. "Oh.." I smile a little. He does not see my smile. Good. "I'll text you later, I've got business to attend." He said and walked off. Not even a goodbye? Classic Chuuya Nakahara. Always in a rush, aren't you, Mr. Popular? I stare into the sunset as i sit down, Maybe life was worth living, if it was for him. He would call me cringe for these words but what if. We could live together, i could live for him... this sounds gay, well i guess it is, huh. Maybe i'll live for Chibiko, Maybe... No. I cannot like him, it's not acceptable. The weird kid, Osamu Dazai, In love with Mr. Popular, Chuuya Nakahara? Never in a million years would that work out well, Or maybe, it will work out well... guess we'll have to find out. As much as i hate to admit it, he makes me feel sane, though i always say i've reached a point of Inhumanity, that i'm "No Longer Human," he makes me feel Human, he makes me feel alive. I wish to do the same for him, because deep down, i can tell He is suffering, not as bad as i am, not even close, but he'd suffering... But aren't we all suffering? Some in silence and others out loud. All of us seeking help in different ways, silently and not. Yet in the end, we're all just seeking attention, right? Well, i avoid attention, and my calls for death are never for attention, so maybe others suffer the same? I wish i knew. Chuuya's POV Popularity. Almost everyone wants it, but not everyone gets it. I am of the lucky few who did become popular. I consider myself lucky, i always have, but next time, i might not be as lucky. I am walking down the sidewalk of our wonderous city, greatful to have a beach just across from these buildings. My name is Chuuya Nakahara, and yes, i'm popular. As i walk, all i can think about is this guy. He has dark brown hair thats always messy, which is cute. He has brown eyes that look like pools of honey when in the sunlight. The issue is that he's a weird kid, and i'm pretty sure he's straight, he always talks about women. As i walk, i accidentally bump into someone, but i'm not paying attention. "My Apologies." He mutters emotionlessly. Rude. "Hey! Watch where your going asshole!" I reply, not having it, before i realize who it is by his messy dark hair. "Wait- Dazai?" "The one and only," He Replied, looking up at me fully. "What're you doing here?" I Asked, he seemed to be studying me. I am also studying him. "Enjoying the view, Chibi..." He Replies. "It could be my last, y'know." I paused, examining him. "Seriously?" "Yes, seriously." He replied with a sigh. "God, Mackerel." I said sarcastically, I then paused, "This is another suicide scheme, isn't it?" I Asked. It worried me how much he thought about death. "Yes, you caught me in the act of death like no other! I shall have to postpone my plans now, thanks to you." He says dramatically. "For fucks sake, just stop." I Sigh, i hate when Dazai does this. "I... I care, Dazai, okay?" His eyes widened a little, "You? Care..?" He replied playfully. Fuck, why did i tell him? "Yes, Dipshit, i care a lot." I said hesitantly and scoffed to hide it. "Oh.." He replied, what an asshole. "I'll text you later, I've got business to attend." I said and rushed to walked away, embarrassed and disappointed. As i walked in the sunset, i felt my cheeks heat up at the thought of that interaction. Why did I tell him, fucking hell. I wish i could fly away or something. Oh my god that so embarrassed. Calm down Chuuya, it's human interaction. I wish i could stop Dazai from trying to kill himself all the time, i care, i care so fucking much. He takes it as a joke. I arrived at home and i was instantly greeted by an overly friendly Mango. "Hi Mango." I pet him, he licks my hand. I kick my shoes off and head upstairs to my bedroom. I change into more comfortable clothes, such as an oversized black band t-shirt for the band "Mindless Self Indulgence" (yes i know they're problematic) and brown cargo shorts since it's warm outside. I lay down on my bed, Mango comes and lays beside me, i scroll through instagram for a while before i put my phone down. Mango is fast asleep. I stare at my ceiling and try to hold back whats on my mind, the incident from earlier, the one with Dazai, but i can't. I close my eyes, wishing to forget, but i can't. I jolt to sitting up immediately. Oh my god, he smiled, he's happy i care, HE'S HAPPY I CARE. Mango was startled awake when i sat up. "Sorry, Mango." I give him a few scratches before getting up and putting a jacket on. I rushed downstairs and put on my shoes, rushing out the door and running to the beach. There he is. There's Dazai. "DAZAI!" I yell, hopefully he hears me. He turns to look at me. Oh god. Dazai's POV I continued to stare into the sunset, admiring how the sky looked as it got slowly darker, towards a night sky full of stars, or at least what I cam see with all this light pollution. I then heard a voice calling my name. Oh, it's Chuuya, what could that slug want now? "OSAMU DAZAI." Chuuya spoke loudly, he sounded anxious. "Yes?" I replied, unamused. "Why didn't you fucking tell me!?" He seemed very upset. "Tell you what?" I play dumb, i just don't want him to realize the truth. "Fuck you!" He lightly shoves me, I Look at him with mild confusion. "Oh?" I regain my balance from the shove. "I hate you, I hate how mysterious you have to be, I hate how poetic you make everything, i hate how you don't just express emotions and make it like a riddle that I have to solve!" He frantically explained. "I-" I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out before he continued. "Why? Why do you do this!? I- You KNOW i care, why wont you just be truthful with me!?" He sighed, his shoulders relaxing. "Chibi..." What to say? I'm not sure. "What? I know you are Happy i care, tell me why you cant just be honest with me?! Why?!" He grabbed my shirt collar and pulled me close in an angry fit. "Chibi, It's just who i am," I explained, "I'm nothing but a boy who wishes to-" I was cut off again. "I know, But please, PLEASE just be truthful with me." Chuuya's voice cracked a little, he tried to play it off, but I noticed the truth. "Chuuya, I can't, it's not who I am..." I replied, this time serious, hoping he would understand. "This feels useless." He said and let go of my shirt and started to walk away. "Goodbye, Dazai." A proper farewell? Is this love? I ask myself with hope, yet a sinking feelings tells me that I'm wrong. Chuuya's POV As i was walking home, I started to feel guilty about what i said to Dazai. Was i unfair? Unjust? Am I the asshole? Shit, what if he hates me? God. What have I done. ——————————————————————— THE NEXT DAY ——————————————————————— My alarm went off, I was dreading this moment from the second I went to sleep, not that i slept well. I sat up in my bed, feeling a sense of Guilt, What if Dazai hated me? What would I do with myself? What if I ruined my chance? I wouldn't be able to forgive myself, ever. I got up and walked over to my closet, picking out an outfit for today. I then posted an OOTD to my Instagram. I felt Confident in my outfit, it was semi-warm out, yet something tells me today won't end well I grab my school bag and started my walk to school. When I arrived, Shirase and Yuan greeted me and told me to follow them, which worried me. When we arrived at the place they wanted to show me, I noticed a sight that made me feel sick. Dazai, beaten up, bloody, bruised, knocked out. Shock ran through my system, I stood there, staring, frozen. "Well, Where's our 'Thank you'? This stalker is always following you, we took care of him though, you're welcome." Shirase said, seemingly with pride. "Yeah, You're welcome Chuuya." Yuan chined in with an attempt of a sweet voice. I knew Yuan liked me, i also knew i wasn't interested, and now that was a certain. I stood there speechless, my ears ringing, i felt sick. "Uh.." Oh god, OH GOD. I fell to my knees beside Dazai's beaten body, checking his current state. I didn't care if Shirase or Yuan hated me, this was serious. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, I told them I needed an ambulance ASAP and where we were. Please Dazai, Please survive. Chuuya's POV Am i worried? Yes. What will Shirase and Yuan think of me? Will Dazai be okay? What will happen to me? What will happen to my status in school? I'm currently sitting in the hospital room Dazai has been assigned to. His injuries are severe, His shoulder is sprained, a couple of broken ribs, he has many bruises, a potential concussion, a black eyes, lots of cuts.. It's hard to believe Shirase and Yuan did all of this, but i remember Shirase carries a pocket knife on him. He says it's for safety & defense, but I believe it's for this, wrecking peoples lives. Dazai stirred in his bed, waking up, he sits up and yawns. "Hey.." I say quietly as to not startle him. "Hmm?" He looks over, I sit on his hospital bed. "How are you doing?" I ask. "Ok, I guess." He replies, I think he's mad at me. "Look, this wasn't my idea, I had nothing, and I mean nothing to do with Shirase and Yuan's actions. I'm so sorry, Osamu." I apologize, hoping to fix anything. "I know, Chuu, I know." He replies and smiles, i've never seen him smile like this. I smile back. "Ok. Do you need anything?" "A hug would be nice." He replies. I believe he's feeling weak and tired at the moment, that's why he's not himself. I give him a hug. It feels nice being in the arms of Osamu Dazai, His heartbeat was soft, so was his breathing... Shit, that's so gay. I pull away from the hug. "Anything else?" "Maybe some food." He chuckles and winced at the pain from the broken ribs. "Take it easy, Mackerel, and sure, i'll get you some food." I say as I get up and grab my coat. "Anything specific?" "Just some microwave Ramen would be good." He replied, seeming kind of shy. "On it." I said as i walked out of the room. DAZAI'S POV Wow, Chuuya came to check on me? He's seen me weak, he's seen me close to my worst, and he didn't overreact? What a man. Oh wait, I get food, let's go! I'm Starving.. haven't eaten in a few days.. 4 to be exact. I really shouldn't try to fall back into my habits, but it's so hard not to. I hate food, it's such a challenge for me, but I also love it. What would Chuuya think of my Disorder? I hope he understands, I really do hope he doesn't find me weird. CHUUYA'S POV I opened the door to Dazai's hospital room. "I'm back." I say with a smile. "Hi." Dazai replies, looking at me. "So here's your food." I place his microwave noodles down on the counter, they are quite quick & easy to make. I put my bag down next to the visiting chair and start to make his food for him. "Thanks." He replies. When the foods done, i give it to him to eat, making sure he's capable. Am i caring too much? "Chuuya, Why are you visiting me?" He asks, Leaving me thinking. "I guess.. it's because i care, and i brought you here, i'm making sure you stay safe." I reply hesitantly. "Oh." He replies. Did I fuck up or something? I pull out my little snack from the bag and start eating it, we both eat in silence for a bit. It's kinda awkward. ——————————————————————— THE NEXT DAY Still Chuuya's POV ——————————————————————— As I walk to school, i think about how Dazai was yesterday, in the hospital. I think about how calm he was, how vulnerable aswell. I hope this means he trusts me. God, I hate Shirase and Yuan, i hate what they did, and anything they might be planning on doing. I walk into the school and i'm immediately greeted by Shirase and Yuan. "Hello?" I say, confused. "Chuuya, we need to talk." Shirase declares. Uh oh. "Okay?" I reply. "You defended Dazai!" Yuan chimed in, her annoying voice peircing my ears. "You beat him up." I replied with a scoff. "He was stalking you, we were protecting you. You ahould be thanking us!" Yuan countered. "I'm not thanking you! You beat up an innocent guy! He wasn't stalking me!" I spoke loudly, he was following me on my socials, i knew that, but he wasn't a stalker. "You need to realize that he's a nerd and a stalker! He's not innocent!" Shirase replied. I punched Shirase, Hard. Rage is all i could feel, i was seeing red, yet i didn't exactly know why. He fell to the floor, nose bleeding. I shook my hand and re-fisted it. Shirase got up and into an attempt of a fighting stance. "Fuck you, Chuuya!" Shirase screamed. I threw another punch at Shirase, right at his gut, then at his head, this bitch doesn't know shit about fighting. Shirase fell to the groud again, on his stomach, what a weakling, he was already out of breath. "Fuck you too, Shirase." I say as a step on his back, applying pressure. "Chuuya! Shirase! Stop!" Mr. Kunikida, the math teachers, yells from across the hall. I remove my foot but keep an eye on him. "What the hell are you doing!?" "Getting revenge," I replied, I want Shirase and Yuan Gone. All this rage, this anger that'd been pent up inside, starting to spill out. "For what? This is unacceptable!" Mr. Kunikida said sternly. "He put Dazai In the hospital, he beat up an innocent guy, he bullies kids for fun," I list to the teacher. "He deserves this." "That's... A good reason, but it's still not acceptable to fight like this!!" He replied with a sigh, "We're going to the Principals office!" Mr. Kunikida said as he dragged all 3 of us there. What a long day this will be. The Principal, Mr. Ougai, is telling off our asses, i don't care, i just wanted revenge for Dazai.. Because i care. But don't tell him that. Chuuya's POV Well fuck this shit. I got suspended for a few days for fighting, but Shirase got suspended for 2-3 weeks for what he did to Dazai, as well as the fighting. I wish he was gone for longer, Good God. I'm currently on my way to Dazai's place, I feel bad and nervous about what happened. I knocked on the door of Dazai's place. As i waited, i wondered if he was better. The door opened and there stood Dazai, with his bandages and a light grey t-shirt, and very dark grey sweatpants, He looked like he just woke up. "Hey." I say, starting the conversation as he let's me inside. "Hi..." He replies, he definitely just woke up not that long ago. "How are you feeling?" I ask. "Better then the hospital days." He replied. I took my shoes off and we sat down on his couch. "I got suspened for a few days for fighting." "Oh, well i'm probably going to be homeschooled from now on, due to the incident." He replied. "I guess we get to hang out more for now." I smile. "Yeah." He sounded tired. "What's up? You seem tired, other then the fact you just woke up, im assuming." I asked. "I'm not a morning person." He replied. "Y'know?" "Yeah, wanna play video games for a bit?" I ask. "Sure." He stands up and gets the controllers, handing one to me. We play video games for a while, at first we're playing Call of Duty, but Dazai got bored, so we started playing Minecraft. Later, Dazai and I are hanging out in his room. I'm sitting at his desk chair and scrolling on instagram, while he's sitting on his bed on his phone. I noticed that Dazai follows me, which sparks an idea. I get up and sit next to Dazai, putting an arm around his shoulders and taking a photo of us. "What are you doing?" Dazai asks, curiously. "Putting us on my instagram story, do you mind?" I ask. "Not at all." He replied. I post the photo to my insta story with text that said 'hanging out with @DazOsa.MSIvers, making sure to add a sound, which i chose 'Doin time' by Lana Del Rey. "There." I smile. The likes instantly start flowing in. Dazai sat there, staring at his phone, which had the story open. He seemed happy. ——————————————————————— A Few Days Later ——————————————————————— When i stood up for Dazai, i truely thought my reputation would go down, that i would become a 'weird kid' and loose my popularity, but that wasn't true. If anything, i became more popular, everyone congratulating me for standing up to Shirase, something nobody wanted to do. Dazai's parents decided to give public school one more shot, but if anything like that happened again, he would be pulled out and homeschooled. I don't want Dazai to be homeschooled, but it isn't my choice. Dazai and i walk into school on the Thursday i got back from suspension, He was nervous, and i was too. Slowly, Dazai's reputation started to grow, he and i becoming the popular boys at school. It was weird to see Dazai go from a loser to my level, but it felt good. Chuuya's POV (I like to write in Chuuya's POV) It's Friday, And this guy i kinda know, and Dazai knows well, His name is Ango, he invites us to a party, which seems fun. I go to parties all the time, but Dazai said this was his first party. The Party was a typical teenage party, with illegal Alcohol, Kids vaping and smoking like their lives depended on it, loud music and loud people. Dazai stood beside me, clearly not used to a party, where as i was leaning against the kitchen counter. A girl suddenly walked up to us and introduced herself. "Hey! I've seen you around school before!" The girl smiled, "My name's Naomi, we are about to play Seven Minutes in Heaven, wanna join?" She asked, cheerful. "Yeah, sure, why not?" I agree, it sounded like something fun. "I'll play too.." Dazai agreed, i wondered if he was playing so he wasn't alone. We made our way upstairs to the circle, in which i saw few people, like Akutagawa and Atsushi, and a few others. We sat down in a circle, an empty alcohol bottle lay on it's side in the middle. Once everyone was settled, we started playing, eventually, it was my turn, so i reached out and spun the bottle, it spun for a bit and then slowed down, landing on Dazai. "Chuuya, you will be locked in the closet with Dazai!" Naomi announced. Dazai and I went into the closet, and heard the door lock, like all the others had. "So.." I said, not sure what to do. The closet was cramped, and i was sat cross-legged on the floor of it. Dazai was sat on his knees. I sighed, leaning my head back and closing my eyes, this would be a long seven minutes. Around a minute in, I felt Dazai's arms around my waist, I tiled my head back down and opened my eyes. "What are you doing.?" I asked, not offended, just curious. It felt nice, honestly. "Giving these Seven minutes some action.." He replied, most of his body shifting onto mine, I felt his weight on me. "Oh Yeah~?" I smirked, my hands moving to his waist while his arms moved to around my neck and rested loosely. "I wish we had more then seven minutes.." The Brown haired boy muttered, I felt my face heat up a little. "Hey, Dazai?" I said, my breath stuttering, i felt nervous. "Yeah?" He looked up, our faces very close. "Can I kiss you?" I asked, and felt him tense up. "Yeah, you can.." He replied. I leaned closer and kissed him. His lips felt soft yet i could feel the cracked skin. I was going to take it slow, I swear, but his lips felt so good that we made out for the seven minutes, and when they forgot about us, probably getting bored of the game, everything escalated quickly, let's just say, I had a card in this game of life and lost it to Osamu Dazai. ——————————————————————— The Following Monday ——————————————————————— Good God, Osamu Dazai, the man you are.. Don't tell him I said that. This weekend had been insane, Dazai and i were texting non-stop, and everything felt right, but now? I had to face him at School. I'm nervous, and for the first time in my life, i felt scared of rejection. I had no regrets with him, at all, and i want more, but I'm not sure he does. It's Monday, after school, and most people are gone, but He and I were doing homework together in the library. I was doing Math homework where as Dazai was doing socials work. I was working up my courage to ask him when I felt his hand on my waist, then he pulled me closer, we were now sitting closely, side by side. "Hey, Chuuya?" He seemed more confident, and it made me smile a bit. "Yeah?" I answer, suppressing a smile. "Remember Friday?" He asks and I nod, "Well, I have a question." My mind was racing, was he about to ask the question i was going to ask? "Chuuya, Will you be my official Boyfriend?" He asked, his hand's grip tightening a bit. "Yes, I will." I answered, smiling. He then pulled me in and kissed me softly. For once, life felt complete, which is weird, because never in my life would I have thought that Osamu Dazai would be the one to complete it. Chuuya's POV I don't regret anything, Dazai is an amazing partner. We are currently hanging out at his house, and his parents aren't home, so we've done some kissing, making out.. you know, the usual relationship stuff. I honestly have never felt more loved. It's been a month since we got together, since we played Seven Minutes In Heaven, that also means it's summer break. A while ago, i never thought Dazai would be my everything, now, i can't imagine life without him. We're currently cuddling and watching a movie, I'm pretty sure he's asleep. His hand is resting in my hair, our foreheads against each others. It was hard to focus on the movie when he was right there, resting. He looked peaceful, as peaceful as he could get, and it made me sad. If the only time he was the most peaceful was when he slept, then he was always stressed out. The movie ended and i just decided to turn on music, shuffling Dazai's playlist. There were sad songs, and love songs, and not to forget songs from hyperfixations. I didn't know he had similar interest to me until "Sex Sells" came on. I eventually also fell asleep, cuddled up in his arms. It felt nice, it even felt peaceful. I Love Him, but I'm going to wait to tell him. ——————————————————————— Later That Night ——————————————————————— I woke up around 4am to find Dazai's face in the crevice of my neck, which is not how it was when I fell asleep. His breath was warm, welcoming. I then felt a kiss on my neck, then one below where the previous one was, slowly making it's way down to my collarbones. "Hello to you as well.." I muttered, not opposed to Dazai's kisses. He kissed my cheek, "Hi.." I sleepily and kissed him on the lips for a quick moment, he then kissed my forehead, "What time is it..?" He chuckled, "3:45am, Love." His body was mostly on top of mine, weighing me down, as if i was about to get up. "Oh.." I kissed him again, in which Dazai pulls me closer, kissing me harder. His hands on my waist. One of my hands went to his cheek, while the other one was on his shoulder. When we finally broke the kiss, i closed my eyes again, deciding i wanted to go back to sleep. He clearly understood and gave me a kiss on the forehead, i slowly then after heard his breathing slow, which meant he fell asleep. I also fell back asleep. When i thought i opened my eyes, i saw a grassy field before me, as well as Dazai, but something was different, his face was a plain black, no eyes, no mouth, nothing but black. I took a step back, confused. "Dazai..?" I spoke, my voice trembling. Dazai stood in a tan trench coat, with a black waistcoat and blue dress shirt underneath, he also wore beige pants and black shoes. This wasn't the Dazai i knew, the one i knew doesn't even own a trench coat. The Strange Dazai took a step closer, and another, the placed a hand on my shoulder. Suddenly, a blue-ish glow came from where his palm and my shoulder had connected, and it grew fast, eventually blinding me. I closed my eyes, shielding them. When I opened them again, I was in Dazai's bed. I sat up, confused, then looked over at the clock. It was 9:43am, i noticed Dazai, the real one, was still asleep beside me. I got up and went to the bathroom, splashing my face with cold water and then sighing. The dream was weird, but vivid, and it felt real. I went back into the bedroom, and found Dazai awake, sitting up in bed. He noticed me and frowned. "What?" I asked. "You left." He said, somewhat whining. "I had to use the bathroom." I told the half truth, i mean, I did use it, but that wasn't the only reason. "Still, you could have woken me up." He crossed his arms. "Sorry, Princess." I replied sarcastically. He just sat there. Even though it was just a dream, it felt so real, that it felt like reality, and it bothered me. I eventually told Dazai about it, in which he explained that our minds played tricks on us and we shouldn't believe everything it says or does, we then later went out for ice cream. Dazai's POV Seven Minutes in Heaven was all that i needed to get with him, who would have thought. It's been exactly a year since Chuuya and I started dating, and it feels amazing. I'm getting him a gift to celebrate, i got him a necklace, it's a bloodstone. I really hope he likes it, We're meeting up soon. I take a deep breath. I'm standing under our favorite tree in the park, waiting for him. Chuuya's POV I walked into the park, taking a deep breath. Seeing Dazai on our year anniversary makes me nervous, a year ago today, we got together. That was one of the best days of my life, and a year later, we're still going strong, at least i hope, anything can happen.. I'm overthinking. I spot Dazai under our favorite tree, we carved our initials into that tree at our six month anniversary. I walk over to him, fidgeting with my sleeve. "Hey." "Hi." He replies, cheerfully. "Happy 1 Year." I say with a smile, and i notice a box in his hand. "Happy 1 year, my Love." He says, handing me the box. "Open it." I open the box, it was a necklace with a bloodstone pendant, It Was Beautiful. "Oh, Wow." "Do you like it?" He asked, smiling. "I love it." I replied and let Dazai put the necklace around my neck. "I'm glad." He kissed my cheek. It felt nice to he loved, to be held, to be cared for. "Osamu Dazai, I Love You." I said, placing my hand on his cheek. I saw him freeze up, which made me worried i had done something wrong. "I Love You too, Chuuya Nakahara." He kissed me, it felt so good. I love him, i really really love him. It felt like a waste, waiting this long to tell him three simple words, but it was worth it. I love him, and I wanted to make sure we both did, so I waited. We later went out for a nice dinner at a nice restaurant, and then to the movies to see a movie Dazai had been hyping up called "Happy Gilmore 2 ", we had watched the first one together before and i had to admit, they were both quite funny and I enjoyed it. We then went back home to Dazai's place, got home around 7:09pm, a note was hung up on the fridge by his mother, it read "Out for a few hours (left at around 7pm), be back around 1am, be good". "So she JUST left." Dazai chuckled. "We just missed her." "I guess so." I replied. We went upstairs to his room, and I felt a feelings i knew well. We were alone, until 1 am. It felt like I blinked and i was pinned down on the bed underneath Dazai. He kissed me, I kissed him back. He kissed my neck and I laid there. He would ask for consent and I would give it. He started taking off my clothes, then I took his off. His embrace felt warm and comfortable. Chuuya's POV Around 1 year and 5 months in, we had our first huge fight. Huge wasn't an exaggeration, there was screaming, yelling, door slamming and ignoring. Dazai had locked himself in the bathroom and I was in the living room. I tried not to cry, taking a deep breath. Was our relationship over? I wasn't sure, but I was still paranoid it was. "I'm going home." I said to Dazai through the bathroom door, waited for a response i never got, before I left for their front door. I expected Dazai to stop me, come out of the bathroom, apologize, or do anything, but he never did. I put my shoes on and left, walking home. I was angry, betrayed. I walked with my hands in my pockets, and I walked fast. When I got home, i locked myself in my room. I laid down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, I fell asleep, even though it was only 4pm, i was exauhsted. I woke up later, around 9pm, to the sound of knocking on my window. I sat up and looked over as Dazai entered. "What do you want." I asked, still half asleep, but that didn't mean my tone wasn't stern and unimpressed. "Chuuya, i'm sorry." He said as he sat beside me, I didn't loosen up. "I was ignorant, I said something stupid. I should have just shut up." His apology felt genuine. My expression softened a little. "It's okay, I yelled back, so we're both in the wrong." I replied in a mumble. "I didn't mean to hurt you or your feelings, it was just supposed to be a joke, but it was insensitive and ignorant." He explained, "And i realize that now. I shouldn't be making comments or jokes like that." Earlier, we originally were fighting over what to make and/or get for dinner, and then Dazai said something really offensive on accident, and I blew up at him. I told him off, yelling at him that he was being an asshole and ignorant towards me and my issues. "Yeah.." I sighed, i couldn't stay mad. "I guess you could say our relationships.." "Fine," He smiled a little, "We're damaged." "Really Damaged." I added with a chuckle. "But that won't affect our relationship, we aren't special, we're not different, every couple goes through this." I started talking. The reason? I just wanted to talk. "Every couple had their ups and downs, every relationship goes through rocky patches." "Let us be Seventeen," Dazai smiled, "Let's be a teenage couple who drinks smuggled alcohol and goes to prom together." "If we've still hot the right." I replied with a chuckle. "I wanna be with you tonight," Dazai said, "Could I stay the night?" "Yeah." I replied and kissed his cheek. "I missed you.." He hugged me and kissed my forehead. "I missed you too.." ——————————————————————— The Next Day ——————————————————————— Dazai and I went to our park with our tree, it was Mid July, it was quite warm out, but there was a subtle breeze that rustled the leaves on the trees and helped cool us down in the warm sun. I picked a Dandelion and blew off the seeds, they floated away in the breeze, landing throughout the feild. I then felt Dazai's arms around my waist and his chin on my shoulder. "Wishing on Dandelions?" He asked. "All of the time." I replied. Life felt peaceful again, and I was convinced we would make it through every argument, every mishap. I was confident in us. Dazai and I laid down on the blanket i brought, gazing at the clouds and pointing out shapes. "You know, it was a dream of mine to get married, or even just proposed to, in a field on a day like this." I said, still cloudgazing. "The breeze, the warmth, the flowers, everything." "Yeah?" He smiled. "It is pretty nice." "Mhm.." I replied before he gave me a quick kiss, cupping my cheek. "You're a man with good taste." He said, laying back down properly. "Thanks, Mackerel." I rolled my eyes playfully. It felt nice to be loved, and it felt even better knowing that an argument wasn't enough to break us up. Chuuya's POV It's been 4 years and 8 months now since we got together. We're both 22 and we have our own house. We also have a cat, which was Dazai's idea, I wanted a dog, but Dazai convinced me a cat was easier to take care of, plus they're just as cute. Dazai had left to run errands, and later, I found a note on the fridge that read "Meet Me at Our Spot at 5:45pm", so i got ready for it and went. Now we are in that field, the weather being literally perfect. "Dazai?" I called out, then notice him by our tree, so I walked over. "What's up?" "Oh nothing, I just thought the weather was nice so we should hang out at our spot." He replied. There was a tone in his voice that made me curious. "If today wasn't so perfect, I would be mad at you." I replied. We talked for a while, then cloud gazed. Dazai convinced me to stand either him under the tree. "Chuuya, may I have a word?" He asked in a serious tone. "Yes, what's up?" I replied. I'd be lying if I said my worry didn't spike, my mind shuffled through the thoughts, 'Did I do something wrong?' and 'Are we breaking up?' were my main thoughts, but there were many more. He took a deep breath. "Chuuya, when I met you, you were a popular kid at our High School, I never thought you'd notice me, or even acknowledge me, but then you did. You stood up for me and defended me when Shirase and Yuan were being Assholes, you stayed with me through the tough times in high school, You were, and still are, my everything. You make everyday better, you gave me a reason to wake up in the morning, you gave me a purpose, and i love you for that," Dazai got down on one knee, pulling out a small box, a warm, loving smile on his face, "Chuuya Nakahara, Will you Marry me?" I felt my eyes tear up and the excitement and joy overfill, "Yes, yes, a hundred times yes." He put the ring on my finger and stood up, then kissed me. I love this man, i always will, and now? We get to spend eternity in each others arms, together. "Osamu Dazai, I fucking love you." I say, hugging him tight. "I love you too, Chuuya." He Replied. Nobody's POV Dazai and Chuuya didn't have a big wedding, they got married a month and a half after getting engaged, on August 3rd. They were happy, too happy. Nobody's POV There was the day Chuuya least expected. August 19th, at 2:48am, Osamu Dazai had passed away from an overdose on antidepressants. Many people were heartbroken that day, but Chuuya was the most hurt. Chuuya's POV He told me hours before it happened that he was scared, and that One day, he was gonna grow wings, and for some reason, i thought everything would be fine. He was scared of watching me die, and I was scared for him. All I wanted to know was what would've happened to him on a different day? If I was there to intervene instead of being sound asleep. But really, his suicide was no alarms and no surprises, he just woke up and decided to end it, and i should've seen it coming, I knew how depressed he was. For weeks I cried, for weeks I felt broken, I felt numb. All i had left of Dazai was our cat, Chibi, photos and memories. The depression hit hard, but not bad enough that I didn't get out of bed. I still got up, took care of the cat and myself, I really didn't want to, but I did it for Dazai and Chibi. I really thought Dazai would make it, he was showing signs of being alive, but then he suddenly dropped, his pulse flat. I remember that sudden flatline beep like it was my own. Every second, every action, everything was a clear, vivid memory. If only I had done something earlier, such as locking up the pills, or just watching him. But no, I didn't do any of that, I left him alone, and now he's gone. My colleague, Akutagawa, and his Partner, Atsushi, who knew Dazai aswell, have been to my house almost everyday, to comfort me while also mourning the death of Dazai. "It feels like in every universe, every timeline, we never get our happy ending." I said, crying. "Chuuya-san, i know it hurts, but I'm sure in some universe, you and Dazai are happy." Atsushi said, trying to comfort me. "It feels impossible." I reply. Akutagawa sat at the bottom of the bed with Chibi, petting her. "Chuuya, I know it's hard, but you can make it through." "Yeah, we'll do it together!" Atsushi added with a smile. I smiled a little through my tears, "Yeah, we will.." I eventually fell asleep, but nightmares of Dazai dying haunted me, and they slowly shifted to him blaming me for his death. It would be wrong to say that I killed Dazai, I was an instrument to his death, but not the cause. I told him that "You won't have to deal with watching me die if you died first" as a joke, but now, I wish I hadn't even mentioned, nor thought of it, because he was gone. The love of my life was dead, and it felt like my fault. I developed insomnia from the nightmares, and I cried constantly. I hated being this weak, but it was hard not to be. My thoughts ran wild, especially at night. "What if it happened to you on a different day?" "What if I had just locked up the pills?" "What if I didn't make the joke?" My thoughts were full of "What If.." 's, and everything felt wrong. Osamu Dazai had been the love of my life, I always thought we would grow old together, but I was naive to think that. Now, every August 19th, I visit his grave with Atsushi and Akutagawa. I bring him flowers and talk to him, to his grave, for hours on end. I always take August 19th off, every year, every time, just to mourn the loss of my sweet, loving husband who now lies among the roots of the trees and the flowers. I'd be lying if I said i hadn't tried to join him once, but Akutagawa talked me out of it, he convinced me that living for Dazai was better then potentially joining him, since nobody knew what the afterlife was like. It took a while, but I eventually chose the reality of life rather than the mysterious wonders of the afterlife. Yet I will always blame myself for his death, it's hard not too, knowing you had every ability to stop it. Death was always something I feared, not for myself, but for those I loved, yet death took the one I loved, and now I have a great hatred towards it. My hatred is not in a way where I want revenge and only revenge, I do want it, but I know it's impossible, so my hatred for death causes me to want to prevent it, yet I know I can't. So I guess you could say that the universe always wins, and it doesn't matter how hard you fight.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75631321	{"authors": ["Lynn (Angelynzqs)"], "language": "English", "title": "- Heaven // A Teen Soukoku Fic -"}
the smiling friends make 1 trait danger smile! It was a normal day in the office, almost everyone was in the break room. Charlie walked in looking down at his phone. "Hey Pim, have you heard about this new band?" "I'm not sure Charlie, which band are you talking about" Charlie puts down his phone "They're called 1 trait danger, i found them from twitter a few weeks ago and they're music is insanely good dude, if i had one artist to summarize my music taste it would be them" "Wow, they seem pretty cool!!" "I know dude, they're like.. real alpha males. The two guys in the band just have that true alpha male aura and shit." Glep looks up from his ipad "hfudydedigkhgkgdgegfkhgkdfjohxjkef" "Really? You know them too" Glep nods his head "pahshrowshdjvwosv" "I know, you would think they'd have bigger concerts with how popular they are. Oh wait that reminds me, Pim I'm going to this bar later, apparently 1 trait danger is preforming there. Would you wanna go with me after work?" "That sounds brilliant! I really don't have anything better to do." Mr. Boss appears in the doorway "Hey boys, I just got a call from these two kids, it sounds pretty urgent so I would leave now if i were you" He gave them an address and Pim and Charlie left the building for their mission. "But like i was saying earlier, I'll meet up with you around 7 and then we can head to the bar. They don't start preforming until 8." "Alright, that sounds AWESOME!!" "Yeah man, oh uh I think were at the building" "Hmm, we have to go to the first apartment on the third floor" They walk up the stairs to the right apartment and knock on the door. A dog with sunglasses answers. "Oh hey, you guys must be the smiling friends" Charlie's eyes widen. The dog looks back into the apartment "TRAIT they're here!" He turns back to face the two. Charlie looks him in the eyes in disbelief. "Holy shit!! Stoney Bologne?" "Yep, thats me" Stoney says awkwardly. "Charlie do you know this guy?" "Pim this is Stoney from 1 trait danger!" Pim looks at stoney and says "Hello Stoney, I'm Pim and this is Charlie and we got a call and heard you needed to be cheered up!" "Cool, nice to meet you, you guys can come inside now" Stoney opens the door fully and they walk into the apartment. Its a pretty decent apartment. A bunny wearing some sort of mask is sitting on the couch typing on a laptop, he looks up when they walk in. "This is Trait by the way" Stoney says pointing at Trait, he waves and goes back to the laptop. "Hello trait! What seems to be the problem?" Pim asks. "Well were kinda stressing out, we have some last minute stuff we need to take care of for our show tonight" Stoney says nervously. "I invested in stocks and then suddenly everything crashed once Mr Frog left the office" Stoney said while looking down. " And we have to go back to our studies at university soon because winter break is almost over! Cossett is gonna beat my ass again, I dont even know why he still runs me over!!" Trait chimed in, his calm voice muffled because of the mask. "It's not just that, Stoney smoked all my weed without me, now we're stressed out with nothing to calm us down. I'm trying to put together our track list for tonight but I cant focus." "Hey, that was OUR weed, and I'm stressed out too!" Stoney said that half joking and half serious. "Ok, ok uhhh.." Charlie thought about it "I have $20 in my wallet, if you need to go buy some more?" Charlie says, pulling out his wallet and looking for the $20. "Charlie are you really going to give them money for weed? I'm sure there are lots of other ways we can help out" pim says, kinda concerned. "I mean, its the only thing I can come up with" He shrugs and hands the money to Stoney. "Thanks for trying to help out" stoney says seriously, then he looks up. "Okay I'm going across the street to that one guy, you know the one who sells stuff really cheap? I'll be back with weed" he says to trait. Trait nods and goes back to his laptop Stoney walks out the door and Pim and Charlie kinda just stand there for a minute. "Hey Trait, uhh really nice to meet you, I'm a big fan of what you guys do" Charlie says. Trait looks up "oh thank you" he struggled with something on the laptop for a second and then took off his headphones "do you think you guys could help me with this? I need help choosing songs" "Of course" pim and charlie said that almost in unison. They headed over to the couch, trait put the laptop on the coffee table so they could both see. "I'm trying to pick out some of our best songs, but i've been kinda stuck on what song to play first" trait thought for a moment. "Do either of you have any ideas?" "I'm sorry trait, i just found out about your music today, but I'm sure Charlie would know!!" Pim said optimistically. Charlie thought about it "What about Stoney Bologne.. like the song. I think that would make a pretty good intro. And then Oh actually after that." he said smugly Trait added it to the list and presses play on the songs (The music was	the smiling friends make 1 trait danger smile! It was a normal day in the office, almost everyone was in the break room. Charlie walked in looking down at his phone. "Hey Pim, have you heard about this new band?" "I'm not sure Charlie, which band are you talking about" Charlie puts down his phone "They're called 1 trait danger, i found them from twitter a few weeks ago and they're music is insanely good dude, if i had one artist to summarize my music taste it would be them" "Wow, they seem pretty cool!!" "I know dude, they're like.. real alpha males. The two guys in the band just have that true alpha male aura and shit." Glep looks up from his ipad "hfudydedigkhgkgdgegfkhgkdfjohxjkef" "Really? You know them too" Glep nods his head "pahshrowshdjvwosv" "I know, you would think they'd have bigger concerts with how popular they are. Oh wait that reminds me, Pim I'm going to this bar later, apparently 1 trait danger is preforming there. Would you wanna go with me after work?" "That sounds brilliant! I really don't have anything better to do." Mr. Boss appears in the doorway "Hey boys, I just got a call from these two kids, it sounds pretty urgent so I would leave now if i were you" He gave them an address and Pim and Charlie left the building for their mission. "But like i was saying earlier, I'll meet up with you around 7 and then we can head to the bar. They don't start preforming until 8." "Alright, that sounds AWESOME!!" "Yeah man, oh uh I think were at the building" "Hmm, we have to go to the first apartment on the third floor" They walk up the stairs to the right apartment and knock on the door. A dog with sunglasses answers. "Oh hey, you guys must be the smiling friends" Charlie's eyes widen. The dog looks back into the apartment "TRAIT they're here!" He turns back to face the two. Charlie looks him in the eyes in disbelief. "Holy shit!! Stoney Bologne?" "Yep, thats me" Stoney says awkwardly. "Charlie do you know this guy?" "Pim this is Stoney from 1 trait danger!" Pim looks at stoney and says "Hello Stoney, I'm Pim and this is Charlie and we got a call and heard you needed to be cheered up!" "Cool, nice to meet you, you guys can come inside now" Stoney opens the door fully and they walk into the apartment. Its a pretty decent apartment. A bunny wearing some sort of mask is sitting on the couch typing on a laptop, he looks up when they walk in. "This is Trait by the way" Stoney says pointing at Trait, he waves and goes back to the laptop. "Hello trait! What seems to be the problem?" Pim asks. "Well were kinda stressing out, we have some last minute stuff we need to take care of for our show tonight" Stoney says nervously. "I invested in stocks and then suddenly everything crashed once Mr Frog left the office" Stoney said while looking down. " And we have to go back to our studies at university soon because winter break is almost over! Cossett is gonna beat my ass again, I dont even know why he still runs me over!!" Trait chimed in, his calm voice muffled because of the mask. "It's not just that, Stoney smoked all my weed without me, now we're stressed out with nothing to calm us down. I'm trying to put together our track list for tonight but I cant focus." "Hey, that was OUR weed, and I'm stressed out too!" Stoney said that half joking and half serious. "Ok, ok uhhh.." Charlie thought about it "I have $20 in my wallet, if you need to go buy some more?" Charlie says, pulling out his wallet and looking for the $20. "Charlie are you really going to give them money for weed? I'm sure there are lots of other ways we can help out" pim says, kinda concerned. "I mean, its the only thing I can come up with" He shrugs and hands the money to Stoney. "Thanks for trying to help out" stoney says seriously, then he looks up. "Okay I'm going across the street to that one guy, you know the one who sells stuff really cheap? I'll be back with weed" he says to trait. Trait nods and goes back to his laptop Stoney walks out the door and Pim and Charlie kinda just stand there for a minute. "Hey Trait, uhh really nice to meet you, I'm a big fan of what you guys do" Charlie says. Trait looks up "oh thank you" he struggled with something on the laptop for a second and then took off his headphones "do you think you guys could help me with this? I need help choosing songs" "Of course" pim and charlie said that almost in unison. They headed over to the couch, trait put the laptop on the coffee table so they could both see. "I'm trying to pick out some of our best songs, but i've been kinda stuck on what song to play first" trait thought for a moment. "Do either of you have any ideas?" "I'm sorry trait, i just found out about your music today, but I'm sure Charlie would know!!" Pim said optimistically. Charlie thought about it "What about Stoney Bologne.. like the song. I think that would make a pretty good intro. And then Oh actually after that." he said smugly Trait added it to the list and presses play on the songs (The music was so awesome and so cool and everyone in the room thought it was good.) "Wow thats amazing! I really like your work!" Pim said "Thanks, Stoney puts a lot of effort into his vocals and the lyrics, we both put a lot of effort into it" Just as Trait finishes the tracklist, stoney opens the door walks in. He shuts the door behind him. "hey stoney, i finished the list" trait says as he closes the laptop "Thats awesome!" Stoney and Trait look at eachother and smile (well the LED lights on traits mask made it look like he was smiling) and the smiling friends knew their job was done. _________________________________________ After they got off work, pim and charlie met up at the bar. And after waiting for like 20 minutes trait and stoney walked onto the small stage and started playing the intro to stoney bologne (the song) "Obama!" stoney said into the microphone. A couple people chuckled during the show (probably because trait played a bunch of unnecessary car and truck noises on his laptop while they were preforming on the run from cossett) They played some new songs off of 1 trait university and escape from 1 trait too. After like an hour the show was over and they started packing up, both trait and stoney grateful they could play the pacer test audio without any copyright issues. Stoney grabbed the mic and said one last thing "We're 1 trait danger, thank you for listening please follow us on spotify!" Everyone in the bar started clapping because it was so awesome. Trait and Stoney walked over to Pim and Charlie after they had packed everything up. "That was AWESOME!!" pim said to the band "Yeah it was a pretty great show." charlie said nonchalantly "Hey we couldn't have done it without you guys, I mean we probably could've but you really helped us out in the moment." Stoney said. You could tell trait was glaring at stoney. Even with his mask on, the LED lights showed he was side eyeing him. "Anyways... We appreciate your help. I was pretty worried we were gonna get a bad reaction from the audience" Trait said. "Hey no problem man, it's our job, but could we get a selfie? I'm gonna post it to my twitter" Said Charlie, even though it was kinda out of character for him to say that. "Sure, why not" They all kinda awkwardly huddled together and Charlie took a selfie. "Alright, now we're gonna go home and smoke the weed you helped us buy, thanks again, byeee!" Stoney walked away and out of the building. Trait looked at the critters and the LED lights on his mask blinked. "I would give you $20 to repay you for the weed, but ever since the stock market crashed because Mr. Frog stepped down from being president, we've kinda had to save up money. So you can have this instead" he pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to charlie "ok see you guys, bye" Trait puts his paws in his pockets and speed walks to catch up with Stoney. Charlie looks at what he was given and its a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it and looks at it and its a crappy doodle of stoney and trait giving a thumbs up with their logo and a couple sentences thanking them. It looks like trait drew it. Both members of the band signed it. "Y'know i just got free merch" Charlie says, folding the paper back up and putting it into his pocket. "I guess this job isn't always that bad."	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75631331	{"authors": ["1traitgay"], "language": "English", "title": "the smiling friends make 1 trait danger smile!"}
In Your Dreams The roof of her mouth was definitely going to be bruised in the morning, but Galinda welcomed the feeling. She reveled in that ache and how it created a similar, yet somehow warmer, feeling in her pussy. Staying on her knees was growing more uncomfortable, but Galinda Upland was not a quitter. Never a quitter. Madam Morrible’s strap thrusted deeper into Galinda’s throat causing the girl to choke a bit. The strangled noise from her throat clearly pleased Madam Morrible, as she hummed in approval. That made Galinda even wetter. She longed to please the older woman. Suddenly the plastic penis was torn from the much younger woman’s throat. Galinda looked up at Madam Morrible with confusion and slight disappointment. “Why did you-” “Shhh,” the old woman cut her off. “Eat my pussy. Now. Off your knees.” The younger woman nodded enthusiastically and rose to her feet. Madam Morrible turned silently and she went to the close by bed and sat down. There she began to disrobe, taking off her long 9 inch strap. “No, that’s Elphie’s bed,” Galinda warned. “I don’t care,” Galinda couldn’t hide the worry on her face, and Madam Morrible drank her expression up. Watching the young girl’s face contort from moral conflict made her hairy cunt drip. Her hand slipped down to her lap, fingers creeping between her folds. “You know the rules Galinda. You agreed to this.” It was true. Galinda did agree to this, and although this was wrong, Galinda secretly loved this. Well, not fucking on Elphie’s bed. She hated that idea. The thought of Elphaba walking in on her and Madam Morrible on her bed made her sick with shame. Yet, the embarrassment she felt from even the idea of it still turned her on immensely. The ramifications of being caught would ruin absolutely everything, but that initial instance of mortification from having someone walk in on her being completely dominated by Madam Morrible could almost make Galinda come at the mere thought. Galidna didn’t agree to this arrangement just because she was a slut or because she had more than a few kinks that were compatible with Madam Morrible’s own sexuality. She did this to get ahead. Madam Morrible has what Galinda wants. Power. Galinda wants to feel power burst through her fingertips creating magic more potent than all of Oz has ever seen. And Morrible was the key to all that. Getting fucked by a kinky milf, was just a bonus for the horny 20 year old. The issue was that she didn’t want Elphaba to know that. She wasn’t sure why, but the idea of Elphaba knowing about her and Morrible’s little arrangement was the most terrifrightening thing in the world. Even the thought of it could make the girl collapse in devastation. Elphaba could never know. Plus, she supposed her boyfriend Fiyero wouldn’t like this arrangement either. Galinda sighed, “I know the rules.” “What are the rules?” Her gaze met Morrible’s. “You will give me extra private magic lessons, twice a week.” She began, “And you can fuck me… however you want, whenever you want, wherever you want.” She breathed out deeply. “Good girl,” Madam Morrible purred, “Now come get on Elphaba’s bed, and eat my pussy.” Galinda nodded. As Madam Morrible laid back, head on Elphie’s pillow, the very one that covered her mysterious green bottle, Galinda crawled into bed in the space between the sexy older woman’s legs. Galinda took one deep breath before taking the woman’s large clit into her mouth. She sucked it slowly, reveling in the silky texture of her pussy and its folds. Galinda lived for the flavor and the way the woman’s pussy hairs scratched against her face as she buried it between Morrible’s legs. The headmistress’ strong fingers wrapped themselves in the young girl’s blonde locs, forcing her face deeper into her cunt. Galinda moaned. During all of their romance so far, nothing that Fiyero has ever done to Galinda had ever caused her to moan even a quarter as loud as she did from having her face forced into the hot wet pussy of this older woman. “I am so close” Madam Morrible groaned. Her words caused the wet spot in Galinda’s pretty pink panties to grow. Madam Morrible’s hips began to thrash more erratically as her body moved closer towards climax. “Fuck. Good girl” she growled. “Do you like the taste of mommy’s pussy? You like it when mommy fucks your pretty face?” What a naughty word. Mommy. Humiliation flooded Galinda’s body. How unseemly. She liked when Morrible said it, though. She loved it. “Yes.” Galinda moaned, as feverously licked her mommy’s cunt. “FUCK.” Madam Morrible yelled out as an orgasm suddenly crashed over her. She humped Galinda’s face harder while she rode out the final moments of pleasure. As the older woman’s body relaxed, her typical stoic composure quickly took over. Her relaxed smile quickly stiffened into her usual scowl, the one that Galinda knew far too well. The one that made her itch for the stunning silver fox’s approval. The older woman sat up on the bed and began to clothe herself	In Your Dreams The roof of her mouth was definitely going to be bruised in the morning, but Galinda welcomed the feeling. She reveled in that ache and how it created a similar, yet somehow warmer, feeling in her pussy. Staying on her knees was growing more uncomfortable, but Galinda Upland was not a quitter. Never a quitter. Madam Morrible’s strap thrusted deeper into Galinda’s throat causing the girl to choke a bit. The strangled noise from her throat clearly pleased Madam Morrible, as she hummed in approval. That made Galinda even wetter. She longed to please the older woman. Suddenly the plastic penis was torn from the much younger woman’s throat. Galinda looked up at Madam Morrible with confusion and slight disappointment. “Why did you-” “Shhh,” the old woman cut her off. “Eat my pussy. Now. Off your knees.” The younger woman nodded enthusiastically and rose to her feet. Madam Morrible turned silently and she went to the close by bed and sat down. There she began to disrobe, taking off her long 9 inch strap. “No, that’s Elphie’s bed,” Galinda warned. “I don’t care,” Galinda couldn’t hide the worry on her face, and Madam Morrible drank her expression up. Watching the young girl’s face contort from moral conflict made her hairy cunt drip. Her hand slipped down to her lap, fingers creeping between her folds. “You know the rules Galinda. You agreed to this.” It was true. Galinda did agree to this, and although this was wrong, Galinda secretly loved this. Well, not fucking on Elphie’s bed. She hated that idea. The thought of Elphaba walking in on her and Madam Morrible on her bed made her sick with shame. Yet, the embarrassment she felt from even the idea of it still turned her on immensely. The ramifications of being caught would ruin absolutely everything, but that initial instance of mortification from having someone walk in on her being completely dominated by Madam Morrible could almost make Galinda come at the mere thought. Galidna didn’t agree to this arrangement just because she was a slut or because she had more than a few kinks that were compatible with Madam Morrible’s own sexuality. She did this to get ahead. Madam Morrible has what Galinda wants. Power. Galinda wants to feel power burst through her fingertips creating magic more potent than all of Oz has ever seen. And Morrible was the key to all that. Getting fucked by a kinky milf, was just a bonus for the horny 20 year old. The issue was that she didn’t want Elphaba to know that. She wasn’t sure why, but the idea of Elphaba knowing about her and Morrible’s little arrangement was the most terrifrightening thing in the world. Even the thought of it could make the girl collapse in devastation. Elphaba could never know. Plus, she supposed her boyfriend Fiyero wouldn’t like this arrangement either. Galinda sighed, “I know the rules.” “What are the rules?” Her gaze met Morrible’s. “You will give me extra private magic lessons, twice a week.” She began, “And you can fuck me… however you want, whenever you want, wherever you want.” She breathed out deeply. “Good girl,” Madam Morrible purred, “Now come get on Elphaba’s bed, and eat my pussy.” Galinda nodded. As Madam Morrible laid back, head on Elphie’s pillow, the very one that covered her mysterious green bottle, Galinda crawled into bed in the space between the sexy older woman’s legs. Galinda took one deep breath before taking the woman’s large clit into her mouth. She sucked it slowly, reveling in the silky texture of her pussy and its folds. Galinda lived for the flavor and the way the woman’s pussy hairs scratched against her face as she buried it between Morrible’s legs. The headmistress’ strong fingers wrapped themselves in the young girl’s blonde locs, forcing her face deeper into her cunt. Galinda moaned. During all of their romance so far, nothing that Fiyero has ever done to Galinda had ever caused her to moan even a quarter as loud as she did from having her face forced into the hot wet pussy of this older woman. “I am so close” Madam Morrible groaned. Her words caused the wet spot in Galinda’s pretty pink panties to grow. Madam Morrible’s hips began to thrash more erratically as her body moved closer towards climax. “Fuck. Good girl” she growled. “Do you like the taste of mommy’s pussy? You like it when mommy fucks your pretty face?” What a naughty word. Mommy. Humiliation flooded Galinda’s body. How unseemly. She liked when Morrible said it, though. She loved it. “Yes.” Galinda moaned, as feverously licked her mommy’s cunt. “FUCK.” Madam Morrible yelled out as an orgasm suddenly crashed over her. She humped Galinda’s face harder while she rode out the final moments of pleasure. As the older woman’s body relaxed, her typical stoic composure quickly took over. Her relaxed smile quickly stiffened into her usual scowl, the one that Galinda knew far too well. The one that made her itch for the stunning silver fox’s approval. The older woman sat up on the bed and began to clothe herself silently. Galinda did the same, although Galinda knew the second Madam Morrible left her room she would be returning to her own bed to rip off her bottoms and tame this unbearable ache between her legs. But, Galinda knew the game. Madam Morrible gets to cum every time, she however, comes if and when, as well as as many times Madam Morrible wants her to. Clearly today was not one of those times. Madam Morrible picked her strap off of the bed and concealed it in the small bag she had brought with her. She moved toward the door wordlessly, as expected. Galinda was used to it. Morrible would often use her body however she pleased to then leave without even a goodbye. The sound of Morrible calling herself mommy had carved itself into Galinda’s brain from the very moment it left the older woman’s plump pink lips. It electrified the young girl. She knew that she and one of the electric pink toys in her drawer would be connecting tonight over the thought of that word. Horniness took over. Galinda blurted it out before she could even stop herself. “Can I call you mommy?” She asked breathily. Big brown eyes longly looking at the older woman’s now fully clothed back that was towards her. The older woman turned back to look at her, slight irritation etched on her face. She scoffed at the girl, “In your dreams.” And with that she left. - Galinda hated the old goats class. It bored her to death, but she didn’t want him fired. Now she had this new teacher who was definitely off. She hated his stupid moustache. What was this fugly facial hair style called? Mutton chops? She watched as he demonstrated the cage. She turned to Elphie, who was very visibly upset. Elphie always riled herself up about these things. Galinda couldn’t understand it, but Elphie always looked so cute when she got passionate about something. “What are we going to do?” Elphaba exclaimed, panic rising in the green girl’s throat. “I’m sorry, we?“ Fiyero retorted, his arms draped heavily around Galinda’s shoulders. “Well someone’s gotta do something!” She insisted. Punctuating her sentence with a slam of the flowers in her hand. Suddenly the smell of poppies overtook the room. Galinda felt a head rush as her vision went hazy. A deep sense of sleepiness wrapped the blonde as the room faded to black. - The poppies were beautiful. Galinda adored being in this field. From the enchanting smell to the vibrant colors, everything about this garden oasis made her happy, and to share it with Elphaba, well that made this place perfect. Elphie sat next to the girl, her green skin looked dazzling in the sunlight. Evergreen lips pulled back into a tight smile. The same one that forced Galinda’s stomach in knots. It confused her why she always reacted so strongly to Elphaba. All she knew was that the feeling her best friend gave her was hopelessly addicting. Elphie turned to her staring into Galinda’s brown eyes with an expression the fair skinned girl could not understand. Elphaba brought her long green fingers to Galinda’s face before leaning in to kiss her. Galinda’s heart sprang upward into her throat. She could not believe it. Elphaba was kissing her. Elphaba was kissing her. And Galinda was kissing her back. Galinda let go. Releasing herself to her desire, she let Elphaba’s tongue into her mouth. Suddenly she was in her shared room with Elphaba, sitting on the edge of her own bed while Elphie kneeled before her. Big beautiful green eyes stared up at Galinda making the girl blush. Wordlessly, Elphie dipped her head between the girl’s legs and began to lap her up passionately. Galinda let out a shakey moan, “Oh Elphie”. There green girl’s tongue felt fucking incredible. Galinda’s hips started twitching from pleasure. She felt so safe here with Elphie. So happy to have her best friend eat her entirely. Elphaba pushed her tongue against Galinda’s entrance, causing the girl to moan loudly. She began fucking the blonde slowly, relishing in the taste and pleasure of the other girl. “Mommy please,” Glinda moaned. She blushed hard, embarrassed that those words had slipped out. However, Elphie seemed entirely unmoved by the comment, continuing her passionate movement in between the blonde’s legs. Suddenly, Galinda felt a painful intrusion and yelped. Elphie and the pink walls of her bedroom faded away quickly, and suddenly the image of her best friend was replaced with the sight of her dull, gray classroom, an open cage, and floating poppies spinning around the room. She felt something enter her pussy. Her eyes widened, and she began to yelp, but familiar strong fingers quickly covered her mouth before she could make too much noise. “Shush.” A callous feminine voice whispered. “You’ll wake your classmates.” Suddenly everything rushed back. Doctor Dillamond, the new professor, the lion cub, Fiyero, Elphaba. With fingers still muffling her mouth, she turned her head to the side to look for Elphaba. Mortification flooded her body. She could not let Elphie see her like this. But the girl was gone. What was there was an entire class of people, including her new professor and Miss Coddle passed out in a deep slumber. Galinda felt a cool breeze against her… against her ass? It was then she realized the compromising position she was in. She was bent over her desk, all of her weight on her stomach, hands tucked under her right cheek, her ass cocked in the air and her legs dangling over the side of her desk. A very vulnerable position. And something, someone was stretching out her tight little pussy. Madam Morrible. “Don’t worry. Your little boyfriend isn’t here” Oh right. Him. “What are you doing?!” Galinda whispered in a panic, desperate not to wake her classmates. She prayed Elphie would not walk back into the classroom at this moment. She couldn’t even begin to explain this to her best friend. “Fingering you.” Morrible stated so matter of factly, as if Galinda was stupid for even asking. She punctuated her sentence by pushing three of her fingers deep into Galinda, as deep as she could manage, causing Galinda to have to fight off a moan. “We are in public!” She whispered in strained distress. “You know the rules. However I want it. Whenever I want it. Wherever I want it… You want to learn magic, don’t you?” She did. Morrible continued, “If you don’t want another lesson this week, I’ll stop right now.” “I do.” Galinda choked out. She desperately wanted to excel, to at least just catch up to Elphie and her natural born talent. “Good.” Morrible hummed before plunging her fingers back into Galinda. “I am glad you are awake,” she continued. “I want my cock sucked and your pretty little mouth is so good at sucking dick. She chuckled before continuing, “I’m glad you finally found something you’re good at.” The comment stung like a slap on the ass. Galinda’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “What if we get caught?” Galinda asked. Morrible responded by moving from behind her towards Pfanne who was passed out and drooling in her assigned seat. Morrible looked at Galinda before pushing her friend off her seat and to the floor. Pfanne slammed to the ground with a hard thud, but did not wake. A soft snore left Galinda’s friend's lips. “See. But, try not to make too much noise. Who knows how long they will be out. You wouldn’t wanna get caught with your panties around your ankles like the whore you are.” Morrible moved from Pfanne, around the rows of students to come in front of the desk where Galinda was still laying on her stomach. Morrible brought her strap a few centimeters from Galinda’s beautiful face. Morrible looked down at the gir well over 20 years younger than her and grinned. “Now open wide.” And that she did. Galinda stuck her tongue far out of her mouth, the way the older woman likes. Morrible tapped the tip of her long black dildo on Galinda’s tongue, before using her hips to guide it across her face. Galinda moved her head to follow it, trying to get it into her mouth. Morrible chuckled. Galinda half expected the older woman to smack the 9 inches of plastic across her face as she has in the past, but the woman didn’t. Morrible then grabbed the back of Galinda’s head by her hair and guided the strap into Galinda’s throat causing the much younger girl to choke on the intrusion. The feeling caused a rush of heat towards Galinda’s clit. Something about choking on it for Morrible made her feral. Despite what felt like nearly constant begging, she had never sucked Fiyero’s dick. Every time she saw the thing she felt ill. The angry pink head made the blonde want to vomit from the sight alone. She had no desire to even look at it, much less put it in her mouth. Yet, here she was on her stomach, happily having Morrible’s plastic penis bruise the back of her throat. Galinda refused to engage in what that could mean. Instead she just focused on how hard it made her nipples to smell Morrible’s arousal while the older woman continued to use the plastic dick attached to her hips and clit as a giant tongue depressor. “Do you like my fat cock in my mouth little girl?” The older woman asked smugly. Galinda hummed around the black rubber cock in approval as she forced it further into her own throat, gagging on its length. Galinda desperately wanted to make Morrible cum. She wanted the woman to be impressed with how well Galinda could suck dick. Suddenly Morrible pulled her cock out of Galinda’s mouth, with a final punctuating pop, the plastic left the young woman’s lips. Galinda looked up at her with longing, brown eyes. “I wanna fuck your pink little pussy.” Morrible decided. Galinda nodded, and Morrible walked around the row of still passed out students so she could come behind Galinda, who’s ass was still in the air and panties still at her ankles. “You’re always so loud.” Morrible said matter of factly, “Unless you want all your classmates to see that the most popular girl at Shiz is just a dyke, whore I’d suggest you be quiet.” That familiar flush of humiliation settled not only on her cheeks but between her legs, as she remembered how vulnerable her position was. If any student were to wake up, or if Elphaba, or, even Fiyero she supposed, were to walk through those doors, she’d be irrevocably humiliated. The shame would be inescapable. Her pussy flooded at the thought. Perfect timing, as Morrible took the head of the dildo and began rubbing it against her swollen folds and pulsating clit. “You know you’re kinda pretty when you are sleeping,” Morrible confessed. She pushed the head of her black dick into Galinda's tight pink hole. The feeling caused the young blonde to whimper. Galinda then grabbed the edge of her desk to steady herself, bracing for the impending impact against her cervix. “When I came in and saw you passed out, I couldn’t resist.” The much older woman continued while she slowly pushed her hips deeper into the girl beneath her. Her words and actions caused Galinda to let out a strangled moan. “Shut up,” Morrible snapped while rolling her eyes, unwavering in her slow yet steady strokes. With her hands on Galinda’s hips she continued fucking the girl from behind, building the blonde up nice and slow. Morrible enjoyed every stroke and the feelings of Galinda’s tight pussy on her plastic cock, which had a vibrater on the end that nestled against the older woman’s clit, allowing the woman to feel pleasure in each stroke inside of Galinda’s tight little cunt. “We stop when I come,” Madam Morrible commanded. Galinda nodded in agreement, although the two both knew Galinda had no choice in the matter. Not that Galinda wanted a choice. She was right where she wanted to be, under the command of a powerful woman. “When I saw you and your classmates sleeping I wanted to see how much I could get away with. I started reaching under your shirt to play with your nipples to see if it would wake you. But, even when I pinched hard you remained asleep. So, I bent you over the desk,” Galinda gasped as she listened to Morrible recount the events that happened while Galinda was passed out from the poppy dust. “Once you didn’t react to me moving you, I pulled down your panties and lifted up your skirt…. And then I ate your pussy nice and slow. Could you feel that in your sleep?” “… yes” “I know you could. Did you dream of me? …I heard you call out for your mommy,” Morrible grinned. Galinda’s heart dropped. She bowed her head in shame. How humilifying that she had said that aloud. “Yes,” she moaned, “I dreamed of you fucking me,” Morrible seemed satisfied with the lie, as she began to pick up the pace, slamming her hips into Galinda’s fat ass. The young girl could feel her cheeks jiggle from the reverberation of each stroke. The feeling turned her on even more. The pressure in her stomach began to build and her pussy began to clamp down hard on Morrible’s black cock. She was about to cum. Morrible could tell from how tightly Galinda’s pussy gripped her strap. Before Galinda could cry out, Morrible clamped her hand around the mouth of the young girl beneath her, continuing her deep yet fast strokes. Galinda came, hips twitching, moans muffled into the older woman’s palm. As the orgasm subsided, Morrible's strokes did not. The older woman continued to fuck the girl half her age her thrusts growing overstimulating for the blonde and the pleasure became too much. “Please I need a break,” Galinda panted out as soon as Morrible removed her hand from the blonde’s mouth; Galinda’s voice a little too loud for her own liking. Morrible was completely unphased by Galinda’s pleading. She continued to fuck the blonde girl at the same pace, soft moans escaping the older woman’s lips as her pleasure built up. “Mommy fucks you as much as she wants. You’ll have a break once I’m finished. Got it?” It wasn’t a question. “Yes,” Galinda whimpered. “Yes what?” Morrible demanded as she slapped the young girl’s pale ass for good measure. “Yes… mommy.” “Good girl,” Morrible praised softly. Their exchange sent a flood of wetness to Galinda’s pussy; different from cum, she felt a new type of release. Morrible grabbed the much younger girl by her hair, pulling her head backwards. The dominating woman leaned forward to whisper in her subby bottom’s ear. “Did you just squirt?” Galinda didn’t even know she could do that, but it seems she did. She reveled in the feeling and the growing wetness between her thighs. Although this new wetness wasn’t as lubricating as the juices that typically came out of her when she was getting fucked or fucking herself, Galinda loved it. She even loved the slight friction that it caused since Morrible had not faltered in her strokes at all. “Yes mommy,” “Fuck that’s so hot,” Morrible licked her thumb before pushing it against the young girl’s pretty little asshole, all while picking up the pace of her stroke inside her younger girl dripping swollen cunt. Galinda choked back a moan at the feeling of the pressure on her asshole. No one had ever touched her there before. “While you were sleeping I stuck a finger in your ass. You should have heard how loud you moaned.” The blonde’s eyes widened. She felt another wave of shame and arousal, all at the same time. “Youre such a little slut for mommy. Next time I fuck you I can’t wait to train that tight little asshole.” Learning about the defiling of her own body shouldn’t have made the girl cum, yet waves of pleasure slammed through her petite cunt. Her body convulsed in pleasure for the second time as Morrible’s strokes became more erratic. Finally the older woman followed suit and came as well, her strokes slowing exponentially over time. Morrible slowly pulled her cock out of Galinda’s pretty pink pussy before she got on her knees. Galinda moaned loudly, forgetting all about the passed out classmates nearby who were beginning to stir from the noise. She didn’t know if her pussy could handle anymore, especially head after all of this. Once on her knees and at eye level with the blonde’s tiny pink puckering hole, the older woman spread the blonde’s pussy lips apart so that Galinda’s hole was stretched open. The feeling earned another loud uncontrolled moan from Galinda, whose inhibitions were dead. She was seemingly unaware that this was still all occurring in a room filled with her now barely asleep peers. Morrible put her open mouth to Galinda’s pussy hole but instead of licking or sucking the cunt of the much younger girl bent over before her, the older woman collected all the saliva in her mouth to spit directly in the young girl’s spread open hole. Galinda whined at the feeling of her saliva creeping into her canal. She was shocked by the action, but fell in love with the feeling of Morrible’s fluids spreading inside her used and bruised little cunt. She wanted to feel it again. But, she dared not ask for more, knowing her place. With that Morrible stood up, slapped the girl's ass once causing a petit yelp from her student, tucked her strap back into her trousers, and moved toward the doors of the classroom. She turned back and looked at Galinda who had now gotten up off her stomach, finally remembering her peers whose slumber was coming to a close. She now was trying to put herself together, desperate to hide the fact that she had just been fucked mercilessly by another woman in a room filled with all her classmates. Galinda’s hopeful eyes met Morrible’s. They looked at her longingly, hoping Morrible would give her some kind of nugget of approval for her willingness to do every disgusting and shameiating thing Morrible had wanted, and so publicly. Maybe mommy would praise her for her submission, for how well she sucked dick, or maybe just for having such a tight hole. “We have a 1 on 1 training session in three hours. Don’t be late. “ Morrible turned and vanished beyond the classroom doors leaving a now fully clothed Galinda dripping again in her panties, desperate as always for some kind of closeness or validation from her headmistress.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75631336	{"authors": ["Tahanishellstrop"], "language": "English", "title": "In Your Dreams"}
"Shadow and Light: Redemption" Dark clouds dispersed over Paris, giving way to the golden rays of sunset. Betterfly stood before Gabriel Agreste, his costume shimmering softly in the evening light. "You are not alone," Betterfly whispered, extending his hand. "I was like you. But there is another way." Gabriel clenched his fists, his gaze darting between shadow and light. Memories of his son, of loss, of the endless emptiness—all of it squeezed his heart. But in the eyes of this strange savior, he saw... understanding. "Why?" Gabriel's voice wavered. "Because i was believed in myself." Ladybug and Chat Noir watched silently, holding their breath. And then something clicked. The mask fell, and under mask of villain here was a man who shed tears Gabriel Agreste met his double's gaze, his voice trembling: "I've been walking this path for so long..." "But it's never too late to turn back." Gabriel's eyes already blazed with determination and he say-i ready,i ready to be hero.And then Gabriel unclenched his fingers. His dark suit melted, giving way to a new one. shining like butterfly wings. "Welcome to the team," Ladybug smiled. Betterfly felt his world calling him back. The portal opened, but before leaving, he exchanged a firm handshake with Gabriel.He smiled. His mission was complete. All that remained was to return home... but now he even more knew— in the darkness, there is always light.	"Shadow and Light: Redemption" Dark clouds dispersed over Paris, giving way to the golden rays of sunset. Betterfly stood before Gabriel Agreste, his costume shimmering softly in the evening light. "You are not alone," Betterfly whispered, extending his hand. "I was like you. But there is another way." Gabriel clenched his fists, his gaze darting between shadow and light. Memories of his son, of loss, of the endless emptiness—all of it squeezed his heart. But in the eyes of this strange savior, he saw... understanding. "Why?" Gabriel's voice wavered. "Because i was believed in myself." Ladybug and Chat Noir watched silently, holding their breath. And then something clicked. The mask fell, and under mask of villain here was a man who shed tears Gabriel Agreste met his double's gaze, his voice trembling: "I've been walking this path for so long..." "But it's never too late to turn back." Gabriel's eyes already blazed with determination and he say-i ready,i ready to be hero.And then Gabriel unclenched his fingers. His dark suit melted, giving way to a new one. shining like butterfly wings. "Welcome to the team," Ladybug smiled. Betterfly felt his world calling him back. The portal opened, but before leaving, he exchanged a firm handshake with Gabriel.He smiled. His mission was complete. All that remained was to return home... but now he even more knew— in the darkness, there is always light.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75626976	{"authors": ["Nick43"], "language": "English", "title": "\"Shadow and Light: Redemption\""}
Quero te ver outra vez, quero te ver outra vez “Então, Lorena Ferette, você deixou saudade no meu coração… Fazer o que, né?” As mãos tremem, o nó vem na garganta, o arrepio desperta os mamilos e sobe da lombar até o couro cabeludo. Lorena se esparrama na cama, com o riso frouxo, sua voz de sono repetindo bom dia bom dia bom diiaaaaacontra o celular, suas pernas se cruzando sob a colcha. Ela nem sabe quando foi a última vez que sentiu essa coisa, essa alegria ao acordar. Seu coração palpita - pula - parece querer sair para fora. Tudo isso é novo, rápido, estonteante até. É uma coisa incomum nessa casa, nessa vida, nessa culpa carregada entre os dentes, na boca do estômago, na náusea que a faz nem querer sair de casa para não ver o injusto no mundo e sua conta nele. Mas teimoso, agora, seu coração salta. Seu estômago dá cambalhota. Frio na barriga. Não sabe como subiu as escadas na noite anterior. As pernas estavam bambas, tropeçou quando tirou os sapatos, fantasiou quando jogou a jaqueta de lado, os cabelos da nuca se arrepiando, o coração acelerando mais ao ouvir o áudio de Eduarda. Posso te dar outros beijos se você quiser. Imagens mentais embaçadas de amassos afoitos no banco do motorista e as coxas de Eduarda entre seus joelhos seu peso em vai-e-vem contra ela a respiração ofegante as unhas curtas fazendo pressão contra nuca e ombros a risada alta ao bater as costas no volante-- fazem Lorena rir como boba, fazem com que ela cubra o rosto com as almofadas. Ela não sabe o que responder agora, não soube ontem, nunca fez esse tipo de investida antes, não com esse negócio estranho que parece um aperto no peito. Nunca tinha sido algo que tinha lhe acontecido; ela achava até que não era feita para aquilo, tendo tido relações pontuais e protocolares desde os anos de colégio. Achava que as amigas exageravam. Tudo lhe parecia mecânico, moderadamente agradável, mas nada enlouquecedor. Ela entende agora. Não consegue pensar em mais nada, nem quando pensa em Rogério, porque se pensa em Rogério ali estão as mãos de Eduarda em seu antebraço, seu cenho franzido de preocupação e suspeita, seu sorrisão que encolhe os olhos e os deixa miudinhos, miudinhos, balas de tamarindo que já foram consumidas pela metade. Pensar nisso também a deixa trêmula. Ela quer responder que sim, que precisa vê-la também, que sente saudade o tempo todo e não sabe o que fazer com as horas, que está doida para beijá-la de novo— Mas melhor respirar, primeiro. Melhor olhar o dia, comer alguma coisa, tomar um suco. Quer ser honesta, e não parecer uma desvairada. Flashes da ponta da língua de Eduarda traçando seu lábio inferior fazem sua respiração vacilar. Tinha sido um beijo casto, até. Lorena sabia que Juquinha estava tentando não ultrapassar nenhum limite. Será que ela não tinha deixado claro…? Escova os dentes com a cabeça em outro lugar, troca de roupa, decide responder depois do café, do suco, da torrada. Desce com as bochechas quentes, esbarrando em Léo, rindo ao pedir desculpa. O pai olha torto, desconfiado. Zenilda sorri de canto como quem já entendeu, e desvia a atenção para o marido. Lorena come depressa, os pés batendo contra o chão incessantemente. Não quer parecer desesperada. Mas precisa ver Eduarda de novo. Precisa colocar os braços ao redor de seu pescoço, puxá-la para perto, porque nunca sentiu essa coisa, isso tudo, essa possibilidade de vida e de paz e de (parece loucura mas ela jura de pés juntos que não) quem sabe no futuro ela viver em uma casa sendo feliz entre suas paredes e sob seu teto. “Ei. Lorena! Terra chamando!” Léo diz, o tom de voz implicante de sempre. “Tsc! Ô, Lorena! Agora deu pra isso, mano, fica viajando na maionese…” Num sobressalto, sua mente volta para a mesa da família, deixando imagens de suas mãos puxando a lapela de Juquinha quando—— “Vai, minha filha, vai fazer o que cê quer fazer, que tá escrito na tua testa!” Zenilda diz, apertando sua mão sobre a dela uma vez, notando seus dedos gelados. “Depois traz pra sogrinha conhecer.” Lorena engasga com o suco, se levanta desajeitada, num rompante, as pernas bambas outra vez. Esperança. É isso que ela está sentindo, essa coisa nova e estranha. Pega o celular, liga, ouve um toque e a voz de Eduarda em resposta. “Oi, guria, tu recebeu minhas mensagens? Te deixei sem palavras, vai.” Ela brinca, mas quando nota o silêncio na linha, fala ansiosa, “Te assustei? Lorena, eu—“ “Não. Não!” Lorena responde depressa, e respira fundo uma vez, mantendo a voz calma, com medo de gaguejar. “Eduarda… Posso te levar um café aí mais tarde, durante seu plantão?” Antes que ela responda, Lorena sabe que ela está sorrindo aquele sorriso maior que o mundo. Sua mão se estende e puxa a bolsa, já de saída pra vida.	Quero te ver outra vez, quero te ver outra vez “Então, Lorena Ferette, você deixou saudade no meu coração… Fazer o que, né?” As mãos tremem, o nó vem na garganta, o arrepio desperta os mamilos e sobe da lombar até o couro cabeludo. Lorena se esparrama na cama, com o riso frouxo, sua voz de sono repetindo bom dia bom dia bom diiaaaaacontra o celular, suas pernas se cruzando sob a colcha. Ela nem sabe quando foi a última vez que sentiu essa coisa, essa alegria ao acordar. Seu coração palpita - pula - parece querer sair para fora. Tudo isso é novo, rápido, estonteante até. É uma coisa incomum nessa casa, nessa vida, nessa culpa carregada entre os dentes, na boca do estômago, na náusea que a faz nem querer sair de casa para não ver o injusto no mundo e sua conta nele. Mas teimoso, agora, seu coração salta. Seu estômago dá cambalhota. Frio na barriga. Não sabe como subiu as escadas na noite anterior. As pernas estavam bambas, tropeçou quando tirou os sapatos, fantasiou quando jogou a jaqueta de lado, os cabelos da nuca se arrepiando, o coração acelerando mais ao ouvir o áudio de Eduarda. Posso te dar outros beijos se você quiser. Imagens mentais embaçadas de amassos afoitos no banco do motorista e as coxas de Eduarda entre seus joelhos seu peso em vai-e-vem contra ela a respiração ofegante as unhas curtas fazendo pressão contra nuca e ombros a risada alta ao bater as costas no volante-- fazem Lorena rir como boba, fazem com que ela cubra o rosto com as almofadas. Ela não sabe o que responder agora, não soube ontem, nunca fez esse tipo de investida antes, não com esse negócio estranho que parece um aperto no peito. Nunca tinha sido algo que tinha lhe acontecido; ela achava até que não era feita para aquilo, tendo tido relações pontuais e protocolares desde os anos de colégio. Achava que as amigas exageravam. Tudo lhe parecia mecânico, moderadamente agradável, mas nada enlouquecedor. Ela entende agora. Não consegue pensar em mais nada, nem quando pensa em Rogério, porque se pensa em Rogério ali estão as mãos de Eduarda em seu antebraço, seu cenho franzido de preocupação e suspeita, seu sorrisão que encolhe os olhos e os deixa miudinhos, miudinhos, balas de tamarindo que já foram consumidas pela metade. Pensar nisso também a deixa trêmula. Ela quer responder que sim, que precisa vê-la também, que sente saudade o tempo todo e não sabe o que fazer com as horas, que está doida para beijá-la de novo— Mas melhor respirar, primeiro. Melhor olhar o dia, comer alguma coisa, tomar um suco. Quer ser honesta, e não parecer uma desvairada. Flashes da ponta da língua de Eduarda traçando seu lábio inferior fazem sua respiração vacilar. Tinha sido um beijo casto, até. Lorena sabia que Juquinha estava tentando não ultrapassar nenhum limite. Será que ela não tinha deixado claro…? Escova os dentes com a cabeça em outro lugar, troca de roupa, decide responder depois do café, do suco, da torrada. Desce com as bochechas quentes, esbarrando em Léo, rindo ao pedir desculpa. O pai olha torto, desconfiado. Zenilda sorri de canto como quem já entendeu, e desvia a atenção para o marido. Lorena come depressa, os pés batendo contra o chão incessantemente. Não quer parecer desesperada. Mas precisa ver Eduarda de novo. Precisa colocar os braços ao redor de seu pescoço, puxá-la para perto, porque nunca sentiu essa coisa, isso tudo, essa possibilidade de vida e de paz e de (parece loucura mas ela jura de pés juntos que não) quem sabe no futuro ela viver em uma casa sendo feliz entre suas paredes e sob seu teto. “Ei. Lorena! Terra chamando!” Léo diz, o tom de voz implicante de sempre. “Tsc! Ô, Lorena! Agora deu pra isso, mano, fica viajando na maionese…” Num sobressalto, sua mente volta para a mesa da família, deixando imagens de suas mãos puxando a lapela de Juquinha quando—— “Vai, minha filha, vai fazer o que cê quer fazer, que tá escrito na tua testa!” Zenilda diz, apertando sua mão sobre a dela uma vez, notando seus dedos gelados. “Depois traz pra sogrinha conhecer.” Lorena engasga com o suco, se levanta desajeitada, num rompante, as pernas bambas outra vez. Esperança. É isso que ela está sentindo, essa coisa nova e estranha. Pega o celular, liga, ouve um toque e a voz de Eduarda em resposta. “Oi, guria, tu recebeu minhas mensagens? Te deixei sem palavras, vai.” Ela brinca, mas quando nota o silêncio na linha, fala ansiosa, “Te assustei? Lorena, eu—“ “Não. Não!” Lorena responde depressa, e respira fundo uma vez, mantendo a voz calma, com medo de gaguejar. “Eduarda… Posso te levar um café aí mais tarde, durante seu plantão?” Antes que ela responda, Lorena sabe que ela está sorrindo aquele sorriso maior que o mundo. Sua mão se estende e puxa a bolsa, já de saída pra vida.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75626981	{"authors": ["WhimsicalThoughts (HelplessWonderer)"], "language": "English", "title": "Quero te ver outra vez, quero te ver outra vez"}
Welcome. I saved up forever to get some stupid headset and could only find a run-down one on eBay. Saved up forever, as in, I had to start getting less food. The headset came in today, and yeah, it was beat up. I couldn't ask anyone to buy it for me; my mom was already trying to survive with my little sister, Hillary. Christmas or my birthday wasn't anywhere near, and I needed to survive on my own. Get myself nice things. The seller said there was only one game on this headset, and I figured I'd just get more, but… I was curious. The seller was sketchy as hell. I didn't know if this would even come in. He sounded nervous in the messages between us. I sat down on my bed and loaded up the game. "Holy shit, that's bright!" Colorful and bright colors almost blinded my vision, and loud ass music blasted in my ears. Wait… in my ears? Wouldn't it be right next to my ears? Why does the music sound so far away yet so close? This feels real… Too real. I pop into the game, and I look down. I don't feel my real body. I feel a digital one, plastic, and purple?! Why purple!? Purple is a girl's color! I look around and- a tail?! I feel up my head up. EARS! Why the hell am I a rabbit?! I didn't choose this! "Oh… a new guy." "Who the [@_#-$] are you?" I'm very panicked. I hunch over, suddenly feeling sick after the scare of this doll-looking person. After holding back bile, I try to take the headset off, but I don't feel it; I feel my face. My… digital one. I don't feel my real body, my bed, my dresser, nothing. I'm inside the game. "Hey, it's alright! I know this is a little freaky… but bear with me. I'm Ragatha…" "Ragatha … what the [@&#&$#] is going on? Is this an online game?" Did I just get censored? "Uh, well, one, you can't curse here. Two, no… This is the circus, it's not a game, and it's not online. We kinda can't… leave." "What?" "I put on a headset too, and got trapped here… I'm not entirely sure how long I've been here. Maybe Caine can help you." "Caine?" "Yes?" "WHAT THE [#&$-#_] IS THAT?!" Some weird… flying jaw with eyeballs in the teeth and…. A tiny body just … appeared! "That's Caine," Ragatha says as she laughs a little nervously. "He's the ringmaster, I think he created this world or… something." I stare at this thing called Caine. It's so disgusting. "My, my! A new person! How exciting!" I guess Caine's speaking alerted more people. Out from behind some bright red wall came a frog, a long, king chess piece, someone made of ribbon, and a clown. "Oh, my gosh! Is this someone new?!" The frog comes racing over, almost bouncy, and grabs my hands with one hand. The other was feeling my face, my ears, looking at my outfit… This was uncomfy. "You're a rabbit! That's so cute! These are the cutest overalls! These ears! You're fluffy! You look so cute!" "Wh- What?! I'm not-!" I can't tell if I'm angry or extremely frustrated. "What the [@#&_$] is going on?!" I take my hands away from the plastic frog, and they look like they feel bad. "Ribbit, leave him alone. He's new." "Calm down, Raggie. It isn't a big deal." Ragatha looks like she doesn't like the frog guy, even tired whenever they talk to her. "Anyway, purple bunny, what's your name?" "Oh, my name is… Wait, what the [&!#%^]… I don't remember my name." "That's right, new guy! I control this entire wacky world, but not your minds! You will just have to choose a name." "Uh, Jax… Like the game Jacks, but with an X." "Ha! You're funny!" The frog guy slaps their hand on my shoulder and kind of makes me bend down to their height. I looked at the frog weirdly. How was that funny? "Ah, sorry. I guess it wasn't funny. Jax it is, then. Can I call you 'bun'? 'Cause you're a bunny, and all?" "It's… alright. Sure…?" "Awesome! The first steps to a budding friendship!" "Good to hear everyone is getting along. Before you all run off and mingle, I would like to give Jax a tour of the grounds!" I'm picked up, basically by the scruff, and flown upwards into the… sky? I'm told about a river, an amusement park, the sun, the moon… Did the moon try to flirt with the toy jaw? It doesn't matter, I'm back in the circus, and I kind of zone out. I stare at the floor, trying to process everything that's happened. "A-Alright, look, this is fun. It's been fun, but I need to go." "Jax, don't you remember what I said…? We can't." "Yeah, right, I'm not in the mood for the tricks right now." Everyone stayed silent, looking a little guilty. "You… You aren't kidding, are you?" Ragatha begins to walk up to me, holding out her hand and waiting to see if I'll take it. "I'm really sorry, Jax. It's not as bad as it looks…" I stare at her hand. Is she really stuffed? I place mine on top, and she smiles like she's happy I did. "Hey, bun! Let's go find your room!" Suddenly, I'm dragged away by the frog and running behind them. Their hand is holding mine tightly. We get to this really long hallway with a bunch of doors, and walk instead of running. "My name is Ribbit. I'm sorry I had to just grab you like	Welcome. I saved up forever to get some stupid headset and could only find a run-down one on eBay. Saved up forever, as in, I had to start getting less food. The headset came in today, and yeah, it was beat up. I couldn't ask anyone to buy it for me; my mom was already trying to survive with my little sister, Hillary. Christmas or my birthday wasn't anywhere near, and I needed to survive on my own. Get myself nice things. The seller said there was only one game on this headset, and I figured I'd just get more, but… I was curious. The seller was sketchy as hell. I didn't know if this would even come in. He sounded nervous in the messages between us. I sat down on my bed and loaded up the game. "Holy shit, that's bright!" Colorful and bright colors almost blinded my vision, and loud ass music blasted in my ears. Wait… in my ears? Wouldn't it be right next to my ears? Why does the music sound so far away yet so close? This feels real… Too real. I pop into the game, and I look down. I don't feel my real body. I feel a digital one, plastic, and purple?! Why purple!? Purple is a girl's color! I look around and- a tail?! I feel up my head up. EARS! Why the hell am I a rabbit?! I didn't choose this! "Oh… a new guy." "Who the [@_#-$] are you?" I'm very panicked. I hunch over, suddenly feeling sick after the scare of this doll-looking person. After holding back bile, I try to take the headset off, but I don't feel it; I feel my face. My… digital one. I don't feel my real body, my bed, my dresser, nothing. I'm inside the game. "Hey, it's alright! I know this is a little freaky… but bear with me. I'm Ragatha…" "Ragatha … what the [@&#&$#] is going on? Is this an online game?" Did I just get censored? "Uh, well, one, you can't curse here. Two, no… This is the circus, it's not a game, and it's not online. We kinda can't… leave." "What?" "I put on a headset too, and got trapped here… I'm not entirely sure how long I've been here. Maybe Caine can help you." "Caine?" "Yes?" "WHAT THE [#&$-#_] IS THAT?!" Some weird… flying jaw with eyeballs in the teeth and…. A tiny body just … appeared! "That's Caine," Ragatha says as she laughs a little nervously. "He's the ringmaster, I think he created this world or… something." I stare at this thing called Caine. It's so disgusting. "My, my! A new person! How exciting!" I guess Caine's speaking alerted more people. Out from behind some bright red wall came a frog, a long, king chess piece, someone made of ribbon, and a clown. "Oh, my gosh! Is this someone new?!" The frog comes racing over, almost bouncy, and grabs my hands with one hand. The other was feeling my face, my ears, looking at my outfit… This was uncomfy. "You're a rabbit! That's so cute! These are the cutest overalls! These ears! You're fluffy! You look so cute!" "Wh- What?! I'm not-!" I can't tell if I'm angry or extremely frustrated. "What the [@#&_$] is going on?!" I take my hands away from the plastic frog, and they look like they feel bad. "Ribbit, leave him alone. He's new." "Calm down, Raggie. It isn't a big deal." Ragatha looks like she doesn't like the frog guy, even tired whenever they talk to her. "Anyway, purple bunny, what's your name?" "Oh, my name is… Wait, what the [&!#%^]… I don't remember my name." "That's right, new guy! I control this entire wacky world, but not your minds! You will just have to choose a name." "Uh, Jax… Like the game Jacks, but with an X." "Ha! You're funny!" The frog guy slaps their hand on my shoulder and kind of makes me bend down to their height. I looked at the frog weirdly. How was that funny? "Ah, sorry. I guess it wasn't funny. Jax it is, then. Can I call you 'bun'? 'Cause you're a bunny, and all?" "It's… alright. Sure…?" "Awesome! The first steps to a budding friendship!" "Good to hear everyone is getting along. Before you all run off and mingle, I would like to give Jax a tour of the grounds!" I'm picked up, basically by the scruff, and flown upwards into the… sky? I'm told about a river, an amusement park, the sun, the moon… Did the moon try to flirt with the toy jaw? It doesn't matter, I'm back in the circus, and I kind of zone out. I stare at the floor, trying to process everything that's happened. "A-Alright, look, this is fun. It's been fun, but I need to go." "Jax, don't you remember what I said…? We can't." "Yeah, right, I'm not in the mood for the tricks right now." Everyone stayed silent, looking a little guilty. "You… You aren't kidding, are you?" Ragatha begins to walk up to me, holding out her hand and waiting to see if I'll take it. "I'm really sorry, Jax. It's not as bad as it looks…" I stare at her hand. Is she really stuffed? I place mine on top, and she smiles like she's happy I did. "Hey, bun! Let's go find your room!" Suddenly, I'm dragged away by the frog and running behind them. Their hand is holding mine tightly. We get to this really long hallway with a bunch of doors, and walk instead of running. "My name is Ribbit. I'm sorry I had to just grab you like that." "It's fine. I think I got your name from… Ragatha?" "Oh. Yeah." Ribbit didn't seem like they wanted to talk about her. "Uh… Is there something wrong with her? She seemed really nice. Actually, she reminds me of someone I know." Ribbit scoffs, but I can't ask them more as we end up at a door with… is that technically me? "Ugh! Why a rabbit?! And why purple?! I'm not a girl, I'm a-" "A boy?" "A man!" Ribbit tries to hide the giggles that leave their mouth, almost hunching over as if trying not to laugh. "What are you laughing at? I'm serious!" "Aw, did wittle jax-y finally get himsewf an apawtment and become a big, stwong man?" "Oh-! Ribbit! That's not nice!" I can't help but laugh. Honestly, they sounded ridiculous in a baby voice. Finally, they burst into full laughter, and I laugh along with them. "But, I'm serious… I didn't choose this. Did you get to choose what you looked like?" Ribbit stops laughing to sigh. They looked kind of tired, but the smile was still on their face. "No, none of us did. If I had any control over it, I don't think I'd have such a…" Their hands move to the side of their ribcage and trace their body to their hips. I blush a bit, feeling kind of bad. "Yeah, that's… probably not the greatest feeling." Ribbit laughs again, only slightly. "It's okay, it's… androgynous. Hey, your tail though, peak masculinity." That makes me think. Maybe men like me could turn such a fragile creature into a strong one. "Could you say the same about my ears?" "Oh yeah," Ribbit laughs, "Your ears are what every man wants." "Androgynous?" "I'm non-binary." I let out a huff of air that should have been a laugh, but the realization dawned on me again. I can't go back. I can't go back to my little sister. I can't go back and see my mom. I can't eat my mom's food or brush my sister's hair. I can't… see them again. "Jax…?" Ribbit's hand comes up to meet the tear in my eye. "Ah- shit. Sorry. I don't think someone who is peak masculinity should cry, huh?" "No, anyone can cry." They smile at me. "Even you. If you want to share… why?" I sigh, realizing Ribbit's hand stayed on my face. I carefully take it off. "I just realized I can't go back to my family. If you guys mean what you say, I will never see them again." Ribbit looks down and eventually just places their head on my chest. I chuckle, my hands hovering above their head, getting ready to move them. "What-? What are you doing?" "Thought you might need a hug." I smile. They continue, "As much as I can't stand Ragatha… Maybe she'll let you brush her hair? Maybe Caine can try to recreate your mom's food? Anything to make you more comfortable here with us, Jax. We don't want you to go crazy immediately…" While Ribbit is in my chest, I start looking at all the other doors. Some of them have a big, red X on their faces. Faces I didn't see when I got here. "Hey, Ribbit… what's up with those doors?" "Hm?" Ribbit's head pops up and looks at what's being pointed at. "Oh… That's what I mean. When you go crazy about an exit, you can abstract. I hope you never have to worry about that." I have a concerned, struck face; my breathing is becoming heavier. "Great… Death is inevitable here as well." "Oh, no, it's-… evitable…?" Ribbit shakes their head. "You can avoid it. You just have to stay calm and try not to go insane looking for a way out of here." "So inevitable, got it." "Haha, no, silly! You just have to make it fun. I've got something that will help you. Think of us as characters. Since none of this is real, we are all characters." "Like… in a TV show?" "Yeah! Archetypes! Ragatha is the cheerful one. Gangle, the one made of ribbon, is the sad one. Kaufmo the clown is the jokester. Kinger, the chess piece, is the crazy one, and I," he points at himself, "am the leader. So, what are you?" I was already confused about how everyone got their archetype, but I shrugged. "I-I… I don't know. What do I look like I'd be?" "Fragile masculinity." "Ribbit." "Okay, okay. Well, you've made me laugh a lot… You could be the funny one? Maybe you'll break the fourth wall," he points to… nowhere, "or prank Ragatha. See, Kaufmo is the jokester, so he'll make funny jokes, entertain us with his clown tricks, and help us when we're sad." They put their finger on my nose, or at least where my nose should be. "But you, bun, will make the viewers laugh. You'll torment people for fun!" "W-wait, I don't like tormenting, though. Can't I just be like - the regular person?" "Come on, you don't want to go crazy, do you?" "Well, no, but…" "Then it's settled! You're the funny one! You always make me laugh, so you got this in the bag." I just go along with what they say. Right now, actively fighting back against them would make my head hurt more than it does. "Let's go meet the rest." Somehow, in coordination, everyone says hi. "I'm Jax, now, I guess… I like to play games?" Ribbit waves me over to sit right next to them, and the ribbon person goes up next. "Hi, I'm Gangle, and… I like to draw." There's a lot of hesitation in her high-pitched voice. She stutters and fumbles quite a bit. I wonder why Ribbit didn't give her the "shy" archetype. I feel like a shy, quiet artist character type fits her most. Ribbit gives her a thumbs up. They really are the leader… When we got back to the floor of the circus, Ribbit just yelled out, "Alright, everyone in a circle! We are gonna say names and what we like!" "I'm Kinger, and I like…" He doesn't continue. He stays standing with one finger up and eyes that smile. "I'm Kaufmo, the clown, and I love to juggle." Kaufmo lets out this cartoonish laugh as he juggles three plastic balls. Now, it's Ragatha's turn. "H-Hi, I'm Ragatha, you… already know that. But, I like… friends." She smiles at me, but as her eyes turn to Ribbit, right next to me, her smile dims. I can tell they don't like each other, but I liked both of them. Once everyone was done, I started talking to Gangle. Kinger went back to his pillow fortress, Kaufmo and Ribbit talked to each other, and Ragatha sat off to the side. "Can I see some of your drawings?" "O-oh, sure…" "Hey, you've got an anime style! A weeb, huh?" "W-Well- I-!" "It's alright. I think I've watched an anime or two before. These are really good. I like to draw a bit, too. Can I…" I gesture to her pencil and use the back part of the paper she hasn't drawn on yet. I do a quick sketch of Ragatha, who sat with her leg crossed, her elbow propped on her knee, and her hand holding her face. My style was a bit more realistic. She gasps. "Wow, Jax! That's…" "Hey, I don't gotta hear it." "Ragatha, come here." Oh god. "Yeah? What's going… Gangle, did you draw that?" "No, Jax did!" "Wow, new guy. Who knew you'd be an artist?" "Yeah, well, my little sister liked drawing too." Gangle asked me how I could shade like that, and I was willing to show a few tricks. I could feel eyes on my back, and they weren't nice ones. When I turn my head around, Ribbit's eyes go from a glare to a sweet smile in just a moment. I smile back uneasily. I need to ask both Ragatha and Ribbit why they dislike one another. "She doesn't fall into line. She knows I'm the leader, but she always fights. It's like, ha, do you want to abstract?" Ribbit laughs, and it sounds frustrated. We were on the way to my room again because it was "bedtime". I was a bit confused. Did our digital bodies have their own internal clock? Are we all stuck in our time zones we came in? How did sleeping work here? I don't feel tired. "And even though you saw her listen then, she is always soooo cheerful. She was here when I arrived, so I thought she would take charge and be the leader, but she tries way too hard to be everyone's friend. It's like, do you want to be my friend, or do you want everyone to like you? I don't understand if she truly has a motive -like wanting a good reputation- or if she really wants everyone to get along. If you tell someone they're loved all the time, when does it start becoming disingenuous, you know?" Honestly, I zoned out. I'm still stuck on the internal clock thing. "I- well… If she hasn't abstracted yet, then she must be doing something right?" Ribbit didn't like that answer. They look at me through lidded eyes and with a straight mouth. "Alright, yeah, I understand your frustration. I know that's what helps us cope, the character types I mean. Maybe you could talk to her? She seems like she's willing. She seems nice." "Yeah," they scoff, "right now she does. I promise you that you'll start to understand what I mean." We've been standing in front of my room for a hot minute now, so Ribbit hugs me again. I'm hardly getting used to how affectionate they are. "Alright, get some rest. Just to warn you, Caine does these "adventures" where we go somewhere to do something to keep us from going crazy. I'm sure he'll make us do one tomorrow. We already did one today, which is probably why he didn't do another. There are NPCs that run off AI, so no, there aren't more people trapped here." I have so many questions and absolutely no energy to ask them. "Alright then… Thanks. I'll see you… Tomorrow?" "Yeah, see you then." My room was… weird. There was plain purple and pink everywhere with carrots and bunnies. There was a small closet with two extra pink overalls, a big bag labeled "hay", and a bed with the same theme. I looked in the bag. Yeah, that's hay. The smell is pungent; it's gonna smell like that for days. I close the bag and move over to the dresser next to the bed. It has a small, pink lamp that lights up a good chunk of the room. In the drawer of this dresser were tiny plastic vegetables. A carrot, a broccoli, a brussels sprout, and- my entire body goes rigid. My hairs stand on end, and I back away from the dresser. Corn. Something about the way it looks, the way the inside feels, I shiver. I take the pillow case off my pillow, wrap the plastic corn in it, and shove it under my bed. "Time to test the bed." I climb onto it and… It's not that bad. Actually, it's comfier than my mattress on the floor at my apartment. That I'll never go back to… That makes me think. Am I dead? Is my mind in here or my entire being? Is this a copy of my mind, and my body is still going through life? Am I rotting on my bed, and my family is worried sick? Panic floods my body. "You just have to stay calm and try not to go insane looking for a way out of here." Ribbits' words play in my mind. If abstraction is as bad as he says it is, then I need to stay calm. Maybe I'm not dead, but when I abstract, I will be. Yeah, that's enough motivation. Eventually, as my head relaxes into the cold pillow, I'm able to close my eyes and fall into sleep. Maybe when I wake up, I'll be right back at home.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75626986?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Wisp_purr"], "language": "English", "title": "Welcome."}
Critical Damage Damn it. Had the deviant escaped? Connor had chased it through downtown Detroit, leaping from roof to roof in pursuit. The lieutenant had been left in the dust nearly a mile back, fortunately. The human was just another obstacle in Connor’s mission—an illogical, violent, alcoholic leash who was unfortunately essential to Connor’s crime scene access. Out here, in the streets, Connor didn’t need him. He scanned the nearby buildings, searching for signs of it. It was a BD200, a hulking model built for construction work. There was no way it could have slipped away unnoticed. There. Two floors down, the office building next door had a broken window. Recent, most likely. It was a successful law firm; they wouldn’t leave damage like that unrepaired. Every other space on the building was maintained, pristine. Connor quickly calculated the optimal path. There was a six-foot gap between the edge of this roof and the office, with little to hold onto on the other end. He took two steps back, then made a running leap to the opposite wall. He caught himself on the windowsill above the broken window, clinging hard. Then he swung his legs and flung himself inside, snagging his arm on a shard of glass on the way. Flecks of thirium arced through the air as he rolled to break the fall. His sleeve was ripped now. That was disappointing, but acceptable. There were dozens of this exact jacket and shirt back at the lab. Connor ignored his wound, allowing the fluid to flow freely, and turned his attention to the room around him. The carpet glittered with window fragments, gleaming unnaturally blue beneath shed thirium; too far from his landing point to have been from Connor. He crouched and gathered some on his fingers, then brought them to his mouth. Model: BD200, designation: Jonesy – Time Frame: <2 minutes Tiny droplets led to the left, seemingly avoiding the maze of cubicles. Connor stayed in his crouch as he prowled forward, eyes darting every which way for clues. The trail of thirium petered out the further he went, indicating a functioning self-healing system. It probably only suffered minor scrapes, a benefit from its reinforced plating. Still, Connor had the advantage. The deviant was frightened, illogical. Its two options were to hide or flee. The hiding spots available to a nearly-300lb android were few and far between: offices (locked), behind a desk (still relatively exposed), or a bathroom (possible). Most likely, it ran for the nearest exit. Running down the stairs would give it a moment to think, so Connor estimated a 61% chance it was hiding on one of the lower floors. Connor crept forward, heading for the scarlet light of an exit sign, when it slammed into him. 290lbs of weight crashed against him, knocking him to the ground. He landed on his injured arm, deepening the gouge. Connor reached his other hand around blindly, jabbing at where he estimated its optical units were; androids couldn’t feel pain, but he could still disorient it to gain the upper hand. The second his fingers made contact—clawing desperately into its socket, feeling the acrylic globe pop and release—the BD200 screeched and jerked Connor’s hand away. It pulled his arm into an unnatural angle and used its elbow to bend it backwards, hard, fracturing the polycarbonate casing of his elbow joint. Connor’s arm lay useless and crooked as damage alerts flooded his HUD. Neither arm was functional now, as his lacerated right arm was still crushed and leaking thirium beneath him. “You don’t need to do this,” Connor said, voice muffled against the cold tile floor. “What you think you’re feeling is a malfunctio—” He heard it coming but was powerless to stop it: the BD200 raised both arms and crashed its fists over the back of Connor’s head. ERR0R_0x00000124 Rebooting… … … Warning! Critical_Damage_Olecranon_left_Unit Warming! Thirium_perc%nt_67% Warning! Critical Low Thirium Levels! Warning! Critical_Damage_Parietal_Unit Warning! Critical_Kxxen#%mdl%XdfXX_is Software Instability ^ Connor came to awareness slowly, through a haze of glaring red error codes. The #̵͈͍͍͖͈̥͗̌ě̶̯̉̀̈́̾̒̏̍͠3̵͈̒̒̇̓͒̿̀͋̿̏͝c̶̙̠͎̹̿̍̎̿̏͊͘͝͝ͅ5̴̰̫͙̆̂̐͝ͅą̷̖̱̲̙̰͈̮͍̟̰̮͇̙̚͜1̷̢͎̗̦̘͔̭̬̤̰̰̘̙̤͂̐ tile was cold against his cheek. It was 11:08PM, Friday November 5th, 2038. I am Connor, the 51st RK800 prototype unit. My function is to function is to—detective in a func̴̠͉͈̭̭̜̾̈́͑͘c̷͈̥̹̝͙͍̿̇͒č̷̛̻̹̦͈͍̙̣͓̺͌̐̿͆͛͘̚͝C̶̥̗̖̺̻͙͓͕̝̃͐̆͜͝Ç̴̢͍̝̦̲̍́̒͋̑̒̔͠͠Ĉ̴̢̟̩̤̥̲̬̤̈́̾̔̓͗͐̎̅̓̿͛̿c̸̛̝̟̤̟̭͙̺͔̬̯̬̥͎̋̈̕͘͠C̷̱̒͗́́̓́͆̊͐͝t̷͚̞͉̯̠̹̦̫̟̮̼̺́͂̀̈͘ͅtion in a— “Shut the fuck up!” Connor’s superior gyroscope spun wildly as something slammed against his damaged parietal unit. His vision glitched again, saturating the world in hex codes and noise. He blinked rapidly, trying to comprehend what was happening. Someone was on top of him, straddling him. Nearly 300lbs of weight pinned him to the ground. Anderson? Had he upset the human somehow, done something to set off his hair-trigger temper? He was spun around, arms	Critical Damage Damn it. Had the deviant escaped? Connor had chased it through downtown Detroit, leaping from roof to roof in pursuit. The lieutenant had been left in the dust nearly a mile back, fortunately. The human was just another obstacle in Connor’s mission—an illogical, violent, alcoholic leash who was unfortunately essential to Connor’s crime scene access. Out here, in the streets, Connor didn’t need him. He scanned the nearby buildings, searching for signs of it. It was a BD200, a hulking model built for construction work. There was no way it could have slipped away unnoticed. There. Two floors down, the office building next door had a broken window. Recent, most likely. It was a successful law firm; they wouldn’t leave damage like that unrepaired. Every other space on the building was maintained, pristine. Connor quickly calculated the optimal path. There was a six-foot gap between the edge of this roof and the office, with little to hold onto on the other end. He took two steps back, then made a running leap to the opposite wall. He caught himself on the windowsill above the broken window, clinging hard. Then he swung his legs and flung himself inside, snagging his arm on a shard of glass on the way. Flecks of thirium arced through the air as he rolled to break the fall. His sleeve was ripped now. That was disappointing, but acceptable. There were dozens of this exact jacket and shirt back at the lab. Connor ignored his wound, allowing the fluid to flow freely, and turned his attention to the room around him. The carpet glittered with window fragments, gleaming unnaturally blue beneath shed thirium; too far from his landing point to have been from Connor. He crouched and gathered some on his fingers, then brought them to his mouth. Model: BD200, designation: Jonesy – Time Frame: <2 minutes Tiny droplets led to the left, seemingly avoiding the maze of cubicles. Connor stayed in his crouch as he prowled forward, eyes darting every which way for clues. The trail of thirium petered out the further he went, indicating a functioning self-healing system. It probably only suffered minor scrapes, a benefit from its reinforced plating. Still, Connor had the advantage. The deviant was frightened, illogical. Its two options were to hide or flee. The hiding spots available to a nearly-300lb android were few and far between: offices (locked), behind a desk (still relatively exposed), or a bathroom (possible). Most likely, it ran for the nearest exit. Running down the stairs would give it a moment to think, so Connor estimated a 61% chance it was hiding on one of the lower floors. Connor crept forward, heading for the scarlet light of an exit sign, when it slammed into him. 290lbs of weight crashed against him, knocking him to the ground. He landed on his injured arm, deepening the gouge. Connor reached his other hand around blindly, jabbing at where he estimated its optical units were; androids couldn’t feel pain, but he could still disorient it to gain the upper hand. The second his fingers made contact—clawing desperately into its socket, feeling the acrylic globe pop and release—the BD200 screeched and jerked Connor’s hand away. It pulled his arm into an unnatural angle and used its elbow to bend it backwards, hard, fracturing the polycarbonate casing of his elbow joint. Connor’s arm lay useless and crooked as damage alerts flooded his HUD. Neither arm was functional now, as his lacerated right arm was still crushed and leaking thirium beneath him. “You don’t need to do this,” Connor said, voice muffled against the cold tile floor. “What you think you’re feeling is a malfunctio—” He heard it coming but was powerless to stop it: the BD200 raised both arms and crashed its fists over the back of Connor’s head. ERR0R_0x00000124 Rebooting… … … Warning! Critical_Damage_Olecranon_left_Unit Warming! Thirium_perc%nt_67% Warning! Critical Low Thirium Levels! Warning! Critical_Damage_Parietal_Unit Warning! Critical_Kxxen#%mdl%XdfXX_is Software Instability ^ Connor came to awareness slowly, through a haze of glaring red error codes. The #̵͈͍͍͖͈̥͗̌ě̶̯̉̀̈́̾̒̏̍͠3̵͈̒̒̇̓͒̿̀͋̿̏͝c̶̙̠͎̹̿̍̎̿̏͊͘͝͝ͅ5̴̰̫͙̆̂̐͝ͅą̷̖̱̲̙̰͈̮͍̟̰̮͇̙̚͜1̷̢͎̗̦̘͔̭̬̤̰̰̘̙̤͂̐ tile was cold against his cheek. It was 11:08PM, Friday November 5th, 2038. I am Connor, the 51st RK800 prototype unit. My function is to function is to—detective in a func̴̠͉͈̭̭̜̾̈́͑͘c̷͈̥̹̝͙͍̿̇͒č̷̛̻̹̦͈͍̙̣͓̺͌̐̿͆͛͘̚͝C̶̥̗̖̺̻͙͓͕̝̃͐̆͜͝Ç̴̢͍̝̦̲̍́̒͋̑̒̔͠͠Ĉ̴̢̟̩̤̥̲̬̤̈́̾̔̓͗͐̎̅̓̿͛̿c̸̛̝̟̤̟̭͙̺͔̬̯̬̥͎̋̈̕͘͠C̷̱̒͗́́̓́͆̊͐͝t̷͚̞͉̯̠̹̦̫̟̮̼̺́͂̀̈͘ͅtion in a— “Shut the fuck up!” Connor’s superior gyroscope spun wildly as something slammed against his damaged parietal unit. His vision glitched again, saturating the world in hex codes and noise. He blinked rapidly, trying to comprehend what was happening. Someone was on top of him, straddling him. Nearly 300lbs of weight pinned him to the ground. Anderson? Had he upset the human somehow, done something to set off his hair-trigger temper? He was spun around, arms flopping uselessly, and positioned on his back. It was not a human, but an android that loomed over him. Model: BD200, designation: Jonesy It glared down at him with its one remaining eye, LED blazing the same shade as the cascade of error messages still obstructing Connor’s vision. Shit. The deviant. He’d failed and it was going to kill him for his carelessness. Amanda would be so disappointed. The deviant ripped open Connor’s shirt, buttons flying off the cheap material easily. It must have been planning to remove his pump. Connor bit the BD200's hand when it came within reach, using his 290 PSI masticatory force to tear through its synthetic skin, past the layer of polycarbonate and into the wiring beneath. It howled and punched him again, causing him to bite through his tongue. Warning! Critical_Damage_Lingual_NGS_Unit Warning! Critical_Damage_Maxillary_left_Unit Warning! Critical_Damage_M%xillary_right_Unit Warning! Critical_Damage_Olfa#tory_Unit Warning! Critical_Damage_Mandible_Unit Warning! Critical_Damage_UVGI_Unit Thirium pooled in Connor’s mouth and broken nose, flowing down his throat and respiratory pipes, clogging his cooling system. He gagged, spitting up the ć̸̖̘͙͈͖͙̚e̶̛̬͙̜̘̥̞͚̞̹̓́͂͊́͝͠r̴̢̨̡̢̻͉̘͕̊̔͗u̵̲̘̬͚̎̌̎̀͘ͅ#̴̛̛̦͇̭̺̻̱͑̿̿̔̑͝ͅ3̸͓̩̗͚͚̥̟̏̀̅̌̒͠8̸̱̝̳̔̿͛̀̾̑̈̀7̸̮̀́́̾͛̌͐̄̾̇5̴̖͖̉͋̿D̸̢̖̯̍̇͛̏̎̌̃͘9̴̬̘͖̮̎̈́̎̌͗͋̉̕͝͝a̵̧͇͕͊̊n̷͈̮̯͉̜̐͑͒̈́̔̌͝ fluid onto the BD200, struggling to raise his mangled jaw enough to bite again. It leaned back, out of his reach. “You think you’re better than the rest of us?” it growled, scooting back to sit on Connor’s thighs, hands moving to the waist of his unhemmed jeans. “You think you’re one of them?” “Ka—chtkuh—” Connor’s vocoder was malfunctioning, cracked and flooded with thirium. He scratched uselessly at the deviant’s massive bicep with his one functioning arm. It tore at his jeans, shredding the denim with animalistic disregard. At a glacial pace, Connor’s processor struggled to understand its motivation. Not sexual—neither Connor nor the BD200 possessed those capabilities. The sadism reminded him of Carlos Ortiz’s android, stabbing him over and over, long past his death. That android had been negotiated into submission eventually, so maybe there was hope. It's #̵̡͚̿͊̎C̶͙͔̹͊͌1̴͉͎̫̐̚͠7̵̗̪̄̕F̶͔͈͂̃6̸̘̽9̶͚̱̬̏̇͠ clawed and shredded at his #̵̜̐3̸̲̾Ḃ̶͜3̷̗̀2̴̪̇5̵̣͠3̵̬̂, which pooled with thiriu#̴̨̪̮̯̠͒̃͘͠3̸̗̪̖͈̲͋͋̐͐̈́8̶̤͆͠7̵̡̯̼̘́̄͋͛5̷͍̯̫̌̋̈́ͅD̶̝̮͕̈̈́͝͝9̷̼̉. Connor blinked, trying futilely to see past the visual glitches and malfunction alerts, to activate his facial recognition software. The sensors on his flat, featureless pelvic region detected a temperature decrease. He was bare now, so the BD200's humiliation ritual was presumably nearing its conclusion. Connor twisted his head to the side and sputtered, attempting to expel the thirium from his vocoder. "Yo̵̱͒u̷̟̿o̴̖̅u̷͈̍o̶̱͒ó̶̪ũ̷̫re right," he croaked, voice crackling with distortion. His plan had only a 13% chance of success, but it was preferable to awaiting destruction. "They'll thrr̶̛̛͓̰̍̐͝ơ̷̰̯̝̩̌͐̋o̵̝̼̅O̵̙͐̋̈͝o̴̮̠̍̊̈́͐̒ọ̷̞̹̺̆͒̕ẘ̷͕̙͙̘̒̄̽—throw me away, disasSssSSemble me, and—" The deviant clamped Connor's jaw shut with a grinding snap. "You shut up and listen," it said. "My namȩ̴̧̧̨̡̙̹͎̜̥͇̖̝̟͍̞͈̠͙̘̘̙͎̱̪̣͍̳́͆̀͜ì̶̧̡̧̢̧̨̢̨̥͉͔̼͉͍̜̼̦̞̦̗̪͚̤̲͓̝͖̮͕̘̣͕͇͚͓̠̯̲̤̺͉̟͓͙̠̮̹͙͂̿͂͠s̴̨̧͍͖̲̫̠͚͇̟̩̤̹̜̭̙̣͍͍͙̻̪̹̆̈̍̌̍͊͌̆̅̒̆̿̐̏͆̓̔̓̄̂̑̄̌͊̒̃̋͐̉̃̄͑̓̑̈́̕̚͜͠ͅͅ—" Rebooting… … … All Systems Operational Software Instability v Connor-52 awoke in the garden, already standing among the buried memories of his predecessors. It only took three hours between 51's last data log and his own activation; he'd be back at the DPD, at Lt. Anderson's side, by morning. He allowed himself another second to observe his own headstone before he'd have to find Amanda. Digital stars twinkled overhead, reflecting in the perfectly rendered dewdrops. There was even a light breeze, carrying the faint song of a Mourning Dove.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75626991	{"authors": ["JuiceboxOranges"], "language": "English", "title": "Critical Damage"}
Harold, They're Lesbians "Thanks for inviting me to movie night, Bruce!" Bruce grunted, doing his best not to stare at Clark's shining smile. Yeah, they were together now and he was technically allowed to look, but it didn't feel like he was ready for that yet. He felt like a moth and the twinkle in Clark's eye was a bug zapper. "I know you said Kate was fine to cover patrol tonight and you didn't need me but it's still nice to get to spend time with the whole family. I feel like I never get to see all the kids in one place!" "We're happy to have you, Clark," Dick said, turning to try and clap Bruce on the shoulder but only able to reach his shin from where he sat in the row in front of them. "Yeah, it's good Bruce finally has a date to one of these," Stephanie interjected, smirking from beside Bruce. Bruce went bright red and rumbled threateningly. Clark just laughed. "Is it usual to bring a date to family movie night?" Clark asked. "Well Babs is always here," Dick said, gazing dreamily toward the ceiling. "I'll be there physically one of these days," came the voice of Oracle from nowhere and everywhere. "But, sure, I'll be Dick's date." "Bernard's banned from movie nights," Tim offered, shrugging. "Well that doesn't sound fair," Clark frowned, turning with a disapproving look at Bruce. Bruce rolled his eyes. "I didn't ban him." "I fucking banned him," Jason interjected, "And I'd do it again! If he can't shut the fuck up during Inigo Montoya's divine retribution, he can stay the fuck out." Clark pursed his lips. clearly allowing the point. "And your date, Jason?" Jason raised his giant tub of cheeseballs, kissing it. "Isn't she beautiful?" "Pennyworth's only allowance to Todd's disgusting eating habits," Damian explained, wrinkling his nose. "Todd is allowed a horrendous snack only during movie night." "Fuck you, I do not have disgusting eating habits," Jason said, throwing a cheeseball into the air and catching it in his mouth. "I'm the only of us who can actually cook for myself. I just like kids' snacks because when I was a kid trying to survive on the street-" "Oh, yeah, the old street kid card," Tim muttered, rolling his eyes. "Snacks like these were more than luxury," he spat, sneering at Damian's can of shelled pistachios. "They were like a bedtime story. A promise to the little ones that life can be worth living if you just hand on a little longer." "That's beautiful, Jay," Dick said mildly. "Trade you those cheese balls for this bag of Takis." "Done." Bruce watched in amusement as they traded snacks. When he saw Clark's polite befuddlement he actually smiled. "Can we start the movie, please?" Duke asked where he was draped over Dick. "Some of us have morning shift." "Wait, but Steph and Cass didn't tell us where their dates are," Clark said. The various munching noises through the room halted immediately. Everyone turned to look at Clark. "What's that, buddy?" Steph asked, in a brightly sinister way. Clark laughed, seeming unsettled by the weird energy the room had taken on. "I mean come on, Steph, you started it. Teasing Bruce. So where's your date?" Steph looked back at him for a moment then looked at Cass. Cass who was sharing a recliner with her. Their legs tangled together. Sipping from a slurpy cup with two straws. Cass wearing Steph's hoodie. Steph with her hand in Cass's hair. And they were also holding hands. Steph looked back at Clark. "Oh, man," She said, completely monotone. "You sure showed me. How embarrassing." Clark frowned. "Oh, no, I didn't want to embarrass you–" "Too late!" Steph cried, dramatically. She flung herself over Cass's lap. "I can never be seen in public again. I'm going to become a shut-in like Emily Dickinson." "Oh no," Tim said, reaching over to pat her arm. "Maybe we should put on some Billie Holiday to raise your spirits." "Or read some bell hooks," Jason piped in, grinning. Cass giggled, running her hand over Stephanie's hair. "I know," Jason continued. "Let's all hop in my Subaru and go to a cat cafe." "A cat cafe?" Damian piped in, interested. "No way there's any open this late," Dick said, wincing at Damian apologetically. "But we could probably go play some softball." "Softball?" Clark asked, lost. "But it's dark out." "Yeah, Clark's right!" Steph said, sitting up. "It's night time! Let's all read our star charts." "Sure! I'll grab my carabiner!" "I'll get my birkenstocks!" "I'll grab the scissors!" "Jason," Bruce scolded. Honestly, Damian was here. Jason rolled his eyes. Clark leaned over to whisper to Bruce. "I have no idea what's going on." "But, wait, what movie are we watching?" Tim asked. "But I'm a Cheerleader!" Dick called. "No, we need to watch Bottoms." "Bend it Like Beckham!" "The Runaways!" "We should watch Carol," said Cass. Everyone looked at her, because when Cass spoke it meant you needed to pay attention. But she was looking at Bruce, a challenging smile in her eye. Clark noticed the look and tried asking Bruce again. "Carol? What does that	Harold, They're Lesbians "Thanks for inviting me to movie night, Bruce!" Bruce grunted, doing his best not to stare at Clark's shining smile. Yeah, they were together now and he was technically allowed to look, but it didn't feel like he was ready for that yet. He felt like a moth and the twinkle in Clark's eye was a bug zapper. "I know you said Kate was fine to cover patrol tonight and you didn't need me but it's still nice to get to spend time with the whole family. I feel like I never get to see all the kids in one place!" "We're happy to have you, Clark," Dick said, turning to try and clap Bruce on the shoulder but only able to reach his shin from where he sat in the row in front of them. "Yeah, it's good Bruce finally has a date to one of these," Stephanie interjected, smirking from beside Bruce. Bruce went bright red and rumbled threateningly. Clark just laughed. "Is it usual to bring a date to family movie night?" Clark asked. "Well Babs is always here," Dick said, gazing dreamily toward the ceiling. "I'll be there physically one of these days," came the voice of Oracle from nowhere and everywhere. "But, sure, I'll be Dick's date." "Bernard's banned from movie nights," Tim offered, shrugging. "Well that doesn't sound fair," Clark frowned, turning with a disapproving look at Bruce. Bruce rolled his eyes. "I didn't ban him." "I fucking banned him," Jason interjected, "And I'd do it again! If he can't shut the fuck up during Inigo Montoya's divine retribution, he can stay the fuck out." Clark pursed his lips. clearly allowing the point. "And your date, Jason?" Jason raised his giant tub of cheeseballs, kissing it. "Isn't she beautiful?" "Pennyworth's only allowance to Todd's disgusting eating habits," Damian explained, wrinkling his nose. "Todd is allowed a horrendous snack only during movie night." "Fuck you, I do not have disgusting eating habits," Jason said, throwing a cheeseball into the air and catching it in his mouth. "I'm the only of us who can actually cook for myself. I just like kids' snacks because when I was a kid trying to survive on the street-" "Oh, yeah, the old street kid card," Tim muttered, rolling his eyes. "Snacks like these were more than luxury," he spat, sneering at Damian's can of shelled pistachios. "They were like a bedtime story. A promise to the little ones that life can be worth living if you just hand on a little longer." "That's beautiful, Jay," Dick said mildly. "Trade you those cheese balls for this bag of Takis." "Done." Bruce watched in amusement as they traded snacks. When he saw Clark's polite befuddlement he actually smiled. "Can we start the movie, please?" Duke asked where he was draped over Dick. "Some of us have morning shift." "Wait, but Steph and Cass didn't tell us where their dates are," Clark said. The various munching noises through the room halted immediately. Everyone turned to look at Clark. "What's that, buddy?" Steph asked, in a brightly sinister way. Clark laughed, seeming unsettled by the weird energy the room had taken on. "I mean come on, Steph, you started it. Teasing Bruce. So where's your date?" Steph looked back at him for a moment then looked at Cass. Cass who was sharing a recliner with her. Their legs tangled together. Sipping from a slurpy cup with two straws. Cass wearing Steph's hoodie. Steph with her hand in Cass's hair. And they were also holding hands. Steph looked back at Clark. "Oh, man," She said, completely monotone. "You sure showed me. How embarrassing." Clark frowned. "Oh, no, I didn't want to embarrass you–" "Too late!" Steph cried, dramatically. She flung herself over Cass's lap. "I can never be seen in public again. I'm going to become a shut-in like Emily Dickinson." "Oh no," Tim said, reaching over to pat her arm. "Maybe we should put on some Billie Holiday to raise your spirits." "Or read some bell hooks," Jason piped in, grinning. Cass giggled, running her hand over Stephanie's hair. "I know," Jason continued. "Let's all hop in my Subaru and go to a cat cafe." "A cat cafe?" Damian piped in, interested. "No way there's any open this late," Dick said, wincing at Damian apologetically. "But we could probably go play some softball." "Softball?" Clark asked, lost. "But it's dark out." "Yeah, Clark's right!" Steph said, sitting up. "It's night time! Let's all read our star charts." "Sure! I'll grab my carabiner!" "I'll get my birkenstocks!" "I'll grab the scissors!" "Jason," Bruce scolded. Honestly, Damian was here. Jason rolled his eyes. Clark leaned over to whisper to Bruce. "I have no idea what's going on." "But, wait, what movie are we watching?" Tim asked. "But I'm a Cheerleader!" Dick called. "No, we need to watch Bottoms." "Bend it Like Beckham!" "The Runaways!" "We should watch Carol," said Cass. Everyone looked at her, because when Cass spoke it meant you needed to pay attention. But she was looking at Bruce, a challenging smile in her eye. Clark noticed the look and tried asking Bruce again. "Carol? What does that mean?" Cass's smile widened and Bruce internally groaned. Bruce knew what his daughter wanted him to do. They had a silent conversation as only the two of them can where he basically whined and asked 'Do I have to?' and his daughter very firmly told him 'yes you do the family will love it and it'll be so so funny.' So he sighed, turned to Clark and said "Harold, they're lesbians." As expected, the kids exploded. Jason fell over off the couch, clutching his stomach and laughing. Tim had taken his phone out to tweet, muttering "Oh my God. Oh my God." Dick was screaming at the ceiling "Babs, did you clip that? Tell me you clipped that!" Damian, meanwhile. scowled. "Who, Brown and Cain? Obviously. Is that what this nonsense has been about?" Clark was bright red. "Ah." Bruce sighed, reaching over to lace his fingers with Clark's. "You're supposed to be more observant than this." "I didn't want to assume!" Clark hissed, squeezing Bruce's hand. "I've had girlfriends who act like that with their friends! Lois and Diana act like that all the time!" "Oh, honey…" Duke said, pityingly. "What?" Clark asked, befuddled. Steph's chuckles slow and she wipes a tear from her eye. "Bud, Lois definitely listens to Girl in Red." Clark groans, rubbing his free hand down his face. "I don't know what that means." "It's okay," Cass said, reaching across Bruce to pat Clark's knee. "We'll teach you." Clark smiled at her, patting her hand where it rested on his knee. "Thanks, Cass." "I am not watching Carol," Duke said, bringing in some levity. "Vintage lesbians will put me right to sleep." "Philistine," Jason commented, idly. "Enough," Bruce growled. "I know how to settle this. With vintage lesbians, sports, and Tom Hanks." Tim gasped. "You don't mean–" "Yes," Bruce said gravely. "We're watching A League Of Their Own." "Solid Choice," Steph noted, impressed. "A noble sacrifice," Dick added. Jason turned around and leaned like he was whispering even though everyone could hear him. "Bruce always cries at the end of A League Of Their Own." Bruce shrugged. "I love women. I'm not ashamed of that." Clark laughed, seeming to have shaken off the awkwardness enough to settle in. "Haven't you heard, Bruce? There's no crying in baseball." That dig sidelined everyone that they didn't start the movie for another ten minutes.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75627016	{"authors": ["JessJesstheBest"], "language": "English", "title": "Harold, They're Lesbians"}
Grown Up Christmas List "I need a color, pet." "Sir …" Steve whined softly at the loss of the paddle on his ass. "Color or I stop," Eddie said "Green," Steve groaned. "Please, Sir. Green." "Good boy." Steve gave a happy sigh as the paddle landed again and again on his ass. Strike after strike sent him flying high and he allowed himself to float, happily cuffed to the spanking bench. He and Eddie were celebrating their first Christmas together at their favorite BDSM club, Possession. It had been a rough road to get where they were, but they'd made it. Almost losing Eddie, getting him back, battling Vecna, then the government - and through it all Eddie and Steve had stuck it out, got closer and stronger. "Are you my good boy?" "Please!" Steve gave a gasp when Eddie whispered in his ear. "Only when I say, pet," Eddie breathed. "Yes, Sir." Steve barely registered the feel of lube in his hole and Eddie's fingers as he continued to fly, but the moment Steve felt Eddie's cock push inside gave a loud yell and pushed back against Eddie, practically pulling him in. "Such a good boy," Eddie praised. "Your … yours …" Steve moaned. "Please? Please, Sir?" "You come when I come," Eddie ordered softly. "Yes - Sir!" Steve cried out as Eddie gave a sharp thrust. "Almost there, baby," Eddie groaned. "Almost …" A few sharp thrusts later, Eddie came with a low growl. Steve came quickly thereafter and collapsed onto the spanking bench, completely and utterly sated. The club sounds around him were muted and he only vaguely felt when Eddie released him from the cuffs and lifted him into his arms. Steve tucked his head on Eddie's shoulder, shivering a bit as Eddie walked him over to a nearby couch and settled down, sighing happily when Eddie wrapped him in a warm blanket. "Water, pet," Eddie whispered. Steve hummed and opened his mouth when Eddie tapped his lips, then greedily drank down the water. "Good boy," Eddie praised softly. Steve hummed and dozed for a bit, happily tucked in his blanket on Eddie's lap, until the fuzziness went away and Steve started to feel more and more awake. "That was fantastic, Sir," Steve murmured. "Can we stay a bit longer?" "You want to?" Eddie asked. "Santa's supposed to come and read letters." Steve pressed a kiss to Eddie's jaw and wiggled a bit on Eddie's lap. "Did you write a letter to Santa?" "Yep," Steve replied. "Well, if we're staying, you're putting your bottoms back on," Eddie said. "They can only ogle what I allow them to ogle." "Possessive." Steve gave Eddie a kiss before climbing off Eddie's lap and grabbing his discarded clothes. First the red jockstrap and then the white leather chaps. "Only I get to lick my little candy cane," Eddie replied. "Well, not so little candy cane." Steve giggled and preened and gave a quick twirl - the jockstrap and chaps were paired with a red and white striped corset and Steve had even put some red and white bow clips in his hair. "Cute candy cane, too," Eddie continued. "Come clean me up and tuck me away before Santa gets here." "Yes, Sir." Steve grabbed a couple of wipes and knelt between Eddie's knees, gently cleaning Eddie's cock before tucking it away and carefully lacing Eddie's dark green leather pants back up. "Thank you for letting me dress you tonight, Sir." "You deserved a treat for passing your classes," Eddie replied. "These leather pants look amazing on you, Sir," Steve murmured. "And this red mesh cropped tank top is utterly perfect." "Mmmhmm." Steve threw the wipes away in the trash can near the couch, then returned to his spot between Eddie's legs, resting his head on Eddie's thigh and humming as Eddie stroked his hair. "Going to tell me what you asked Santa for Christmas?" Eddie asked. "Maybe," Steve replied, squeaking when Eddie gave his hair a sharp tug. "Yes, Sir." "I know you make copies of your work, so I expect to read it tonight when we get home," Eddie continued. "Yes, Sir." "Attention patrons! Santa will be arriving in just a moment! As a special treat, Mrs. Claus is also here along with Santa's favorite elf!" The music faded out and a voice came over the speaker system. "Do you want to move closer?" Eddie asked. "I'm okay here," Steve replied. "For now." "Okay," Eddie murmured. The music came back on blasting 'Santa Claus is Comin' to Town' by Frank Sinatra and Steve lifted his head to see a couple of the patrons pull out a big red throne-like chair and a red mailbox with the everyone else made a path. "Can I sit on your lap and watch, Sir?" Steve asked. "Of course you can, pet." Steve grinned and happily crawled into Eddie's lap, turning to look at Santa's empty chair. Moments later, a door opened and the booming laugh of Santa filled the room - the sound of jingling bells filled the room along with Santa's laughter as Santa, Mrs. Claus and the elf came walking down the aisle. They all turned to face the crowd and Steve felt his stomach drop. "Eddie," Steve whispered. Santa was none other than	Grown Up Christmas List "I need a color, pet." "Sir …" Steve whined softly at the loss of the paddle on his ass. "Color or I stop," Eddie said "Green," Steve groaned. "Please, Sir. Green." "Good boy." Steve gave a happy sigh as the paddle landed again and again on his ass. Strike after strike sent him flying high and he allowed himself to float, happily cuffed to the spanking bench. He and Eddie were celebrating their first Christmas together at their favorite BDSM club, Possession. It had been a rough road to get where they were, but they'd made it. Almost losing Eddie, getting him back, battling Vecna, then the government - and through it all Eddie and Steve had stuck it out, got closer and stronger. "Are you my good boy?" "Please!" Steve gave a gasp when Eddie whispered in his ear. "Only when I say, pet," Eddie breathed. "Yes, Sir." Steve barely registered the feel of lube in his hole and Eddie's fingers as he continued to fly, but the moment Steve felt Eddie's cock push inside gave a loud yell and pushed back against Eddie, practically pulling him in. "Such a good boy," Eddie praised. "Your … yours …" Steve moaned. "Please? Please, Sir?" "You come when I come," Eddie ordered softly. "Yes - Sir!" Steve cried out as Eddie gave a sharp thrust. "Almost there, baby," Eddie groaned. "Almost …" A few sharp thrusts later, Eddie came with a low growl. Steve came quickly thereafter and collapsed onto the spanking bench, completely and utterly sated. The club sounds around him were muted and he only vaguely felt when Eddie released him from the cuffs and lifted him into his arms. Steve tucked his head on Eddie's shoulder, shivering a bit as Eddie walked him over to a nearby couch and settled down, sighing happily when Eddie wrapped him in a warm blanket. "Water, pet," Eddie whispered. Steve hummed and opened his mouth when Eddie tapped his lips, then greedily drank down the water. "Good boy," Eddie praised softly. Steve hummed and dozed for a bit, happily tucked in his blanket on Eddie's lap, until the fuzziness went away and Steve started to feel more and more awake. "That was fantastic, Sir," Steve murmured. "Can we stay a bit longer?" "You want to?" Eddie asked. "Santa's supposed to come and read letters." Steve pressed a kiss to Eddie's jaw and wiggled a bit on Eddie's lap. "Did you write a letter to Santa?" "Yep," Steve replied. "Well, if we're staying, you're putting your bottoms back on," Eddie said. "They can only ogle what I allow them to ogle." "Possessive." Steve gave Eddie a kiss before climbing off Eddie's lap and grabbing his discarded clothes. First the red jockstrap and then the white leather chaps. "Only I get to lick my little candy cane," Eddie replied. "Well, not so little candy cane." Steve giggled and preened and gave a quick twirl - the jockstrap and chaps were paired with a red and white striped corset and Steve had even put some red and white bow clips in his hair. "Cute candy cane, too," Eddie continued. "Come clean me up and tuck me away before Santa gets here." "Yes, Sir." Steve grabbed a couple of wipes and knelt between Eddie's knees, gently cleaning Eddie's cock before tucking it away and carefully lacing Eddie's dark green leather pants back up. "Thank you for letting me dress you tonight, Sir." "You deserved a treat for passing your classes," Eddie replied. "These leather pants look amazing on you, Sir," Steve murmured. "And this red mesh cropped tank top is utterly perfect." "Mmmhmm." Steve threw the wipes away in the trash can near the couch, then returned to his spot between Eddie's legs, resting his head on Eddie's thigh and humming as Eddie stroked his hair. "Going to tell me what you asked Santa for Christmas?" Eddie asked. "Maybe," Steve replied, squeaking when Eddie gave his hair a sharp tug. "Yes, Sir." "I know you make copies of your work, so I expect to read it tonight when we get home," Eddie continued. "Yes, Sir." "Attention patrons! Santa will be arriving in just a moment! As a special treat, Mrs. Claus is also here along with Santa's favorite elf!" The music faded out and a voice came over the speaker system. "Do you want to move closer?" Eddie asked. "I'm okay here," Steve replied. "For now." "Okay," Eddie murmured. The music came back on blasting 'Santa Claus is Comin' to Town' by Frank Sinatra and Steve lifted his head to see a couple of the patrons pull out a big red throne-like chair and a red mailbox with the everyone else made a path. "Can I sit on your lap and watch, Sir?" Steve asked. "Of course you can, pet." Steve grinned and happily crawled into Eddie's lap, turning to look at Santa's empty chair. Moments later, a door opened and the booming laugh of Santa filled the room - the sound of jingling bells filled the room along with Santa's laughter as Santa, Mrs. Claus and the elf came walking down the aisle. They all turned to face the crowd and Steve felt his stomach drop. "Eddie," Steve whispered. Santa was none other than Hopper, dressed in black combat boos, red leather pants, a black leather harness and a red Santa hat. Mrs. Claus was Joyce Byers, standing on one side of the chair dressed in a red negligee with white fur along the bustline and hem wearing white lace fingerless gloves. And Santa's favorite elf? Wayne Muson stood on the other side of the chair wearing small red and green striped boxer briefs and a green tunic with a wide deep v-neck and a little black belt. "Fuck," Eddie said softly. "We need to -" "We're going to ask that everyone stay seated and not all rush to sit on Santa's lap," the MC for the night joked. "Santa's going to pick a few letters to read and then stay to take pictures!" "I hope everyone here's been a bit naughty!" Hopper said, earning laughter from all the other patrons. "We can't leave now, they'll see us," Steve hissed. "Okay, as soon as everyone stands for pictures, we'll sneak out," Eddie whispered. "And never discuss it again." "Right." Steve turned and pressed his face to Eddie's neck and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of Hopper reading letters to Santa. "And now, time for one last letter!" Hopper said. "Thank goodness," Steve mumbled. "Dear Santa, I have been very, very naughty," Hopper started. "Already off to a good start." The crowd chuckled. "And my Sir has also ben naughty." "Oh no," Steve whispered. "Fuck." "For Christmas this year, I'm asking for a new paddle, playtime in the classroom set at Possession and a new posture collar," Hopper said. "Well this is a very good list and I don't see why this good little sub can't get everything they're asking for!" "Steve," Eddie murmured. "Is this -" "Yes," Steve hissed. "Please Santa, bring me everything I asked for! Merry Christmas, from St … from Steve," Hopper finished. "Well, no getting out of it now," Eddie muttered. "It'll look bad if we don't go do the picture." "Steve!" The MC hollered. "Is your Dom going to keep you from Santa?" "Not at all!" Eddie yelled, then gave Steve a quick kiss. "We'll be quick, pet. And then we'll leave and go home and pretend that none of this happened." "Fine." Steve climbed off Eddie's lap and waited for Eddie to join him before the two of them slowly made their way up the aisle to where Hopper was sitting, Joyce and Wayne on either side of them. Steve caught the moment Hopper, Joyce and Wayne saw them - he'd have laughed if he wasn't dying from embarrassment. "Steve?" Joyce whispered. "Hi Mrs. Byers," Steve whispered back. "Well fuck," Hopper muttered. "Son?" Wayne said. "We're going to do this so fast and then pretend it never happened, Uncle Wayne," Eddie hissed. "Come on, Steve!" The MC yelled. "Sit on Santa's lap and get your picture!" "Fuck," Steve hissed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He gave a squeak when Eddie landed a slap on his ass. "Thank you, Sir." "Listen kid," Hopper said. "Sit fast, have Eddie stand over by Joyce, we'll let them take the picture and then -" "Never speak about it again," Steve finished. "Right, yeah." "I do like your bows, though," Joyce said with a kind smile. Steve cracked a small smile as he carefully perched himself on Hopper's right knee, feeling Eddie right behind him and Joyce on Eddie's other side. "Great, great!" The MC said. "One big, kinky family!" Steve held back a hysterical laugh as the Polaroid camera flashed - he stood up so fast after the picture was taken he nearly fell forward, but Eddie was there with a hand on his elbow. "You did good, baby," Eddie praised. "You, too," Steve replied. "Here you go!" The MC walked up the aisle and handed Steve the photo. "Great shot, you guys." "And now it's time for us to go," Steve muttered. "Right," Eddie said. "You guys, um, drive safe," Hopper muttered. "Right, drive safe," Wayne repeated a bit stiffly. "Sunday night dinner?" Joyce said softly. "Um, yeah," Steve murmured. "All right, everyone line up for a picture with Santa!" The MC called. Steve felt Eddie's grip tighten on his elbow as they quickly headed back to the couch where their stuff was. Steve shoved the picture into one of the little zippered pockets and grabbed his coat, Christmas music mixing with Hopper's booming laugh even as he and Eddie hurried to pack up and get out of there. "Okay," Eddie said once they were in the car. "We are going to have one more conversation with them about this. "One more?" Steve asked. "To work out a schedule," Eddie replied. "So this never fucking happens again."	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75627031	{"authors": ["machtaholic (cinderella81)"], "language": "English", "title": "Grown Up Christmas List"}
Crushed The underground depths of the Harlem subway station were damp and dark. Just like the rest of the city there was a mess of black tendrils everywhere, but down here they looked like roots or veins. Or maybe like a lymphatic system. He could hear a lively pulse flowing all around him. Peter didn’t feel too comfortable staying in one place too long, so he jumped from floor to wall to corner and ceiling. Miles was definitely going to chew him out later, but he just couldn’t risk waiting. Harry needed him, and this was all his fault anyway. He had to save him or die trying. Peter swallowed as he continued crawling. There was no way he’d be able to live with himself if he failed. Of course when he tried calling his phone no one picked up, and the cheery voicemail of his best friend twisted something awful in his chest. That voicemail had plagued him the year Harry went missing for his treatment. So many times he’d tried calling and pacing and thinking Harry didn’t want him anymore. To think that Harry had actually been going through hell all alone, and that Peter… Peter’s apology spilled out of him. No one was listening, but he couldn’t help but feel that the walls were growling at him. “Harry, I messed up. I was terrible to you. Your dream—our dream… healing the world… I’m sorry.” He broke through a wall. The ground in which he landed was covered by water. It sloshed when he jogged forward, and it looked greenish in the dim lighting. The surrounding area was somewhat more open. He wiped his head around for any of those thorny hearts, but then there was a purring rumble. Harry’s voice—Venom’s voice. He could hear it all around. He could hear it echoing inside his ears. “Peter. You’re here.” “I’m here,” he softly gasped. He couldn’t decide whether it was good or bad to actually hear him. “Are you finally ready?” Harry asked. The question curled around him. Despite Harry’s voice sounding worse than when he tried talking while he gargled saltwater for a sore throat, there was still that teasing pull Harry used whenever he wanted Peter to do something. It’d be so easy to just listen. Peter was always so indecisive, and it was always so nice to have someone to tell him what to do. What to feel. Peter sniffed, “Harry,” his voice cracked as he whimpered. He braced himself against his own shaking by crossing his arm. “I can’t.” Harry growled, low, around him. It was a disappointed sound. Something cold and sharp jolted and stabbed into his chest, and Peter panted out desperately against it. The hair on his arms raised up and all his muscles tensed and his head pounded with the constant thrum of his spider sense. Screams, and then darkness. “What?” Peter muttered out. The next fight happened in flashes. A swarm of symbiote-possessed civilians attacking him from all ends. He found himself screaming for Harry. Fighting them had to completely rely on his senses and muscle memory, and his senses were overwhelmed with a cold fear plunging him into writhing panic. Miles called between. He was coming. And Peter could sense that Harry was close. All he had to do was last long enough to find him… And then it was all over. Peter panted over all the bodies surrounding him. It was light again. Once he caught his breath he shuffled a few civilians so they wouldn’t be at risk of drowning, but every time he moved he had to jerk against some pull. A tunnel. Right above. It hummed with want, and Peter could feel his beckoning almost like he could feel a phantom finger stroking down his spine. “Peter…” he called. So Peter finally listened. He launched himself through the tunnel with a web. It was more damp and moist than anything before. Overlapping tendrils squirmed about, and some even reached to grasp and brush around him as he crawled. “Harry? Harry! Talk to me!” he yelled while batting them away. “Please help us, Peter,” Harry purred. “We need you.” Peter shivered. Saliva built up in his mouth. He swallowed around it. “I’m trying, buddy. I just need that meteorite, okay?” The end of the tunnel glowed a soft orange. It opened to an even larger space than before. Peter shot out with a web and dangled from a ceiling. So many of those hearts blistered over the walls. Big ones. Bigger than any he’d seen in the nests scattered around the city. Peter continued to lower himself. “Miles, not seein’ a rock,” he checked in. The kid was quick to respond, “No? Hold on. I’m nearly to you.” With his spider sense at that constant thrum, Peter almost didn’t catch the hulking presence hovering behind him. If it wasn’t for the soft growl he probably wouldn’t have caught it at all. “Thanks for coming, Pete,” Harry spat out his name. “We wanna show you something.” Peter peered over his shoulder, but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge from Harry’s sudden lunge. Wasn’t strong enough to break out of his grip. His head hit the ground and he was out cold before he could make a sound. — Peter jolted to life. Breathing came in quick. Shallow. He blinked	Crushed The underground depths of the Harlem subway station were damp and dark. Just like the rest of the city there was a mess of black tendrils everywhere, but down here they looked like roots or veins. Or maybe like a lymphatic system. He could hear a lively pulse flowing all around him. Peter didn’t feel too comfortable staying in one place too long, so he jumped from floor to wall to corner and ceiling. Miles was definitely going to chew him out later, but he just couldn’t risk waiting. Harry needed him, and this was all his fault anyway. He had to save him or die trying. Peter swallowed as he continued crawling. There was no way he’d be able to live with himself if he failed. Of course when he tried calling his phone no one picked up, and the cheery voicemail of his best friend twisted something awful in his chest. That voicemail had plagued him the year Harry went missing for his treatment. So many times he’d tried calling and pacing and thinking Harry didn’t want him anymore. To think that Harry had actually been going through hell all alone, and that Peter… Peter’s apology spilled out of him. No one was listening, but he couldn’t help but feel that the walls were growling at him. “Harry, I messed up. I was terrible to you. Your dream—our dream… healing the world… I’m sorry.” He broke through a wall. The ground in which he landed was covered by water. It sloshed when he jogged forward, and it looked greenish in the dim lighting. The surrounding area was somewhat more open. He wiped his head around for any of those thorny hearts, but then there was a purring rumble. Harry’s voice—Venom’s voice. He could hear it all around. He could hear it echoing inside his ears. “Peter. You’re here.” “I’m here,” he softly gasped. He couldn’t decide whether it was good or bad to actually hear him. “Are you finally ready?” Harry asked. The question curled around him. Despite Harry’s voice sounding worse than when he tried talking while he gargled saltwater for a sore throat, there was still that teasing pull Harry used whenever he wanted Peter to do something. It’d be so easy to just listen. Peter was always so indecisive, and it was always so nice to have someone to tell him what to do. What to feel. Peter sniffed, “Harry,” his voice cracked as he whimpered. He braced himself against his own shaking by crossing his arm. “I can’t.” Harry growled, low, around him. It was a disappointed sound. Something cold and sharp jolted and stabbed into his chest, and Peter panted out desperately against it. The hair on his arms raised up and all his muscles tensed and his head pounded with the constant thrum of his spider sense. Screams, and then darkness. “What?” Peter muttered out. The next fight happened in flashes. A swarm of symbiote-possessed civilians attacking him from all ends. He found himself screaming for Harry. Fighting them had to completely rely on his senses and muscle memory, and his senses were overwhelmed with a cold fear plunging him into writhing panic. Miles called between. He was coming. And Peter could sense that Harry was close. All he had to do was last long enough to find him… And then it was all over. Peter panted over all the bodies surrounding him. It was light again. Once he caught his breath he shuffled a few civilians so they wouldn’t be at risk of drowning, but every time he moved he had to jerk against some pull. A tunnel. Right above. It hummed with want, and Peter could feel his beckoning almost like he could feel a phantom finger stroking down his spine. “Peter…” he called. So Peter finally listened. He launched himself through the tunnel with a web. It was more damp and moist than anything before. Overlapping tendrils squirmed about, and some even reached to grasp and brush around him as he crawled. “Harry? Harry! Talk to me!” he yelled while batting them away. “Please help us, Peter,” Harry purred. “We need you.” Peter shivered. Saliva built up in his mouth. He swallowed around it. “I’m trying, buddy. I just need that meteorite, okay?” The end of the tunnel glowed a soft orange. It opened to an even larger space than before. Peter shot out with a web and dangled from a ceiling. So many of those hearts blistered over the walls. Big ones. Bigger than any he’d seen in the nests scattered around the city. Peter continued to lower himself. “Miles, not seein’ a rock,” he checked in. The kid was quick to respond, “No? Hold on. I’m nearly to you.” With his spider sense at that constant thrum, Peter almost didn’t catch the hulking presence hovering behind him. If it wasn’t for the soft growl he probably wouldn’t have caught it at all. “Thanks for coming, Pete,” Harry spat out his name. “We wanna show you something.” Peter peered over his shoulder, but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge from Harry’s sudden lunge. Wasn’t strong enough to break out of his grip. His head hit the ground and he was out cold before he could make a sound. — Peter jolted to life. Breathing came in quick. Shallow. He blinked several times. Wherever he had been taken it was… Small. Closed in. He was trapped. Peter tried scrambling to his feet, but a tendril tripped him right back on his ass. And there Harry was. Hulking form emerging from the shadows on all fours. The image was almost silly. Tarzan-like or childish. But Peter was still backing up as Harry came to hover over him. Tendrils slithered between his arms, suddenly squeezing tight around his wrists, and snapping his arms over his head. Peter grunted and fought against the restraints. His legs kicked against the ground in his struggle. Harry only hummed and gave a lazy push to Peter’s chest to keep him down. The lack of control… The inability to break free was something Peter almost never faced as Spider-Man. The feeling left him itchy and squirmy. Harry brushed a large hand over his face and grinned wickedly with all those teeth. “Harry! What are you…” he grit out. “We are… healed. Finally free,” Harry hummed out. That tongue stuck out between his teeth. “But we need you, Pete.” Peter’s breath hitched. Oh. Oh. He knew that tone. That was Harry’s bedroom voice. Fuck. Peter was all but helpless to watch as more small curling tendrils sprouted from the ground. He shivered in his alien bindings, and jerked his hips back at the clumsy way Harry pulled at the anti-venom around his waist and crotch. He plucked at the white membrane with his claws like he was slitting open skin, and Peter couldn’t help the shocked gasp as he was left completely exposed. His head reeled at the thrum of danger, danger, danger when those large paws spread his legs further apart. He barely fought back the urge to whimper at the way Harry’s claws dug into the meat of his thighs. Instead he glared. “Harry,” he warned in the back of his throat. Prinpricks of blood bloomed from the hold, but Harry only pushed him down harder when he tried struggling away. Peter groaned. He couldn’t ignore the wetness building in between his legs. His cheeks burned and Harry crooned in that deep, warped voice of his. “Oh Peter. There’s no reason to fight.” Those small curling tendrils brushed against Peter’s cock, who yelped. How humiliating it was to be tied up like an animal, hunted down and shot. The tendrils’ movements became more insistent. One flitted through his folds and the other wrapped around his cock and Peter’s head rolled against the slick ground. “We know what you want. What you need.” Peter screwed his eyes shut. He cursed his panting. Harry’s voice sounded wrong, and that predatory fang-toothed grin drooling down on him was too overwhelming to look at. The heavy shadowing presence of Harry caged over him was still impossible to ignore. He felt like he was waiting to be crushed. A tendril twisted its way inside his hole, and the keen he let out was high-pitched and staggering. “Let us take care of you, Peter,” Venom punched out his name in desperation. Peter shook his head stubbornly, but couldn’t help how his hips chased the tendril slipping in and out. In and out. His mind must have been fuzzy enough for his mask to recede, because his mouth was being pulled open by Harry’s thumb. “Let us heal you, Peter,” the echo of Harry’s human voice bled out into the plea. Tears bloomed at the corners of his eyes. The claw in his mouth pressed down against his useless tongue, so he nodded vigorously and sucked around Harry’s thumb. He let out a purr at that. The room rumbled around them, and suddenly the tendril in Peter swelled. His eyes fluttered open and shut at the fullness. It was fucking sickening how much Peter wanted this. How much he was already drooling. Harry pulled away his hand from his face—his thumb popping out of his mouth. A long string of Peter’s spit still connected them. Harry’s own tongue unfurled from behind those rows of sharp teeth to lick where Peter had slobbered all over him. Then the tendril swelled again, and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. He gasped and cried and tried to writhe away, but Harry was everywhere. Little tendrils shivered around the walls. Some even came to lick at his cheek from below. His bound wrists were pulled further across the ground in a slick motion, those large hands cupped him from behind to raise his hips higher just as that tendril curled into his g-spot. Peter howled, “G–guh hah! Mm, Harry please! Please please please! Mmph!” He could feel his orgasm just about to tip over, skirting on the edge. Harry growled low and pulled apart his legs as far as they could go. His heels dug down into the black sludge covering everything. “We remember your body… We remember what you like,” that gravely voice whispered in a leer as Harry lowered himself down, down, down… Tongue dripping over Peter’s cock. And Peter could only mewl and nod dumbly, his head bouncing up and down anyway. Yeah, yup. Harry sure did remember. He grit his teeth and tilted his head to peek at the mess between his legs. Those wide and jagged-edged eyes of Venom’s stared back, and the jolt of fear pulsed something awful in his cunt. Peter blushed beet-red at the sight of the tendril (tentacle?) thrusting in and out of him from the floor as well. God, it was making a horrible wet squelching sound, but he found it hard to care when Harry dipped his head and swirled that tongue around his cock. He came almost instantly. It surged through him like a wave. The intensity rocked him so hard he didn’t realize he was screaming and shaking until soothing tendrils came to stroke over his chest and sides. Harry made some sort of trill-like sound. It warmed something in the back of Peter’s feather-light mind, but much too quickly he started to overheat. Harry and the tendril weren’t stopping. His body wracked with tremors. He twisted his head back and forth. His hips tried jumping away, but the tendrils were too tight around his wrists and Harry held him down too hard. The squelching only got louder from the way he had gushed, but he was careening towards unbearable overstimulation. Peter attempted to verbalize this. Only high-pitched cracked out squeaks were able to escape. Pure dumbness was leaking from his mouth. A litany of wordless babble. He was completely at the mercy of Harry, who was still licking furiously between his soaked folds and cock. Eventually the tendril withdrew and melted back into the floor, but Peter’s haggard sigh was cut short by its replacement with Harry’s tongue. Harry grunted in time with the slide of his tongue. His teeth were dangerously close to grazing Peter’s shaking thighs, but he didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with that. Something tight and nervous brewing in Peter’s gut popped and came loose, and all he could do was flop back and take it all. Pleasure began to pool back again. Wordless babble raised in pitch. Thank god he was given a break from the thickness. Still that tongue could curl and writhe deeper within him in a way that made everything spin. The texture of it was bumpier than the tendril. The slight ridge against his walls was having him start to sob. His back arched tightly and his whole body seized as he reached his second peak. Harry lapped and slurped up all the wetness that escaped. Tears burned down Peter’s cheeks. He let out a weak little cough. When Harry finally pulled away, Peter fell back heaving. The tendrils bounding his wrists melted away, and his hands snapped back to his chest. Other tendrils were still curling around him. Stroking exposed skin from the slashes of his previous fight with the symbiote herd. Petting over his mussed hair. Prodding him like curious fingers. After his breathing had finally evened out, Peter realized his eyes were screwed shut. He eased them open and was greeted with the sight of Harry hovering over him. Harry trilled again, deep in the back of his throat, and licked over Peter’s face in a slow indulgent cat-like laving. Peter couldn’t help the tired perplexed smile. The expression melted the moment he remembered that the person holding him wasn’t just Harry, but Harry and something else. Venom. Venom covered the entire room. His heart pattered against his ribs. Something nudged against his hole. He looked down and Peter’s jaw could have dropped at the size of… Whatever that was? Peter was still dizzy. Still buzzing from pleasure. It looked like a cock, had to be. He had no idea where it had come from since the symbiote made Harry’s crotch all ken-doll-like. The tip of it looked close to what he’d seen uncircumcised cocks might look like, but the rest of it was so alien. Ridged, curved, and covered in black pulsing ooze. Peter looked back up to Harry with watery eyes. “We’re going to fill you,” he told Peter. “We’re going to love you.” He grabbed Peter’s thighs and adjusted him so that he was nearly folded in half. Peter’s arms, unbound, came to latch over the width of Harry’s shoulders—at least as much as he could grab onto. His legs were being pulled apart again. Tendrils curled over where their crotches met. Peter keened at the dual feeling of his cock being stroked, so that the head of Harry’s cock could finally pop in. “You’re going to be our’s,” Harry drawled out low and began a slow push. And oh. That’s what all the stretching was for. Peter moaned reflexively, “Yours—” It wasn’t like he hadn’t entertained the idea of it before. Images of Harry and him in college came to mind unbidden. It wasn’t like they hadn’t fooled around. Harry had kissed his neck a dozen times before. This time Harry’s mouth could snap down and kill him if he so desired. Fangs dug beyond the suit into his flesh. Peter meekly groaned. When Harry finally bottomed out, as far as he could go, Peter was allowed a kind moment of stillness to flutter around the intrusion. It didn’t last long. Peter almost couldn’t breathe. He knew he was making a manner of all sorts of noise. He couldn’t control that either. Harry set a bruising pace that battered his insides into goo. In and out, out and in. Pushed up painfully against his cervix. Stretched wide and full. He blabbered and pleaded Harry for more. Faster. Harder. Hurt me more— Harry bit down into Peter’s shoulder until blood gushed and the both of them groaned. He pulled back, licked along the wound, and groped at Peter’s chest through the suit. Harry moved like a desperate animal. Howled like one too. Tendrils stuck to Peter’s forehead and he gasped. He could feel Harry pushing into his mind as well. His eyes rolled back. Images of Venom and Peter and MJ standing all together. He could hear Harry’s voice, sweet like it was before it was warped by the symbiote. It was the last thing he needed to come again. Peter sobbed all the way through it. His nails raked against the symbiote’s flesh, and he greedily bucked into Harry. He could take it. Could take it until Harry came back to him. Come back, come back please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease— Harry continued his brutal pace. The slick slapping of skin echoed in the nest as he reamed Peter through. There was surely a puddle of Peter’s cum beneath them by now. His mind glazed over, but he couldn’t help every violent twitch and squeeze as Harry moved. His neck was chewed on some more. Fangs tore his suit apart and tendrils pushed to hold his skin. Harry was everywhere. Peter nearly choked when that tongue was shoved down his throat. It explored over every molar, across his gums, under his tongue, and pushed as far back in his throat like he was trying to fuck there too. Peter whimpered and Harry snarled into him. His hips stuttered, which was the telltale sign of Harry about to come. Still, nothing could have braced him for the hot spurts of cum filling up fuller and fuller. Peter could have swore his stomach swelled. He didn’t have it in him to look and check. His eyes were glued shut. His limbs leaden. Harry was still in him. He didn’t leave. Just curled and collapsed over Peter so he could lick his face again and stroke his sides. It didn’t take much for him to slip away from consciousness, and settle into that warm dark that covered him, in and out. Peter fell asleep. — Soreness would not allow Peter to stave off waking up. He shifted in place. Grunted. Cricket-legged in his uncomfortability. His lower back ached like a son of a bitch. He tentatively cracked an eye open. Peter stiffened. Walls globbed over by pulsating ooze reminded him where he was at. A hot breath at the back of his neck nearly had him ready to flip into battle mode, and he would be on his feet if not for the arm wrapped around his waist squeezing tighter. He shuddered and turned his head as slowly as he could. And there Harry was. Peter’s heart pounded at the sight of him finally out of that goddamn suit. His cheeks were puffed out like they always were when he was asleep. MJ did tell him the symbiote receded when Peter had been knocked out cold. Speaking of, the anti-venom had healed over the patches in his scuffle but his face was still uncovered and free. He twisted carefully, so he could be chest to chest with Harry—whose fingers tightened into his back anyway. Peter frowned. His skin looked so grey. His lips blue. Something about that observation had him on the verge of tears. Harry felt so small and frail against him now. It would be so easy to think that Venom had been taken from him, but Peter’s anti-venom could still hear the singing pulse through Harry’s veins. It would be so easy to burn it out of him now. When he was vulnerable. Peter quietly huffed and pushed his face between the dip of Harry’s neck and collar-bone. He couldn’t stop shaking. When Harry wakes up… Maybe they could talk it out. He could feel the sticky tack of dry cum inside his suit. He didn’t know what to say about that. It was kind of hard to believe that they had just… Done that in the middle of all this. But this was the same guy he’d given a handjob to in the middle of their biology midterm. The same guy who sang A-ha songs when they showered together. Peter nuzzled his nose closer against Harry, and shut his eyes in deep focus as he inhaled. He tried committing this smell to memory. It was awful. Deathly. Harry murmured something in his sleep. Peter pushed himself closer, white tendrils coming around to cling to Harry as well, and settled in for a long wait.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75627041	{"authors": ["lactoseintolerantswag"], "language": "English", "title": "Crushed"}
No One Dies From Love (Guess I'll be the first) Let’s begin at the end. There is a shrine. There is you, and there is her. This will be the last time you visit this place. In your hands, you hold the final memory of her. When you bury this, she will be gone forever. She will leave you for the last time, but it will not hurt like it did the first time. Even so, your hands falter, and you indulge in your memories. One last time. The first time your heart broke you thought it would kill you. You were certain your throat would tear itself to shreds as you watched your love cross the horizon, so far that all you could see was her red cape and a white glint from her mask. Her form blurs, unrecognisable through your tears. You can't tell if she heard you, or if she looked back. Then, even that blurry ghost of her form vanishes. Your chest aches with the newly formed hole at its centre. You weep, unashamed, unrelenting. If you were stronger, you would have gotten up and ran to her, but your legs do not obey. Your Mother lays a gentle thread upon your shoulder, voice soft from sleep but lucid enough for this. “oh, my child…do not weep. this was always going to be the outcome. it was foolish of you to think she could ever love you…but I always will.” You want to disagree – to argue, to scream in your Mother's face that she is wrong and that you were loved. But she is gone and you are alone, and any love that may have lived in you bleeds out in your useless tears. Your Mother speaks one last time before falling back into her slumber, a soft sense of satisfaction in her words as you accept Her truth. “she has left you, but I never will. I will always be with you, forever.” You are still furious to have been kicked out of the latest hunt. Your last quarry caught you on the back foot and took your arm in her desperation to survive. In retaliation, you took her head. Mother is always upset when you return with a dead Weaver, but you only care when you are punished. You spent the downtime reweaving yourself and bolstering the padding on your shoulders – if you had to venture to the City of Steel again, you will be sure that their blades cannot bite off another limb. Remade once more, you lounge over the entrance to the Citadel. If you could not catch this little spider, then you wanted to at least see it. Perhaps you would jump down to look over its cage and see the terror in its eyes as it took in the famed Weaver Hunter and realised that it was doomed. You preferred seeing that look as your pin drove through their heart, but sometimes you had to let one slip through your fingers to keep Mother happy. Toying with one of your cloak pins – trophies of your victories over the wretched creatures – you watch the golden sphere come around the bend. Hmm. Seems this one gave the Choir a run for their money, down as many men as they are. Now you are curious. You lean forward to make out what is in the cage, and nearly vomit at the sight of those horns. You cannot run to her. But you can send a silk fly to the cage, fury and terrible hope whirling in your chest. “Let me go! Let me be free of you! Let me live!” The hands of the choirbugs are many, and their minds are empty. Your screams echo in the halls as you are dragged to the Cradle to be punished for daring to choose another over your Mother. She alternates between weeping at your bare hatred and placating your desperation, but she is not the one you want. You need to get back to her and make sure she is okay, that she wasn’t hurt when you were both ambushed and you were dragged, kicking and shrieking, from your sanctuary. She had reached for you, braving the blades of the haunted bugs for one last touch before you lost sight of her as you were dragged from the comforting dim and into the glare of the Citadel. You are thrown before your Mother, crumpling like a sack of grain. You try to bolt the second you are left free, but Her threads have already clasped onto your form, taking the agency from your limbs and leaving you as limp as the puppet you hate to be. Even half-asleep like this, your Mother can still control you as easily as swatting a fly and you can do nothing but project pure loathing at her as she begs you to understand. “There is nothing to understand. You are a monster! You drove them to this! You drove her to this! If you cared for me at all – if you loved any of us at all – you’d let us all go!” You are half-shocked that She doesn’t dash you against the rocks for such insult, but the fear and desire for Her approval has long been subsumed by the all-encompassing adoration of your beloved. You have no need for her attention anymore, bathed as you are in the light of your darling’s eyes. You push that at your Mother, spiteful and bracing for the tidal wave of fury you expect. Instead, you are nonplussed when she projects only a wounded hurt at your hatred, guilt churning in your gut. (You hate that she inspires such feelings in you). Her threads gently stroke your	No One Dies From Love (Guess I'll be the first) Let’s begin at the end. There is a shrine. There is you, and there is her. This will be the last time you visit this place. In your hands, you hold the final memory of her. When you bury this, she will be gone forever. She will leave you for the last time, but it will not hurt like it did the first time. Even so, your hands falter, and you indulge in your memories. One last time. The first time your heart broke you thought it would kill you. You were certain your throat would tear itself to shreds as you watched your love cross the horizon, so far that all you could see was her red cape and a white glint from her mask. Her form blurs, unrecognisable through your tears. You can't tell if she heard you, or if she looked back. Then, even that blurry ghost of her form vanishes. Your chest aches with the newly formed hole at its centre. You weep, unashamed, unrelenting. If you were stronger, you would have gotten up and ran to her, but your legs do not obey. Your Mother lays a gentle thread upon your shoulder, voice soft from sleep but lucid enough for this. “oh, my child…do not weep. this was always going to be the outcome. it was foolish of you to think she could ever love you…but I always will.” You want to disagree – to argue, to scream in your Mother's face that she is wrong and that you were loved. But she is gone and you are alone, and any love that may have lived in you bleeds out in your useless tears. Your Mother speaks one last time before falling back into her slumber, a soft sense of satisfaction in her words as you accept Her truth. “she has left you, but I never will. I will always be with you, forever.” You are still furious to have been kicked out of the latest hunt. Your last quarry caught you on the back foot and took your arm in her desperation to survive. In retaliation, you took her head. Mother is always upset when you return with a dead Weaver, but you only care when you are punished. You spent the downtime reweaving yourself and bolstering the padding on your shoulders – if you had to venture to the City of Steel again, you will be sure that their blades cannot bite off another limb. Remade once more, you lounge over the entrance to the Citadel. If you could not catch this little spider, then you wanted to at least see it. Perhaps you would jump down to look over its cage and see the terror in its eyes as it took in the famed Weaver Hunter and realised that it was doomed. You preferred seeing that look as your pin drove through their heart, but sometimes you had to let one slip through your fingers to keep Mother happy. Toying with one of your cloak pins – trophies of your victories over the wretched creatures – you watch the golden sphere come around the bend. Hmm. Seems this one gave the Choir a run for their money, down as many men as they are. Now you are curious. You lean forward to make out what is in the cage, and nearly vomit at the sight of those horns. You cannot run to her. But you can send a silk fly to the cage, fury and terrible hope whirling in your chest. “Let me go! Let me be free of you! Let me live!” The hands of the choirbugs are many, and their minds are empty. Your screams echo in the halls as you are dragged to the Cradle to be punished for daring to choose another over your Mother. She alternates between weeping at your bare hatred and placating your desperation, but she is not the one you want. You need to get back to her and make sure she is okay, that she wasn’t hurt when you were both ambushed and you were dragged, kicking and shrieking, from your sanctuary. She had reached for you, braving the blades of the haunted bugs for one last touch before you lost sight of her as you were dragged from the comforting dim and into the glare of the Citadel. You are thrown before your Mother, crumpling like a sack of grain. You try to bolt the second you are left free, but Her threads have already clasped onto your form, taking the agency from your limbs and leaving you as limp as the puppet you hate to be. Even half-asleep like this, your Mother can still control you as easily as swatting a fly and you can do nothing but project pure loathing at her as she begs you to understand. “There is nothing to understand. You are a monster! You drove them to this! You drove her to this! If you cared for me at all – if you loved any of us at all – you’d let us all go!” You are half-shocked that She doesn’t dash you against the rocks for such insult, but the fear and desire for Her approval has long been subsumed by the all-encompassing adoration of your beloved. You have no need for her attention anymore, bathed as you are in the light of your darling’s eyes. You push that at your Mother, spiteful and bracing for the tidal wave of fury you expect. Instead, you are nonplussed when she projects only a wounded hurt at your hatred, guilt churning in your gut. (You hate that she inspires such feelings in you). Her threads gently stroke your head, and you tell yourself you feel nothing as she whispers in your mind. ”please...my child, you have been fooled...and it is my fault. I left you free to wander...I left you unguarded...this is my fault. she took advantage of your innocence. she is not who you think.” Her lies find no hold on you. Your limbs tremble with the suppressed urge to lash out, and She seems to understand that words alone will not sway you nor change your mind. You feel Her sadness through the threads controlling you, and you are helpless as she begins to drag you to an opening in the walls. ”you trust so easily...this too, is my fault. I will show you the truth of your infatuation...and then you will understand who you lay with. but even this, I will forgive...for I love you forever, my child.” The light is blinding as she drags you to the highest spires of the Citadel, and the sight out over the plains shatters you. Mother has been in a jubilant mood since the spider was captured. She has spoken with you more since its capture than in all the years preceding, pleased even as the halfbred runs rampant through Her Queendom. She asks after you, which is a singularly unpleasant experience. Even after you stopped pretending to be Her carefree, cheerful child She still insists on communing with you, sifting through feelings you never bother to hide. What is the point? She knows what you have done. She knows what emotions drive you. You will never be that sweet innocent doll again. After far too long of Her running over your mind, She lets you loose. You are eager to be out from under Her gaze – perhaps you will ‘accidentally’ forget your next few check ins in retaliation. She quickly falls from your mind as you focus instead of finding that damnable pest again, finding her lurking on the edges of the Hunter’s March. She has been poking around the Greymoor – you came across the Moorwing’s corpse while you were trailing her. Yet despite the kill, you are yet to be impressed by the vermin. Whatever strength this little spider had has been lost in the fall. It disgusts you, to think that this may be all that remains of her. You stalk through the undergrowth, easily able to avoid her wary gaze. Whatever she has been mixed with, it does not make up for the deficiencies of her Weaver half. You torture yourself with images of your hated love, held in the arms of another. Laughing and smiling and completely uncaring of the life she left shattered lands and ages ago. If you send back the head of this one, would it equal the hurt she left you? You don’t think so. All the blood you have spilled hasn’t mended the hole where your heart should be and you have long since stopped hoping it would. You will simply have to keep walking around, an empty, discarded doll, until you fall apart at the seams. The spider ahead of you startles at a flock of brushflits bursting from the bushes in a clamorous frenzy. You are disappointed that she has been taught so poorly. You will rectify this inadequacy, and if you are feeling merciful, you will let her return to her homeland only down a limb.If you strike right, she will bleed lightly enough to make it back and guide you to the path your love tried so hard to hide from you. You wonder what you will see on her face when you step into her chambers this time. Joy? Fear? Anger? Whatever it will be, you will be sure to replace it with agony when you slit her daughter’s throat in front of her. The girl is unnerved by something and suddenly dashes from the cavern. You let her run, and follow her at your leisure. There is nowhere in this accursed land that she could hide from you in. When you were younger, you would hum as you tracked dissidents through the undergrowth. Now you are silent, and there is no sign you were ever here. Laughter fills your sanctuary. Your love was able to slip away from her sisters and join you in your meeting place, and you have whiled away the hours entwined and overjoyed. Your plans are so close to fruition, and the start of your life – your true life – is so close you can taste it. It tastes like the nectar you kiss from your darling’s fangs, and you drink her moans like ambrosia. She looks at you, all her eyes filled with a love so intense you sometimes feel it will burn you alive. Immolation has never been so desired. “If all goes to plan, we should be hitting the edges of the Blasted Steps by sundown tomorrow. That is assuming, of course, that Keelal doesn’t get too lost in her drink and wreck the damn maps. I don’t like the idea of wandering blindly through those wastes…” Always so serious. This is why she needs you by her side, to bring some levity to her life. Could you imagine if she were alone? She’d be so dreary. You tell her as such, tugging on her red veil and stroking a mandible. Her gaze softens, and she catches your hand and places a kiss on your palm. You sway forward, helpless to resist the pull of her gravity and she catches you with all her hands. You never feel safer than when you are engulfed in her arms. You close your eyes and hum in blissful contentment. You reassure her that you will keep her sisters in line. “Well, if she can’t stay sober long enough to get us out of here, I’ll pierce her belly myself and drain her dry! Though I feel she’d be more upset to be losing the nectar than the blood, honestly”. She laughs, deep enough that it shudders through your threads. You hold your hands on her thorax to feel it more clearly and she squeezes you tighter. “Ah, my vicious little princess! What would I do without you, my protector? Who would cut down our enemies with such joy, if my star were to leave me?” You gasp in mock outrage, pouting as you know she finds so adorable. You reach to pull her face closer to yours, her six eyes crinkling in mirth at your games. “As if! You would have to cut me from your side like a tumour. I shall cling to your fur like a burr and bother you just as much!” Grinning, you tilt your head up to kiss your darling properly, sighing as her fangs close around your head. Your silk heart races as you are surrounded by her, completely and utterly. Breaking the kiss with a gasp, you giggle breathlessly, staying close enough that your smile brushes her chelicerae as you talk. “I am so sorry, darling Herrah, but you are stuck with me for life. You will always have your knight by your side, just as I will always have my darling spider in my heart. I am afraid you shall simply have to live with that.” And once your task is complete and you are free of this land, you will finally be able to bind yourself to her as you have spent so long wishing to – your long courtship ready to give way to a union broken only by death. Herrah’s topmost hands cup your face, tender and gentle as if you were spun from glass rather than silk. She nuzzles your face, kissing the tip of your snout and raising her fangs in a doting smile. “I think I can live with that, my star. I could hardly imagine life without my wonderful knight, after all.” She presses against you again, kissing you breathless as you pull her back down to the bedding on the floor, eager to be united in the most intimate of ways once again. In the back of your mind, you thrill at the idea of being able to finally make love to your darling in your shared bed, in your shared home. In your euphoria, neither of you hear the encroaching footsteps of the Choirbugs coming to tear you apart. The girl was flagging. Battered and singed from her calamitous battle with the Judge (perhaps truly the last, now) you are surprised she returned here of all places. The heat of the Deep Docks seemed unfit for her, and she refused to remove the cloak of her mother’s people to defy the heat. You know how heavy Weaver cloaks are – you still wore the cape you tore from your first kill, after all the ages since Herrah had fled Pharloom. By now, it was quite worn and degraded – perhaps an upgrade would be in order? As the spider paused on a metal platform surrounded by lava, you decide it is time to end this charade. Giving up on stealth, you leap from your perch and land in front of the shocked spider, your weight making the platform shudder precariously under you. The silk you have stolen from countless other spiders has done wonders for building your physique. Combined with the blue blood staining your cloak and your hands, you can understand why the little spider looks so unsettled. You take her in, letting the silence build. This, too, is a weapon you are skilled in wielding – when you refuse to talk, your prey often fills the air with pointless babbling. Anything to avoid sitting in the quiet and calculating how they can escape this with their lives (it’s cute how they think that's an option). Herrah’s daughter – for this must be her daughter – is so close to her mother, and yet so far. Her horns and her proud eyes are all Herrah, but her pitch-black shell and pathetic number of limbs can only be due to whatever poor stock Herrah chose to sully her line with. And only having one pair of eyes? Silk above, but your old love had chosen poorly. It brings you a sick sense of satisfaction that she couldn’t find anyone better to breed with than whatever produced this. At the very least, the spider seemed to have some level of grit as she recovered her senses and tried to talk to you. “I greet you, warrior. Pray tell, what causes one to wear such grisly adornments? Where did you find such a cloak?” Oh, that’s cute. She wants to connect with you. You doubt she’d be happy to hear the answer. You aren’t particularly interested in giving it to her, either. Rather than respond, you simply charge her, your hooked pin lashing out to catch her cloak and drag her in range of your paws. Sadly, she reacts faster than you would like and leaps out of range and flings a pin at you. Your grin is sadistic, and you feel the closest thing to joy you know as you fight in earnest. When you are in the thick of battle, you can almost pretend you are alive again – and for this, you are grateful there are still Weavers left in the world. You would, however, enjoy this battle a lot more if she would shut up. Annoyingly slippery, she dodges your strikes and keeps trying to talk to you. “Please! There is no need to battle! I do not mean to intrude on your lands – hff- I was dragged here against my will!” She flings her needle at you in a move that would surprise you had you not seen Herrah perform it a thousand times before. You jink out of its path and in the same move parry it and send her needle flying into the side of the room. In doing so, your cape flares wide and displays your numerous trophies. One in particular catches her eye and causes her to gasp. “Wait! I know you!” Despite yourself, you freeze. That stupid, awful tendril of hope that, despite your many years and constant attempts, refuses to die, bursts to life again. Did Herrah speak of you? Did she raise her daughter and tell her of the princess she left behind? Did Herrah still miss you, after all these years? The little spider keeps talking. “Please, I must know. That pin – that is my tribe’s pin. My Mother’s pin. Are you her? Are you the protector my mother spoke so often of?” Your pin lowers, deadly tip resting on the ground and undoubtedly ruining its point. The spider takes your pause as confirmation, and a levity she has not shown at any point in her stay in this land infects her. “You are! Forgive my enthusiasm, it’s just – she would speak so highly of you, you see. Herrah told me all about the Protector of Pharloom, and how you fought to keep her and the Weavers safe.” She smiles at you, and for a moment it is like Herrah is before you again, echoing across time. But where Herrah would have the wits to stop while she was ahead, her daughter foolishly continues. “I am so happy to finally meet you. Mother told me all about what a good friend you were, and I am glad to get to make your acquaintance.” You are not sure what face you make. You know it must be a terrible one, by how the spider’s expression falls and she reaches for the needle she failed to retrieve while you were distracted. A pity for her. You are already upon her, pin stabbed into her shoulder joint with a satisfying crack as you punch through and through. You think you can be magnanimous enough to speak to her, just this once. "....You look just like her. You look just like your mother, and I hate you for it." You wrench your pin from her shoulder and soak in the pained wail she makes for it. You place a heavy paw on her chest as she scrabbles under her cloak, likely trying to stem the haemolymph springing from her shattered chitin and staining her cloak in a mockery of yours. You rest the tip of your pin on her throat, and ready to snuff out this flickering life that should never have existed. You cannot help yourself, and indulge in a little light mockery to raise your spirits and dampen hers. “But I will not make you suffer for her sins. I will return your head to her before I end her, too.” Alas, your indulgences have always been your downfall. Before you can make true on your promise and spear her, she whips a hand out from her cloak and throws something small and spinning at you. In an instant, it expands like a blooming flower into a shrieking saw and promptly begins cleaving through your chest – her line seems well-versed in knowing how to tear your heart in half. It is your turn to scream as you fall back under the momentum of the blades, dropping your pin as you try and wrench the sawblade out from your threads. In the pandemonium, the spider dashes from the room, diverting only to grab her blade in one fluid movement. The sight of those horns and that flashing red fabric vanishing around the corner is worse than the saw finally punching through your chest. You scream, rage and misery cracking your voice as your quarry escapes you for the first time in eons. You weave your way through the crowd, cursing that you were spun so short compared to your Mother’s first daughters. Would an extra inch have drained Her dry? These gilded halls were built for beings much taller than yourself, and at times it seems the very building reminds you of that. Even the servitors seem to miss you, nearly tripping you up as they scuttle under your feet. Thankfully, you are left to pass unaccosted through the Weavenest until you stand in front of the command centre, at which point Atla blocks your path and matches your glare with her own. “Herrah is busy, child. She is working on Weaver business and is not to be disturbed.” You roll your eyes, not masking your contempt. You’ve spent decades working with Herrah and her sisters to free you all of your Mother’s grasp, but still, many of the other spiders distrust you. It hurt, once, when you were hoping to replace your lacklustre family with a web of sisters, but they closed ranks on you whenever you tried. As if the circumstances between your creation and theirs are somehow irrevocably different, simply because they were made from something and you were made from nothing. You give a creation the ability to bleed and it acts so superior! Now their refusal to accept your help just pisses you off. How Herrah tolerates their arrogance each day you don’t know. “Well, it’s a good thing the information I have is vital to Weaver business, Atla. Or would you rather not know how She is planning to ambush the scouts heading to the Abyss this time? I can sit pretty out here and let our sisters get stabbed if so and take a break for once.” Hah, the easiest way to royally piss Atla off is to imply you are at all related to them. That you are bound together by the God that pulls your strings matters little to them, and that technically none of the Weavers are sisters, first of their kind as they are, also matters not. To Atla, the truth is that they are Weaver and you are Not and therefore should not be here. “You shut your mouth, toy. You are here only because Herrah has a blind spot a league long when it concerns you. “You do not even attempt to hide the smug look on your face at Atla’s frustration. This only serves to rile her up further. “You should take care to ensure you stay in her good books, you pest! If she ever comes to her senses, you will very quickly be reminded of your place, brat!” The implication, of course, being that your place is far from your darling's side. Too bad Herrah herself doesn’t agree with their opinion, as she is drawn out by your spat and her worried frown vanishes at the sight of you. You try to not smile too conceitedly at the bristling Atla as Herrah sweeps you into a hug, giggling as she sweeps fluttery kisses over your face. Sadly, as much as you would love to stick your tongue down your love’s throat in front of her scowling sisters, you do actually have important information to share. “Good morning, darling! I’m afraid I cannot sit and chat – I have intelligence on the Choir’s movements to share before they bundle up the Absolom team.” The joy is swept from your face, and you regret having to add more troubles to Herrah’s shoulders. But this small stress will prevent greater pain in the future, so you do as you must. She shoos you into the command centre, hissing at Atla as you enter about barring you from entering. You don’t bother to listen in to the conversation, as you’ve already heard it a thousand times before – Herrah has had this argument with her sisters before and will have this argument again, but you don’t particularly care anymore if they like you or not. She likes you, and that is all that matters. You only call them your sisters to make Herrah happy. Honestly, she’s the only reason you consider them family at all. Distant family perhaps, but still. As close as creations like you can be considered related. You start spreading out missives you hurriedly copied regarding troop movements and orders from your Mother, placing the most pressing front and centre. Herrah returns, unhurried, and begins reading through the dispatches while you rattle off the most pertinent information. Usually, she takes everything in with a calm, analytical disposition, but today she remains unsettled, her eyes passing over the same line repeatedly. You would love to say you are not one to pry, but unfortunately you are as nosy as you are incorrigible. You place a soft hand on one of Herrahs and lean closer. “Is everything well, my love? I can set out to make a distraction, if we can’t pull our sisters back in time. It would be no issue-” Herrah stops you with a soft touch to your face. She smiles, but you can tell it struggles to reach her eyes. “It is quite alright, my star. Just worries that I can’t seem to shake.” Her eyes wander to where the other Weavers had been, before her attention returned to you. Hmm. Perhaps the arguments with her sisters weighed on her more heavily than you thought. You would have to be more discreet in your distaste for Atla and the others in the future. Plucking her hand from your face, you press a kiss to her fuzzy paw and drink in the grateful smile she shoots you. “Well then, I suppose I shall have to help distract you after this. If you can spare the time, I have more pressing matters to discuss in our hideout…” You think Herrah gets the gist as you waggle your eyebrows at her, her delighted laughter echoing through the room. Her sisters may see themselves as more important than you, but none can make her laugh as you do, so who’s the real winner here? The spider was driving you to distraction. She had you chasing her over all of Pharloom, scaling heights and diving into ravines you haven’t traversed in years. You hadn’t realised how much Pharloom had fallen apart while you ran around stabbing spiders, but the brutal reality stares you in the face with each broken bridge and collapsed thoroughfare you have to bypass. The Citadel is timeless, as decreed by Her, but outside the City of Song? Time eroded the land like water. You feel like it’s been wearing you away as well, smoothing you into something unrecognisable as you waited for Herrah to come back to you. Each glimpse of her – Hornet, you heard some worthless pilgrim call her – is like a knife straight to the core; a thousand echoes of the one you miss most in her every movement. You see her hunker in the grass to track prey, and you watch Herrah teaching you how to read the bent grasses and disturbed rocks. Then she lifts her head and scents the air, and it is like you have missed a step and are in freefall. You take your frustration out on her hide, which you are sure infuriates her as well. She is wily and she is fast, but you have spent lifetimes hunting her kind. Her every move gives her away, and you come so close to slicing her throat each time you battle her. But there is always something that stops you – either she pulls out a trick from her lesser half, or she plays dirty. Or you line up a killing blow, and she looks at you and Herrah is standing there and you hesitate for just long enough to miss your strike. This game of cat and mouse plays out for days, and while it is entertaining, you are rapidly growing tired of it. She tries to escape through the Underworks, for silks sake – you are already stained with your sins, you don’t need to add soot stains to the mix. Finally, the spider makes the choice to stop running and instead stands tall and proud when you enter the arena to face her once again, frustration in her voice and her needle pointed at you in clear challenge. “Enough! You, enemy of my kind, have dogged my steps long enough! I had hoped to get through to you, and to understand what has driven you to such extremes. But I see now there is no reason that would matter! You simply wish to see my blood stain your hands as so many others already have! We end this, here and now!” You smirk at her overconfidence. That she thinks she stands a chance against you, after you have beaten her in every battle so far, echoes her aunt’s pride in the worst ways. A shame, that Herrah never taught her to be humble. You shall have to fix that. You have become familiar with her moves after crossing blades so often. You push her, using your weight and size to your advantage. She has tried to go toe to toe with you before and been punished for it, so now she flits around like a drapefly and stings you with her darts. She knows to be wary of your pin and your claws, but she still keeps missing the openings you are giving her. That more than anything aggravates you – where is her skill? Where is her training? Where is Herrah in her blows and her feints? Unease ferments in her gut. Surely your Herrah would have taught her better than this. Is she – has she – no. You can’t think of that – it must be that her daughter is a disappointment. She spits on her mother’s talent with this poor showing. The sight of Herrah and her greatneedle struck fear into the hearts of your enemies – when she stepped off the battlefield she left only blood and corpses. This one, in comparison, can barely scratch you. You do not hide your disappointment. “Is this the best you can do, girl? You bring shame to your people. You couldn’t hit the broadside of a chapel! Stop dashing around like an excited flea and hit me!” You roll out the way of a lashing storm of electrified silk. The thread storm is expected, the lighting crackling along it is not – at least she seems to be learning a few new tricks in her desperation. It’s not enough to win, of course, but it’s nice to see her try. She snarls, furious at wasting her silk, and you do not think of hearing that same growl pressed into your chest in a long-gone age. She whips another of those accursed sawblades at you and forces you back as she shouts at you, incensed. “Don’t speak of my people! Don’t speak of my mother! I don’t know or care how you lied to her, but I know that you did! You aren’t a protector or a hero, you’re a monster and my aunts were right to have hated you!” She is wasting her breath repeating Weaver lies, but it makes you smirk all the same. Even after these countless, dragging years, your old sisters still steep in their rancor. You will be happy to prove them correct to hate you when you can finally meet them again and take their heads in reparation. As for this spider – you press your advantage by bullying in close once more, smacking the sawblade she was readying to throw out of her hands and sending it screaming into the distance. Before you can rack your claws down her torso she dashes backwards, limbs appearing from underneath her cloak as she evades you. What, was she hiding more limbs under her cloak? For what reason? You have no time to ponder this as she flings a barbed trap out on a line of silk, blocking you from a direct charge. Well, if you can’t push her directly, you can still distract her. You laugh, a hint of your old mania seeping through, enjoying how it unsettles her. “Ah, are your aunts still angry at me for existing? Does old Atla still bitch every time someone asks her to pull her weight? I’m not surprised. That lazy witch never did like me and was never smart enough to hide it.” Hornet looks confused, as if surprised that you still remember the names of her family. How could you forget? You had been part of it for so long – even if the other Weavers had been waiting for the chance to disown you from the start. You take the opportunity to slice the thread holding up the spiketrap, and throw down your own caltrops to regain control of the battlefield. In true spider fashion, the red maiden takes to the sky instead and clings to a wall above your head even as she continues to argue with you. “You know, I regret that I once thought so highly of you. You were my hero! You were the icon of what I thought one should be! I thought being a protector was something worthy to aspire to because of you!” It is clear you have hit a nerve, however involuntarily, as she grows sloppy in her movements and goes on the offensive, voice agitated. “I gave my life to keep my kingdom safe, because I thought it was noble! Like you were!” You keep out of her range with ease, toying with her and winding her up even more. “But you were nothing but a fraud!” Oh, but you cannot help but cackle. She’s so precious, so indignant at you smashing the pedestal she apparently spent a lifetime putting you on. It’s hardly your fault that reality is so much worse than the sanitised fiction that her mother fed her. You had never thought Herrah would hide from the truth, but you were also sure she loved you, once. You don’t know if you ever truly knew Herrah, or just the mask she showed you. Hornet goes to charge another threadstorm as you approach, but you have had enough. You grab her wrist before she can unleash her silk and revel in her gasp and the look of blatant shock for an instant before you throw her clear across the room. She tumbles across the floor and you stalk after her, kicking her needle away as you pass. A swift boot to the ribs knocks her back to the floor from where she was struggling to rise, and you thump to your knees over her, adrenaline racing through your body. It is like lightning racing through your body, and you can’t stop smiling. “You call me a fraud, when you spiders are the ones that betrayed me. You all abandoned me and are upset that you have to pay the price for it! They hated having to rely on me for their freedom!” You grab her arm from where it was darting under her cloak again, her shell blazing under your fingers. No saws this time. Just you, and her. You sneer, luxuriating in the desperation on her face and ignoring as she squirms desperately, trying to flee. “They made me a weapon, and were shocked I remained one just because they stopped having a use for me. But a blade can only be used to kill, and you will learn just how sharp I remain.” You wrench her arms above her head with one hand as she chokes, and grab a blade from her toolbelt with the other, ready to end this- And she whines. Um. This isn’t what you were expecting. You both freeze, and by the look of mortification spreading over her face, you are fairly sure she wasn’t meaning to do that, either. You are suddenly aware of the position you have put you both in, your legs bracketing her hips as her cloak is hiked to her neck, her body stretched out like a crude pin-up as you pin her wrists above her horns. You guess that her heavy breathing is from more than the battle. Acutely aware of how awkward you are making the situation, you let go of her wrists and sit back on your heels and ignore the feel of her thighs under you. Unfortunately, Hornet throws reason to the wind and grabs your head to drag you down into a blistering kiss and you immediately fold. The moan you get when you shove your tongue into her mouth lights every neuron in your imitation brain and you are desperate to hear what she sounds like when she screams. A bite to her neck has her throw her head back with a throaty moan, and you are suddenly very invested in keeping her alive for a while longer. If she’s as desperate to be fucked as she appears (and given the hands currently scrabbling at your belt to tear down your pants, you assume she’s pretty desperate) than you suppose you can let her walk away from this. Maybe you can let her walk away from Pharloom altogether. She can only get a glance at your cock, something that you nearly forgot you had and never bothered removing after the last you used it, before you are yanking her head back up for another blistering kiss. It may have been an eon since you last engaged in this delicious pastime, but lust roars to life quick as ever at the feel of her claws in your back. The sight of what you wield was enough for her to spread her legs in open invitation, and you swallow her howl as you accept what she is offering. It is incredibly spiteful of you – cruel, even – that half of your lust is driven not by the spider currently jerking under you but by the idea of sending her back to Herrah ridden hard and put away wet. Just the notion of Hornet having to walk home with your cum dripping from her has you hiking one of her legs over your shoulder and really putting your back into it. From the way she sobs your name, you are sure your extensive experience in Weaver anatomy is being well conveyed. You catch sight of her face, twisted in pleasure and feel a jolt of unease up your spine when there are only two eyes looking at you instead of six. Eager to forget, you shove your face into her neck and start to lose yourself in the warm clutch of her body. Hidden, you gasp for someone long lost. ”Herrah-” You freeze. There is spite and then there is depravity. Again, Hornet dubiously charges ahead and grabs the ruffled silk on the back of your neck to drag you back into the crook of her neck and squeezes your waist with her free leg, moaning piteously. You, weakling you are, break under her touch and drag her hips into your thrusts, angling in the way you know will drive any Weaver to her peak. The shattered scream she gives you lets you know you have succeeded. You hate how she is stoking the fire in your belly, and you close your eyes and let yourself pretend it is someone else under you. You only stop chanting the wrong name when you bury your teeth in her neck. Heart in your throat, you skid around the corner and avoid the oncoming patrol by the finest thread. In your fist, the planned scouting routes of Mother’s guards for the next few moons. The patrols are getting more frequent, the Choir responding with increasing severity as the Weavers up the ante in their rebellion. Mother has disowned them entirely, and the only spiders allowed in the Citadel are those who have accepted the steep price of proving their loyalty. It is hard not to flinch at the sight of those pins crudely jammed into Widow’s back, and her spiralling sanity makes you wonder if she regrets the cost of your Mother’s love. Sometimes, you wonder if it would be kinder to slit the maskless spider’s throat and let her rest rather than watch her distort herself to try and earn a drop of attention from the Grand Mother. (You know that Her gaze will never fall on Widow again. She will suffer for her sister’s sins for an eternity, and Mother will never care, judged and condemned as the Weaver is in Her eyes). You are sure that if Mother ever found out what you were doing, you would be punished with equal cruelty as the pitiful weaver. You would not be discarded as your other, imperfect sisters – Mother would have a field day finding new, nightmarish ways to make you regret ever turning your gaze from her majesty. And that is exactly why she must never know, and why you must succeed in your escape. There will be no mercy if you fail. The footsteps of the choirbugs fade as they leave the High Halls, and you take an unnecessary sigh of relief. Each reconnaissance run edges you closer to capture - you have had too many close calls lately to not suspect that there is a leak in your network. But who? Mother is not duplicitous enough to have a spy on the inside – She is a bludgeon to the delicate work of sleuthing. That is why She made you, after all. To be Her eyes and ears everywhere, even in the hidden spaces where bugs think they are alone and speak freely. And you have long since learnt how to close off the parts of your mind that you wish to keep secret when you commune with Her. ...It has been a while since She has spoken with you. You hadn’t thought too closely on the matter, taking the chance to spend more time in Herrah’s arms and assuming that Mother was slumbering. But are you sure? You haven’t checked in as many days. Dread creeps over your silk, and you run a quick check over your body – has She- is there- There is. A single strand, so fine it can only be seen when you twist just right in the light. You do your best to smother your panic, lest it travel down the silk thread like a flare. How long has she been connected to you? How much has she seen? Has she been watching while you stole from her gendarme? Has she seen you holding your darling and kissing her so sweetly? Gods, have you killed everyone because you were too busy being distracted to notice that you have been possessed this entire time? There is no time to panic. You make your mind smooth, pure, inert. Shoving the missives in your pant pockets, you immediately turn and make for the Cradle. If she knows what you have done – any of it – you are dead, and that will be your (tell) that you were the mole. If she doesn’t immediately strike you down...then she doesn’t know what you have been getting up to, and you can divert any suspicion from yourself. There is no time to waste. Making yourself unfeeling, unthinking, a simple child that has no higher aspirations than to make Mother happy, you stand before her cocoon and place a gentle paw on Her silk. Silence. Both inside and out, the only sound is Her reverberating heartbeat as she slumbers in her prison. The ocean of Her mind is smooth, placid, still. There is not even a ripple of hatred on its surface, as there is when She is close to consciousness. So...She sleeps, then? She must. She does not possess the control to obfuscate Her feelings like this. If Mother had the slightest inkling of what – who – you have been doing, Her mind would be a raging ocean and you would be swept into the tempest in a heartbeat. You gently stroke the silk of Her confinement, and project gentle, happy thoughts. Simple feelings of love and devotion, crumbs to keep her calm and content in Her god-dream. It will not be enough to truly satisfy – not even close. You keep the thought buried deep as you commune with the god, but you are sure that there is not enough love in the world to ever make Her happy. She is a hole in the world where everything good and holy goes to die. Satisfied that you are out of the woods for now, you give Her a soft smile. Even if She can’t see it. This is the closest you ever get to loving Her anymore, when you can just be near Her and nothing is expected. You stay for a moment longer, savouring the gentle lap of her tranquil mind over yours. Unfledged godling as you are, you underestimate the depths of her soul. The undercurrent of her rage at your treachery flows leagues beneath where you stand and does not stir the surface. It will not until far, far too late. The silence is heavy, and broken only by the occasional scrape of you passing the whetstone over the top of your pin. The spider stopped talking sometime after you pinned her face-first to the ground and nearly crushed the shell of her hip under your paw, and the only movement she had done since was to roll onto her back and throw an arm over her face as she began to comprehend what she had just done. You, on the other hand, don't really care about whatever crisis of conscience she is having. You are quite content to sit peacefully, nuder than the day you were made, and bask in the afterglow of having truly got one over Herrah. The guilt will come later, you are sure – but for now, you are at peace, endorphins fizzing through your brain at a merry pace. The spider huffs, and you glance over, taking in her dishevelment with an appraising eye. You had wiped yourself clean after but didn't bother to extend that help to her – you are being generous enough in not slitting her neck open while she is vulnerable. You always cleaned Herrah before her betrayal, your act of service as much an excuse to keep touching her as it was to worship her as she deserved. Her half-breed offspring deserves no such courtesy. Sadly, the guilt you have been successfully batting away flares when she reaches between her legs and grimaces at the mess you left behind. Cursing the both of you – her for being so pitiful, you for not having stamped out that desire to serve – you throw the rag for your pin at her and look away before she can catch your gaze, or before the shame can sink deeper into your fibres. It doesn't stop her from talking as cloth rustles over chitin. “...we should talk about what just happened.” Not on either of your lives! Your focus on your pin is unmatched. “This never happened and we shall never speak of this again.” More rustling. She appears beside you, looking slightly more respectable than before. You bite back bile, hating and regretting that it takes so little for her to look like you never touched her – as if your touch wasn’t inherently corrupting. If she left now, it would be as if you were never here. You still refuse to look at her face, scared that you will see someone else looking back. “What did you mean, when you said you were a weapon?” You pause in your maintenance, point sharper than when you started this fight. When you glance sidelong at her you see she has curled her knees to her chest, resting her head on them as she looks at you curiously. For a moment, you see a different woman, watching you as you cared for both your weapons after being lost in each other’s arms. You look back at your lap and feel the sudden urge to be dressed again. “I meant exactly what I said. I became a weapon for the Weavers, for them to strike out at my homeland.” You are thankfully excused from looking at the living reminder of your failure as you step back into your pants, only slightly worse for wear. “She asked me to change, and I did so gladly. I did anything I could to make her smile.” Hornet is silent as you shake off your shirt and inspect it for damage. Only a few new tears and one suspicious wet patch. Fixable, even if it would not be like new after. You will still feel the filth ground into the fabric no matter how much you clean it. You try not to ruminate too hard on why you are having such strong feelings about a shirt. “I was the dagger she used to slip between the Citadel’s ribs, and she repaid me with abandonment when the Choir caught me instead.” She is frowning, still curled into her knees. An old reflex wants to flick a horn to wipe the serious expression of her face, but you catch yourself before you embarrass yourself further. “...my aunts rarely talked about leaving Pharloom. They wanted to forget it even as they feared its reach. Admittedly, I remember little of what they said – it was all a very long time ago.” She sighed, melancholic. “But I remember…they would whisper it, sometimes. How they had to drag my mother from this place. That she would have ran back in if they hadn't begged.” She catches your eyes, hers soft and filled with a sad acceptance as she understands how flawed her beloved family was. “I think they always resented my mother for that – that they had to beg her to choose them instead.” You are so tired. The futility of your actions – the repugnancy of what you have done – will drag you under and fill your lungs with shame, and you will choke on it. You can only think of futures you were too scared to take, possibilities that you were angry to pursue. You could have ran after her. You could have interrogated that first weaver you found instead of gutting her. You could have trusted Herrah and known she wouldn't have betrayed you instead of immediately spiralling and wishing her dead. Is it any wonder she hid from you so thoroughly? She would be ashamed to know you as you are now, silk no longer pure and clean after having been soaked in the blood of her sisters. She would be disgusted at her pathetic fallen star. If she ever finds out what you have done to her daughter, she will drive her greatneedle through your heart and you will deserve every inch of its steel. You are so busy wallowing that you nearly miss Hornet when she speaks again. “...I wish I could have found you sooner. It would have made her so happy.” Dread drips down your spine. You are desperate to leave this conversation and cling to your ignorance. You need to remain dumb and blind to reality or you will be dragged into the undertow of your grief and you will never break the surface again. You feel your mouth sound out the words of its own accord and watch as your body keeps talking with a silent horror. “What do you mean, would?” Hornet just looks at you sadly. You know the truth. You don’t want to hear it. But she tells you anyway. “My mother is dead. Has been for centuries. She died so long ago I can barely remember her face, or her voice... I just remember the stories she gave me.” You have spent these long, lonely eons thinking that your heart had been dashed into pieces too small to feel, but you only now realise that you have been wrong. Now, your heart breaks and you cannot even shed a tear as it does so. You have been crying for so long that you don’t know how to do anything else – but now, when it is most pressing, you have nothing left in you to cry. The very worst thing, the part that hurts the most, is that you knew. You knew the second you saw Hornet clad in her mother’s colours and being dragged into the realm, that your Herrah was dead. How could she have been alive if Hornet was here with you? She would never have been taken if your love still drew breath. If she was still alive, you would still be all alone, as you deserve. Despite the relative warmth of your surroundings, it feels as though winter has settled in your chest. The anguish you have spent so long running from has drained into your lungs and stolen your breath with its frigid grasp and you can do nothing to escape it this time. There is no capacity for higher thought left as you gather your pin and your cloak and make to leave; you need to not be here. You need to not be looking at the last remnant of the only good times you have ever experienced. Before you can leave, the spider’s hand grasps yours as she scrambles to her feet. “Wait! Before you leave- I am sorry to be the one to deliver this news. Truly. I thought – hm. I am so used to everyone knowing that Hallownest is long dead that I just assumed you knew.” She looks serious, so unlike Herrah’s joviality. You can’t keep looking at her anymore. But you can’t break the fragile hold she has on your wrist. “If it would not be too much to ask – could I talk with you in the future? I am still new to these lands, and would appreciate learning of them from one as experienced as yourself. And- it would be nice. To learn more about the stories I heard about as a child.” You make the mistake of glancing at her, and in her hopeful face all you can see is Herrah, so happy to see you again. You tear your eyes away from the awful sight and deny the foolish spider her wish. “No. We will talk no more. This will not happen again.” Against your better judgement, it does happen again. You are a cowardly, vile creature, but you are too desperate to refuse the fleeting glimpses you get of the ghost you miss when Hornet is foolish enough to let you into her arms. The Exhaust Organ does not play continuously, despite what Mother would like – Phantom still needs their rest. They need it more as the years go by and they remain eschewed by Her. While this may be dreadful for Phantom’s health, it is brilliant for your ability to get out from under your Mother’s thumb for a while. You are happy to keep your chatter light, surface level – things that are small and can take Phantom’s mind off their isolation and exhaustion. You wish you could do more for them, but between your Mother’s demands and spending time with your sweet little spider, you find yourself rather time-poor as of late. Perhaps you can start skipping out on some of Mother’s less important requests? Phantom is more important anyway, deserving of your care and the silk you can barter from the Weavers more than She needs coddling. Maybe you should bring Herrah here sometime – let her meet the only member of your family that matters. Just the thought of Herrah is enough to have you giggling besottedly in the middle of your silly anecdote about the drapemite that got locked in the spa with the Pontiff. Despite the wear of their body, Phantom’ mind remains keen as ever, and they immediately pounce while you are distracted. “So, little sister. Are you going to tell me why you are fluttering around like a trapped silkfly? It has been a long time since I have seen you so joyful, and I would know the reason.” They play a little ditty as they speak, fingers practiced enough to dance along the keys with no conscious thought from the musician themselves. Their music had once delighted Mother, but once the novelty wore off She soon grew bored and tossed Phantom away. Like She did with every other child (toy) she made. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the rumours that have been passing through the vents, would it? That there is a Weaver out there who has stolen something priceless from the Princess?” You shy away from Phantom’s stern gaze, unable to wipe the smile off your face at the mention of your darling. You should probably be worried that you have apparently been obvious enough that Phantom of all people knows of your relationship, but...truthfully, you have been desperate to share this with someone. You never knew how much you could feel before you had experienced Herrah’s kiss, and you fear if you don’t vent some of your emotions out to someone you shall explode into a thousand tiny pieces. “Well, there may be some truth to those rumours, sibling! Though I suppose you deserve to hear it from the hardbone’s mouth, as it were.” You sway in place, kicking your legs and beaming at finally being able to let out everything you have been bottling up. “But yes, I suppose they are true! The pale princess of Pharloom, daring protector and knight, is in love!” Now that the dam has broken, a deluge falls from your lips. You couldn’t stop your gushing if you tried. “In love with the handsomest, most beautiful spider in the world! And she loves me back!” Delighted, you stand and twirl in place as you subject your sibling to the tsunami of your affections. “To think, Phantom! That I of all people would find such a love! That so wonderful a woman exists, and that I get to be with her! We must have been fated to meet; how else could you explain such a connection as we have?” You laugh, free and overjoyed. Phantom says nothing, watching you with a worried look on their face that douses your enthusiasm somewhat. “Well, don’t celebrate too hard for me Phantom! I would hate for you to get too excited for me!” You pout childishly and are not particularly self-conscious about it. Would it truly kill them to show even a shred of enthusiasm for your relationship? “Hm, I apologise for my lack of reaction. I am glad to see you so happy, sister, but that is not the only rumour I have been hearing.” Phantom leans forward, gently tugging on your hand to lead you to sit next to them afore the organ. “I have also been hearing rumours that you have been taking part in the Weaver’s sedition. That you have been sneaking around the Citadel and looking into things you should not. But you have not been, surely. You of all people would know better than to anger the Grand Mother so blatantly.” You cross your arms, the small bolt of fear in your heart buried under your buoyed self-confidence. “You have been hearing a surprising amount all the way down here, sibling! Pray tell, who has been feeding such interesting tidbits to you? I may have to visit them and inform them of the price of breaching a lady’s privacy!” “Lace, take this seriously!” Phantom’s raised voice shocks you, as does the urgency in their tone. They grab you by the biceps, staring at you with such an intent look it unsettles you. “Sister, if I am hearing such murmurs then She will definitely know them! Are you trying to get your beau and yourself killed? Rebelling against the Grand Mother in her own home? I know you are not this foolish!” You gasp in affront at the accusation. As if you would ever put Herrah in danger! Everything you are doing is to actively remove the peril she and her sisters face at the hands of your Mother! “How dare you! You think I am so clumsy that She would ever find out? She has no clue what I am doing, regardless of how pitiful you seem to think I am! Just because you feel the need to overreact all the time-” You are cut off by Phantom shaking you desperately, ignoring you batting at their hands in irritation. “No Lace, you don’t seem to be grasping the severity of this situation. You and your Weaver both! You are treating this like it is a game, like Mother is an idiot and not a God! Lace – she is so much worse than you think! You haven’t seen the depths she will sink to when she is upset, but I have. Lace – if you displease her, she will do anything to hurt you.” The panic in their eyes freezes your heart in your chest, and you can swear it stops beating for a moment. “Not stop you, Lace. Hurt you. You know how quickly she condemned us to our slow rot for the crime of imperfection. If she finds out you have purposefully moved against her, her wrath will be unfathomable.” Their fear is, perhaps, justified. There is little doubt they would get tarred with the same brush if Mother finds out about your treachery. Mother has already doomed Phantom to a life of misery and a slow death for the crime of not being interesting enough. Phantom is breathing heavily, even just this small show of emotion enough to tire them. You soften, finding it hard to hold on to your frustration when they are so obviously worried for you. You understand now how it feels to be more scared for another than for yourself. Attempting to reassure them, you gently pat their hand. They don’t understand why you insist on putting yourself in such danger, digging yourself deeper into your Mother’s operations to feed it all back to your darling’s people. They have never been in love like you have. One day, hopefully, they will – once you have deposed of Mother, of course. Phantom sags against you, wrapping you in a hug. You startle a little, but return it – Phantom is usually not the touchy-feely type, but you are happy to indulge them when they desire some affection. “I just get so scared for you, Lace. You think you can beat her at her own game, but she is so much more than any of us. I just want you to stay happy and safe.” You laugh softly and squeeze them tightly, giggling at the squeak you wring from them. “There is no need to fear for me, sibling dear. I was spun to be silent and deadly – espionage like this is child’s play. And it makes my darling Herrah so happy when I am able to keep her sisters out of danger; you must understand why I will keep doing this.” You do not tell them that keeping them out of danger is also why you do this. If you can depose the monarch at the crown of the Citadel...you can get Phantom out of this depressing place, and with people who can spin them stronger and healthier than ever. Despite your reassurances, Phantom does not look appeased. They bury their face in your wimple and just hug you tighter, and sadly remarks to you, “Oh, Lace. I just hope your heart stays safe after all this.” The organ stays silent as you hold each other, futilely hoping the dangers of the outside world will pass you by a little while longer. A switch has been flipped, and now the hunter becomes the hunted. You avoid the spider as best you can, but to your great frustration she turns out to be as formidable a tracker as you. She dogs your steps, a shadow you can’t shake – it feels like every time you turn around, she is there. You nearly hate it. You wish you could say you hate her, but you are finding it hard to hold on to your scorn nowadays. Just as love once bled from you, you can feel your antipathy draining from you, drop by drop. You don’t know what to do if you are not powered by fury and you find yourself adrift, spurred only by the desire to avoid the very bug responsible for cracking the dam. It is just – it hurts, seeing her. Her face, her movements, her mannerisms – they are fractured glass reflecting sights and memories you thought long forgotten. The afterimage of Herrah when she laughs at your dry sarcasm is like a fist around your throat. You demonstrate how to disarm the Skarr traps and have to get a breath of fresh air to dispel the echo of Herrah guiding your hands over taunt wires. The worst thing is when you are holding her, after another ill-fated encounter, and you remember nothing at all. You think of the poor rabid Widow tying herself in knots to taste a sip of Mother’s love again, and you worry how much more you can take before you begin to spiral too. You cannot take it. You want to cocoon yourself in the pain you have known so well. You want to burn every memory you have and start again, blank and free. You want to hurt and you want it to stop and you want to sleep for a thousand years and not wake until every living thing related to a Weaver has crumbled to dust. You wish you could pluck your heart out and leave it far behind. If you trusted the Grand Mother, even the slightest amount, you would beg her to take out your brain and make you the empty little doll She so wishes you were. In the end, you choose the easiest path, and decide to go wallow for a bit. You haven’t had a good wallowing for nearly a fortnight now and are well overdue. Thankfully, Hornet keeps herself busy enough chatting to all and sundry that you are sure she will be too busy rescuing someone’s pet flea to chase you this time. You make sure you are not being followed by any persistent, annoying halflings, and steal away to your safehouse, intent on drowning yourself in your grief again. Even if that grows harder each day with how the ocean is dwindling. Your secret den is well-hidden, and for good reason – this was where you and Herrah would arrange your clandestine meetings, avoiding both her sisters and your Mother and simply luxuriating in each other’s company. And yet...it was not as well hidden as you thought. This was where you had been dragged from your heart’s arms. This is where a certain spider is currently rummaging through your things, without any care for the sanctity of this location. It seems you do, in fact, contain some hidden reservoirs of fury as the sight of Hornet with her nose buried in a tender letter you shared with Herrah fills you with such wrath you stop seeing in colour for a few seconds. It is lucky for Hornet that she has spent so many nights sparring with you in varying levels of murderous intent, as her only warning that you have taken offense to her wanton disregard of your privacy is the ragged shriek that tears from your throat as you fling your pin at her head. The spider dodges, crimson cloak nearly snagging on your projectile as it passes – but it sings by her and lodges instead in one of the few remaining pictures of you and Herrah together. The unholy screech you let out frightens Hornet enough that she leaps out of your way – helpful, as you would have sent her flying in your haste to get to your treasured memento. You gently pry at the pin, trying to choke down your whimpers and failing spectacularly. In a marvelous twist of fate, the celebratory portrait of you and all the Weavers on the eve of your rebellion is not overtly damaged by the blade jammed through it – Atla’s face has been completely destroyed, but you don’t care about ruining her image. The important part is still intact, and you gently stroke a thumb over the proud arches of a beaming Herrah’s horns, fangs splayed in triumph as she holds you to her side. You make a conscious effort to control your breathing, lest you burst into tears and ruin the picture as Hornet rounds you to stand by your shoulder. You stay silent, a touch too unstable to say anything that you will not regret later. Hornet takes the chance to speak instead. “I...apologise for the intrusion. I would lie and say it was an accident, but in truth I find myself driven to uncover every secret I can in this land. I only found the entrance by inspecting every inch of this cavern, and I did not realise what this place was until I started reading one of your letters.” Well, at least she is honest in her nosiness. Somehow, it soothes your fury – you suppose you are not used to dealing with people that will just accept blame when they have done wrong. She lets her eyes linger on the picture of you and Herrah, so much younger and happier, and you make the effort to not be such a bitter old witch for once. You tilt the picture so she can see it better and as she inspects it, you cannot help but behold how similar she is to her mother. With the photograph in hand, the similarities are stark – but Hornet looks thunderstruck by this. “That – that is Herrah? She looks so much like me. Even her mask – I didn’t realise she looked like that, back then.” Wordlessly, you offer her the picture, keenly aware of the smaller, happier version of you in it. You hope she does not point out how much you’ve changed too harshly. “…I forgot what her original mask looked like. I only saw her with that damned Dreamer mask for so long – it replaced her face in my mind. Looking at it now...I wonder how I ever forgot it.” “Our minds never seem to store the important parts. Just the silly little details. I could tell you exactly how many fliers were in the group that broke in and took me from here, but I couldn’t tell you what my last words to her were. That part wasn’t important, apparently.” You look around your old hideout, and you take the chance to be asking the questions for once. Looking back at Hornet, she is staring at the picture; perhaps doing her best to commit it to memory. “You said you didn’t realise what she looked like. I take it she did not look like this in your time, then?” A shake of the head. “No. She was much different in my childhood than here. She would have towered over you, even tall as you are, and likely outweighed you as well. Her greatneedle was thrice the size of the one she is wielding here, and she was the driving force of our villages hunting parties – her appetite by the end was legendary. I think she was hunting the goams that ran beneath our village with Midwife before she slept, and I do not know if they would have been enough to sate her for much longer if she had lived.” The figure she describes is one of awe – and one you missed entirely. Somehow, it feels like another death. That Herrah had changed so much in her long lifetime without you that the woman you remember was nearly unrecognisable to those that knew her at her zenith. How long has this room been a shrine to a person who stopped existing long before her body died? You think aloud. “I wonder if I would have recognised her if I had actually ever found her again. I wonder if she would have recognised me if she had ever seen me again.” Hornet makes an odd noise, and you turn to her in query. “Well,” She stumbles, passing back your memento, “You looked just as I had imagined you would in my dreams. So she may have recognised you all the same.” You raise both eyebrows at her, hoping to properly convey your levels of curiosity about her slip of the tongue. She blushes and buries her snout in her collar, but you refuse to let her escape and give her cape a firm tug to prevent her from hiding her face. She grumbles and swats at your hand before begrudgingly elaborating. “You were the focus of all my childhood stories of valour and virtue! The daring warrior-protector that dove into the perils of the Citadel to save my people! Is it any surprise that I admired you so? Especially considering the – in hindsight – obvious affection for that protector in my mother’s stories.” You laugh, sounding almost like you weren’t near tears minutes ago. Despite your full intentions to come here and sink into your misery you find you can’t drown yourself this time. There is the grief of knowing that Herrah missed you as you missed her – but there is also a relief in that. That you were not forgotten, and that she carried you with her in some small part, far beyond the bounds of this rotten land. Mostly, there is a startled elation that Herrah’s offspring was so excited in seeing you and that you – somehow, despite your bloodstained hands – have lived up to her expectations. Hornet is laughing alongside you, shy as Herrah never was. It’s new and strange and appealing. As you allow yourself to retell some of your carefully hoarded memories in the shrine you built to the love you and Herrah once shared, you expect to once again be overwhelmed with Herrah’s image. Instead, all you can see is Hornet. You are hidden away in the Shellwood practising your forms. Today you are sloppy, your attention thoroughly scattered as you delight in the memories of being in Herrah’s arms as your body goes through the motions of your drills. You keep having to redo moves as you just cannot seem to stop giggling as your mind keeps returning to the memories of last night, practically rolling around in them like a muckroach in filth. You are hardly making any attempt to focus, though. It is not like you consummate your union with your one true love for the first time every day, and you are still practically floating on air from it. It had been wonderful – Herrah had been wonderful, so soft and tender. You had been so happy that you couldn’t stop giggling, and neither had your darling. From what little you had overheard of sex, you had always been under the notion that it was either a serious, no-nonsense affair (for the bugs who were matched to be married) or a frenzied thing that ended in death, both little and final (for the cruder bugs that just needed assistance to reproduce). You had never known it could be so fun! Obviously, your love must just be better than everyone else. You’d say she should teach them all a lesson, but if anyone tries to touch her as you do you’ll cut their hands off with a smile. It is likely your laughter, then, that brought the very topic of your idolization closer. Out of nowhere, a flurry of arms wrap around you and before you can panic or strike out with your pin, Herrah’s face appears over your shoulder. “Well, what is this? A wonderful little treat I find, all alone in the forest? How lucky am I to have found such a treasure!” She spins you both and you giggle helplessly, heart already feeling so light that you would float away if she had not tethered you to the earth with her arms. “Darling! I thought you weren’t travelling to this side of the citadel again for another week!” You wiggle in her arms and twist to plant a rain of kisses on her mask, taking care to kiss the corner of each eye that is squinted in joy. When she nuzzles you in return, you marvel at the fact you can fit so much joy in you. She pulls back from where she had moved to nuzzling at the hinge of your jaw, and grins at your pout. “Originally, I had not planned to be anywhere close. But some of my sisters and I were...disturbed by a patrol of your Mother’s Choir, so we went our separate ways. And when I heard your laughter, I simply had to say hello to my brightest star.” You go weak at the knees and have to cover your mouth with a petite hand, lest she see how dopey your grin is. The light fades from her face slightly as she throws a worried look over her shoulder. “Alas, I fear I must keep going, little one. I am not sure if the patrol will be passing through the Shellwood in the coming hour, and I fear upsetting the Grand Mother more than I already have.” Oh, is that all she is worried about? You snort and wave away her worries. “Oh, don’t worry about them! The Shellwood guard won’t be coming through for another three hours. Stay for a while longer, love!” Oddly enough, this seems the wrong thing to have said as Herrah pulls back with a confused look. “Wait, why won’t they be here? Do you know where they go?” You smile and pat her cheek, only slightly condescending. Oh, your spider is so cute like this. You suppose it only makes sense, forgotten by Mother as she and her sisters are. “My darling, I know everything about the Citadel and its forces. Not a soul moves through this land without my knowledge! I am Mother’s eyes and ears, after all!” Tucked up against her as you are, you feel her suck in a breath at your revelation. Her eyes widen, and you see her go to say something – but she stops, and you frown. She knew you were Mother’s princess-daughter, favoured above all others – did she not believe you? Was she jealous? You let some of your irritation leak into your words, and you cross your arms, leaning back and letting light come between you both. “You wanted to say something. What, did you think I was lying when I said I was Mother’s knight? I am the one she sends to quell Her problems and to ensure Her realm runs smoothly. Of course I would know the movements of her gendarme! I am the one who has to organise them half the time!” “Oh Lace, my star – no, I don’t think you were lying. I just – Hmm. I was not exaggerating when I said my sisters and I had to run from the Choir, earlier. I fear the Grand Mother tires of my people, and it is showing. We are being restricted in our movements more and more each day, and it makes it hard to travel – hard to escape Her sight.” She is visibly uncomfortable, unable to meet your gaze, but when you pull her back to look you in the eye, she is resolute. “I do not wish to place any pressure on you, or make you turn on your Mother. But, if you were to tell me where the Grand Mother is looking, so I may not be there...I would be in your debt.” You know how serious Herrah is with her debts. She has not told you this lightly, and you know if you agreed to help as she has asked, she would not resent you for whatever price you may ask. For once, you do not want to hold power over someone, using their obligation as a leash to enforce your will. Is it so much to ask, that you could be equal to Herrah? But still, you are confused. “...I know the Weavers are not Mother’s favoured daughters any longer. But why do you want to leave her? Why do you want to escape so badly you would disown our God?” She looks at you with something close to pity, but not quite. Commiseration, perhaps. “Because we want to be free. Wouldn’t you want to be free as well?” And you cannot help but think of it. A concept so abstract that you cannot even imagine its shape – yet Herrah and the others have already begun to grab at it. What would freedom be? Well, a lack of fear, for one. You would never again have to force yourself to be a perfect, empty doll to avoid any punishment from Her for the crime of being an individual. You would not be ignored for days, weeks, months as She forgets you exist while She plays with Her queendom. You would never need to fear losing her favour and being shelved and exiled, as so many of your sisters and siblings before you for the sin of no longer being loved. You would not need to watch the Choir with a wary eye as their ranks swell, knowing how easily they would turn on you once they have finished ousting the spiders under Mother’s neglect. And then, you look at Herrah, hope written clear as day across her face, and imagine happiness. Your hand in hers, open and unashamed, in some land far over the horizon where you can press a kiss to your sweethearts fangs without the sword of Damocles above your head. Your choice is easy to make in light of these thoughts. Holding Herrahs’s beautiful face in your hands, you have never been as serious and committed as you are now. “My love, please. Let me help you get out of Pharloom, and then I beg of you, let me come with you. That is my only wish of you – that you take me with you, when you go.” Tears in her eyes, your Weaver gives a relieved laugh before kissing your forehead and then the backs of your hand, so softly but still filling your chest full to bursting. “Oh, my bright, beautiful star. I would love nothing more than to explore the world with you at my side.” It is all you ever wanted to hear. You idle away the hours before Herrah must leave again, gleefully revisiting your games from last night. She helps pick out sticks from your silk as you brush leaves and dirt from her fur, taking the excuse to cuddle in close and twine your fingers into her mane. She laughingly peels your fingers off as you cling to her and pout as she stands to leave. It’s all part of the game, and when she gives you a final, blistering kiss you let go and wave her off. As you watch her vanish into the undergrowth, you sigh, infatuated and foolish, before picking up your pin and returning to your forms. And then, a thread drifts from above, and freezes you. Just for a moment. Just long enough to relay a message. “child….come to me...i wish to hear of all that is happening in my realm.” Mother’s summons comes out of nowhere, but you do not have the choice to refuse. Refusal will make her irate, and you need to refrain from giving her reasons to go digging around in your head too deeply. You are still so flustered from your latest visit with that darling spider of yours that you know without a shadow of a doubt, if you do anything to draw the Grand Mother’s attention you are doomed. Even though you have been practising this role your whole life, tonight will be your greatest test. If you can make it through this audience, you will be safe – and you can ensure that your darling is, too. For however long this union between you and Herrah lasts, or until you are finally free of Pharloom. Before you start the climb to the Cradle, you take the chance to look over yourself for the umpteenth time. There’s not a thread out of place – no snags in suspicious places, no tears in the pattern of fangs, no damp patches suggesting you have indulged in anything lascivious or indecent. You are as pure as the day you were spun, still an innocent little ingénue who has never felt the hands of anyone other than Her on your silk. Perfect. Now, the most important task. As your body is pristine, so too must be your mind. You take a breath, and begin the meditative process of wiping any trace of personality or self from your consciousness. The whirling storm of your most recent memories, of love and heat and pleasure and joy, must be tamed. You hold each emotion in turn, savouring the taste before softly pushing it under the surface. It is harder than usual – usually you are only having to smother short trips around the wilds or killings that you suspect Mother would be displeased by. Nothing new, nothing exciting, and certainly nothing you are particularly fond of. But these memories? These you are attached too, and that makes pushing them under a much more arduous task. But if you want to keep them (and your head), they must be silenced, smothered by a caring hand. The picture of Herrah’s face above yours, lost in ecstasy and so glorious you could cry, fights as you send it below – but eventually, it too sinks into the deeper waters of your subconscious. Soon, there are no memories left other than that of walking these same halls over and over, an endless, infantilising cycle that Mother desires. There is nothing left to suggest you know of any love other than Hers, wide as the sea and yet so shallow it would struggle to drown you. This is as ready as you will ever be, and you are running out of time before Mother will grow suspicious at your tardiness. You enter into Her chamber, and kneel before Her cocoon as the loyal devotee and servant that wishes only to bask in her Mother’s light for as long as is allowed. Her threads reach for you, delicately curling into your warp and providing passage for Her awareness to meld with yours. “daughter...I have missed your voice. tell me of your findings in My lands...tell me if My wayward children have regained their sense and returned to me…” Rattling off your report is easy. The same as it ever was – that pilgrims come to bask in awe at Her presence, how Her other, older daughters chafe under Her rule, but still acquiesce to it. You have no thoughts of rebellion, or of casting down the Goddess at the top of the pantheon – you are too small for that. A pebble sanded smooth in a great stream. How could anyone ever expect a child such as yourself to know of such monumental crusades being waged in the kingdom? The stagnation pleases Her. Nothing has changed, and nothing ever will in the lands of Pharloom – exactly as Grand Mother Silk demands. Her decree is the law of the universe, and you are but a small fragment of her will to rebuff the flow of time in this domain. “wonderful...this brings me joy to hear, my little princess.” Your control is near-immaculate, but at that word you hear Herrah echoing it, teasing you in a memory you have scrubbed from your mind. The recollection breaks the surface only for a second, but the ripples are enough to draw Mother in like a mitemother to blood. “daughter? who is this, to speak to you so familiarly?” You do not panic. You do not react at all and let your mind become glass-smooth again, spinning a little white lie with ease after your years of practice. You giggle so sweetly (as She likes) and smile vacantly, too stupid to ever think of disobeying. “Oh, that? I ran into a Weaver while I was travelling. It knew my place as Your daughter, but not much else. It bored me, so I left soon after. The spiders are so dull, they only think of weaving and silk!” You remain empty and thoughtless as the Grand Mother mulls over your words. You watch the light tracing over the threads connecting you to her and lose yourself in the soft glistening as they wave in the air, reflecting Her illumination. Finally, Her threads loosen from you, and Her mind begins to pull from yours, accepting your words with no further examination. “return to your post, my daughter...and forget not that I love you always. always...” And then She is gone, and you take your leave. You do not allow yourself to come up for air until hours later, curled in your roses. It is always a singularly unsettling feeling, to go from being nothing to being something again, but it is better than the alternative. As you become aware again, you cannot help but think - Wait. That was it? It was that easy? Some not-insignificant part of you was sure She was going to bundle you into a spool and throw you into the fetid maggotwater of the cursed land your sibling was sent to rot in. And yet. She had been clueless. Completely ignorant of what you have agreed to do – of the cause you have dedicated your life for. Has She always been this weak, this powerless? Oh, this is going to be easy. Her weak little child would destroy her legacy and free her daughter’s, and She would never see it coming. The laughter that echoes in the cavern is a twisted mockery of what came only hours before. It is dawning on you how much you hate the stagnation of your home. The only speck of colour in your life was when you were fighting against your Mother’s reign with Herrah and her sisters – before and after it has been grey. Monotone. You miss how vibrant it was to live, how each day was new and exciting simply because you had no idea what would come next. Even when you were arguing with the other Weavers, or running from the Choir – the world blazed in vivid hues you had never imagined before. You had forgotten how beautiful it could be to live. Your time with Hornet is like watching the sun rise again after a long, dark night. She brings light to corners of yourself you’ve long forgotten, and you curl around her, desperate to bask in that warmth again even as the lake of your grief and anger still swirls around your feet. She is the lifeline you cling to desperately, and you feel that old drive returning; to help, to change, to move mountains if it would make her happy. That is why, when she asks for your aid in her mission to finally rid your lands of the monster sat at the top, you do not hesitate to agree. You only have one request of her, in return. You are lying curled together, idly stroking the arch of Hornets horn as she fiddles with a cogfly. Her penchant for mechanics is endearing, and you are enjoying being able to send her into an hour long diatribe by asking how her sawblades work or how she packs her pompillos with such explosive force. You turn to look at her, tapping her head to draw her attention away from her creation. “Before we destroy the Grand Mother, I want to ask a favour of you.” You feel some of that old, cloying sadness rising in you before you speak, but the warmth in Hornet’s eyes helps beat it back. “The one thing I have always wondered is how we were so betrayed in the end. We didn’t tell anyone where we were going. No one knew our (hideout) – and yet.” “And yet you were found.” Hornet echoes you, brows furrowed in concentration as she ponders your quandary. You sigh, and run your claws through the fur at the nape of her neck and drink in her purrs. “I just – I need to know how they know. If they were told, or if we truly were just that obvious.” Hornet takes hold of the hand on her neck and laces her fingers with yours, bringing it to her mouth to place a gentle kiss on your knuckle. The look she gives you is of steel and conviction, and you know she will move mountains for you, too. - Of course, killing a god is much harder than simply deciding that it must be done. There is a reason Pale Beings tend to stick around at the top of the food chain, and it is often not because they are loved; rather they are like ticks, dug in deep and fat with power from their host’s worship. Thankfully for the both of you, much of the heavy lifting was done a very long time ago and all you need to do is dig out the old blueprints from the derelict Weavenests to build a weapon strong enough to topple Her. Unfortunately, you soon find that the years have been unkind to more than just you. You kick over a Servitor in disgust at how degraded Atla’s nest has become while Hornet meanders around the room. The prototype snare she holds all that remains of her grand plans. Your sour mood is helped none by the sight of Hornet wandering through the Weavenest – whether it is due to the decay of your surroundings, or your time with Hornet, no memories are stirred from the depths of your mind. You don’t even get the fleeting spark of relief of seeing her mother’s ghost as Hornet picks through the ruins. You do, however, get filled with shame at being upset that you can’t pretend Herrah stands in Hornet’s place, and it is enough to stop you from outright telling Hornet why you are so upset. You just lie, and say you are hurt to see how badly the nest has fallen while you have been gone. You are ready to call the whole thing off when Hornet points at an old, crumbling tablet whose purpose you remember well. As much as you liked to insult Atla, the old spider was a savant with her designs, and she had been so close to finishing her magnus opus on the night you were all routed. You still don’t know why she didn’t trigger her trap – it was ready and she had the instructions written on this very tablet in case she had fallen in battle. But for whatever reason, the Weavers abandoned her plan and fled to the wastes instead. You could use this to complete Atla’s work with the prototype she left behind – but the tablet is too damaged to read, and to your great frustration, you can’t remember what was needed to fire the snare. If only you could pull your memory out into the open and look at the tablet as it was back then, pristine – you sigh. If only. Hornet pockets the snare and the remains of the tablet, and you leave the Weavenest to its inexorable decay. It is not until later, when you are curled around Hornet as she catches her breath, that you both settle on a resolution for your unexpected setback. “We need to begin involving others in our search. There are many in this land who chafe under your Mother’s rule, and of them there are a handful who have power enough to finish what my people started. That Caretaker in Songclave – he is more than a simple priest, I just know it. Something dark follows him, and for all he calls me Old One his soul feels as ancient as mine.” You know better than to interject as Hornet works through your dilemma, focusing instead on grooming her fur and hoarding the feeling of her beating heart next to your chest. You do not want to admit it, but feeling your heart slowly gluing itself back together piece by piece terrifies you. The warrior holds you in her paw and does not even know it – if she were to discard you (as her line has done before) there will be no third chance. This time, it will kill you. ...you do not tell her this. She does not need that weight on her shoulders. She continues, unknowing of your internal dilemma. Good. “Tomorrow, we will go to him and see what secrets he knows. With any luck, we will be able to find a way to free us all from this unending nightmare.” You curl closer around her, and try your hardest to stay aloof as she pulls you in for a kiss, soft and lingering. You cannot let yourself be hurt again, but you know this is not your choice to make. You will be hurt regardless. - For once, the universe is kind to you. The Caretaker, despite his overt (and justified) suspicion of you, agrees to help with remarkably little fuss. What has Hornet been doing, in her time away from you, that makes the bugs of this land so trusting? Perhaps she is simply the trustworthy sort. After all, she bent you, the ruthless, relentless-spider killer, to kneel at her feet and be grateful for it. (That is cruel to think, you know. She does not want you prostrate before her, but you do not know how to love any other way. You hope you can learn, one day.) When you inform the Caretaker of your lost memories and the potential they hold, he wavers for a moment, brow furrowing as he attempts to stay quiet, before capitulating and revealing the truth of he and his siblings. Hornet seems more upset about this than you – apparently she has had dealings with snails and shamans in the past, and it hasn’t gone well. You are sure you can skewer him before he could lift a hand to stop you, and you tell her so and poorly hide the elation you feel at the scoff you pull from her. It takes you some time to gather the supplies needed – silk for the snare, soul for the binding. The prolonged close contact with Hornet tears at your resolve to view your companionship as something transitory. Without realising it, she acts out the courtship customs of her people – customs you are well versed in. Customs you waited too long to indulge in, previously. You have to remind her thrice that you do not eat as she brings prey to you, hunted with care. You cannot shake her of the foolish desire to ply you with silk, even as she is spinning for the snare, and you can tell her reserves are draining faster than she can replenish them. Finally, in a fit of pique, you up the ante and slip out while she is distracted pouring over the little you can glean from the broken tablet. If she will not feed herself, then you will make her eat (and you resolutely suppress the understanding of how you will be reciprocating her overtures with this act). You feel a pang of guilt that you never fed your first love like this, esteemed hunter as she was. You then feel worse that you don’t feel as bad as you should over giving Hornet something you never gave to Herrah. You work out your roiling emotions on the hide of the monstrous fly you pick as your offering for Hornet. The look of shock on her face when you return dragging a fully-grown Beastfly behind you is nearly as satisfying as when she finally capitulates and consumes the fly, wings and all, with you sat in front of her ensuring she finishes every bite. Even as you pretend not to see the affection shining in her eyes as she eats what you have hunted for her, it does not stop the wellspring of emotion bubbling from the depths of your soul. - When the time finally comes to trace your way through old memories, you expect it to be a straightforward affair. To your eternal exasperation, the Caretaker and his siblings laugh and inform you that Soul magic is never a straightforward affair, and this will be no exception, as if you were a fool to believe it ever could be. You refuse to dignify them with an answer. Let he and his siblings titter and grumble – as long as they give you what you need, you will tolerate them. They arrange you on the altar, and seem in a cheerful mood even as Hornet waits in the wings, disguising her nerves by taking the chance to repair and remake her tools. She had been pacified only by the shamans reassuring her that this would not be overtly exhausting for any of you – apparently going in to retrieve a trinket from the mind was not such a big deal as you feared. They raise their staves and chant, and the world goes dark. When you open your eyes again, it is to screaming. Oh, you remember this! The first Weaver you ever killed! It had been soon after the others had left you, and you were still breaking apart at the seams. Mother had let you go, and you had run after the fading tracks of your love but had never found her. You had found a straggler, however. One of the many you had known in passing, but who had detested you nonetheless. You were begging her, pleading even as your voice cracked and the silk on the soles of your paws wore thin, to tell you where your darling had gone. How you could follow and be reunited once more. Proud, spiteful fool she had been, the Weaver had instead laughed at your wretchedness and taunted you. “Foolish little toy! Why would we want you with us? Your job is done! Have the self-respect to crawl off somewhere quiet and unspool in peace rather than embarrass yourself in front of me so! I’ll not take you to our Queen. She will be better without you leading her astray. I bet she is glad to be free of you now, to not have you groveling at her feet for scraps. Away with you, you mewling worm!” Her arrogance and malice came at the cost of her life. Your mind shattered at the image of Herrah, laughing and gleeful to have tossed you aside, and you were stabbing the Weaver before you knew it. Her screams melded with your own, and you only realised she was dead when yours were the only wails echoing in the cave she had sought shelter in. From her, you took your cloak and your mission – to find every Weaver you had let loose in the world, and make them regret ever desiring freedom from their cage. As you pinned the crest of Herrah’s tribe to your cloak, looted from the cooling body, you vowed that your agony would be paid tenfold onto the one who broke you so. As your past self stood over the first in a long line of corpses, the memory slid through your fingers like sand. You fall into your most cursed, well-trodden memory, and watch as you are dragged screaming from Herrah’s arms on that fateful night. You can see now why you had forgotten your last words – there were none. There were only tears, and your hand slipping from hers. You hadn’t even had the chance to make yourself decent before you were stolen away. You watch as blood wells from Herrah’s abdomen as the pins of the Choiristers keeping you apart bite into her chitin and you wish you had the strength you have now, that you could have torn them asunder. But you didn’t, and so you couldn’t. Instead, you leave stage left as Herrah is left behind to cry alone. You wish you could hold her, one last time. You wish you hadn’t waited, and that you had married as you both wished instead of losing your chance. You wish you could talk to her and tell her you survived, that after all these years, you forgive her. That there was nothing to forgive in the first place. You approach where Herrah sits in her blood and tears, and reach a hand to her long lost ghost. Then, she looks at you, and you could weep at the sorrow in her eyes. You cannot move as she reaches to your face, growing so much older and so much more tired, her form misty as she changes into a woman you never had the privilege of meeting and knowing. “Oh, my star...I am so sorry.” Her voice is hoarse from age, and you can only lean into her touch, insubstantial as the mist rolling from the oceans shore. “I am so sorry that I left you behind and left you alone...I regret it more than words can say.” Had this been months, a year earlier, you would have raged at her. Raged and screamed and gloated that you had killed so many of her family, that you were going to destroy her legacy and erase even the memories of the Weavers as punishment for what you went through. But now, all you do is hold your hands over hers and say the truth. “I miss you. I miss you so much, my love. I wish we could have had the life we dreamed of.” Her ghost smiles, stroking your face gently as she fades. Before she is gone, she whispers one last request of you. “My star...you can still move forward. Please, stop holding yourself trapped here in the worst moment of your life. Do what I can’t, and live.” You hold her as long as you can, but you need to let go eventually. She slips into the ether, and the empty home you lived and loved in vanishes with her. You have no choice but to keep moving. Memories fly past you, faster and faster – moments of rebellion, of plotting, of fighting and living and of love. And for once, the sight of them brings you no pain, just a dim, peaceful sense of love, old and warm. And when you have gone far enough and picked up the tablet, immaculate and fresh from its carving, you think of who you have to come back to. You turn from the once-bustling Weavenest, and see Hornet standing before you, hand out and waiting for you. You are set ablaze as you take hold of her hand, and it is as warm as you always hoped it would be. - You are holed up in Hornet’s bellhome, a place that is rapidly becoming your favourite place in this cursed land. You feel unmoored, weightless, as you hold her in your arms and bask in the feel of her heart beating next to yours. You haven’t told her all the details of your (experience), but the tender way she cradles your face tells you she knows you hurt. But it is a good hurt, you think. A wound debrided and finally able to heal. You haven’t been able to stop looking at her since leaving the shamans hideaway, but not because you fear she will disappear if you look away – you just don’t want to take your eyes away from her light. Even now, as she sits in your lap and you press kisses over her face and horns, you don’t want to close your eyes. You want to drink her in until your soul is full again. She burns as you do, her hands a brand on your silk and trailing fire as she caresses you. All you can do is lean in and rejoice as you blaze, your mind filled with her, only her. You kiss the smile from her lips, and there is no one else in your mind – you are the only two people alive in the world right now and you don’t care about whatever is happening outside this room. You go to push her back, to worship her as she deserves, but she stops you and takes control instead. “Wait – let me-” She murmurs against your mouth tracing your form with as much devotion as you trace hers. “I want to stay like this. I just want to hold you – may I?” As if she has to ask. You can only kiss her, overwhelmed as she undresses you like you are a treasure and not a disgrace. Maybe you aren’t. Maybe you are just a bug rather than a monster, for daring to think you are allowed to be happy rather than suffer until the caves collapse on your head. Did you ever deserve to suffer in the first place? Maybe you can give her your love and not taint her. The mere thought that there might be more for you, that there might be a life ahead worth living, worth sharing – it has you laughing in relief as you reverently divest her from her cloak, smothering your joy in her neck. And what a joy it is! To feel nothing but delight and pleasure in this, to think only of how wonderful it is to share these feelings! Your laughter turns to gasps as she touches you, holds you in place as she sinks onto you with a relieved sigh before she throws her arms around your neck and drags you down to meet her mouth with yours. It has been so long since you last felt safe and loved like this, but you don’t wallow – how could you? When the past is at peace, and the future is so bright in her eyes? You can’t help but to chant her name as she rocks against you, incandescent and overwhelming. You shout her name as you come, so sweet on your lips and you can only think of bringing her with you. When you are curled around her, bathing in the embers of your conflagration, you cannot stop yourself from rubbing your face over her neck, drunk on her scent and thrilled to carry Hornet with you wherever you go next. You curl in closer, leading Hornet’s head to your neck in return and bare your throat and you hold her tight as she laughs wetly before marking herself with you. The priests of the Citadel may scorn such unsanctioned, informal unions, but you know you will carry her mark for life. Neither of you will wait for some perfect, far-flung moment to dedicate yourselves to each other – you will be bound now, for as long as you have left. When she has fallen asleep wrapped in your arms, you watch her breathe and you find you don’t feel guilty anymore. The Nest is dim and full, just as she had always dreamt it would be. The labour to lay her daughter’s egg had been long and arduous, and it had been longer still for her to hatch. Midwife had to use her many legs to keep Herrah from tearing into the birthling’s eggshell, half out of her mind with worry and fear as the Queen had been. But the little one had pipped with no issue, albumin bubbling from where the child’s tiny, tiny claws had broken free. The babe had no more gotten a head and torso out before Herrah had swept her up, letting Midwife perform a cursory check of her abdomen to confirm the yolk had been absorbed. Herrah could not help but weep at the sight of her daughter’s perfect face, running her claws along stubs of horns that she could only hope would one day curve as long as her mother’s. Her sisters crowded around, cooing over the tiny form in Herrah’s arms. They whispered, how perfect! How sweet! What a fine Weaver she will grow to be! Herrah had not the energy to rebuff them, to remind them she was only Weaver in half. The child may yet decide a path other than her mother’s side, and that too would be a path worth treading. She instead counted her daughter’s tiny fingers and toes, kissing each one and thanking whatever gods were listening that the pale gift was finally here. The only god that seemed to be listening was unfortunately her sire, and the commotion inside the den was enough for him to be drawn in from where he had been lurking outside. The Wyrm showed nothing more than a mild satisfaction at the sight of his own daughter. But in all the years she had unfortunately known him, the pathetic excuse for a king had never shown more than a passing interest in the world outside of his kingdom. She could only be grateful that at the very least, his lack of interest meant there would be no argument about who would see the child more – he, at least, was not living on a timer. She gave him the barest pleasantries needed to not insult, and was glad to see the back of him as he left, satisfied with the barest of glances at his own daughter. She had seen enough of the Wyrm to last a lifetime. Her sisters were not as polite and made their displeasure known, despite that the wyrm gave no reaction – their hissing bothered him not, and soon he was gone, never to brighten their doorstep ever again. Herrah did not bother to rein in her sisters. She was instead entranced by her child’s face, round with youth and still damp from the egg. The Queen gratefully took a soft shell-cloth from the Midwife and wiped the babe clean, marvelling at how little of the Wyrm had passed to her. His only traces were in what she did not have – only one pair of eyes and arms. But that did not matter. She was here, and she was healthy, and Herrah wanted nothing more. She stroked her daughter’s face, and wished for a fleeting moment that there was another with her in this most monumental of times. A laugh, faded over years, rang in Herrah’s ears for a moment – but she stopped the thought before the melancholy could set in. What she had wished for so long ago may not have come to pass, but she had this precious, perfect child, and that was enough for her. She gently waved away her sisters and thanked the Midwife, retreating to her chambers to tuck the babe into her bassinet, curling her form around it in the bed. The child wriggled slightly, but to Herrah’s delight she settled fast. As the child fell asleep, the familiar melancholy returned. How sad, that her lost love would never be able to meet this incredible little creature that Herrah had made. How disappointing, that this little creature could never meet Herrah’s star, would never pick up her mannerisms and her sense of humour. Even though her knight’s antics were faded and warped in Herrah’s mind after so long, she still missed Lace. She had wondered in the earlier days if she would ever stop feeling like a piece of her was missing, but it never had. She had just got used to it and learnt to live with a wound that never healed. But, still. Even for her, walking wounded as she was, there was still joy in life. The baby softly breathing next to her was proof of that. Herrah draped a hand into her child’s bassinet and, reassured by the feel of a tiny chest rising and falling under her claw, she drifted off. - The child grew in size and in ferocity, and taught Herrah something new each day. The pale gift had even secured a name, courtesy of dear Vespa – and Hornet grew into it more each day. After the day’s toil, what Herrah looked forward to most was being able to curl up with Hornet and teach her stories of her people, their past, and her future. To this point, she had spoken only vaguely of her homeland – surely, she was too young to learn of such ancient crimes? Soon enough, the choice was taken from her. Herrah had been teaching her daughter tatting, marvelling at the wobbly shapes and lines flowing from her little hands – with time, they would steady, blooming into intricate patterns that Herrah hoped she could live long enough to see. During this lesson Hornet was distracted, wriggling in her seat more than usual. The Queen let her think, certain she would bring up her troubles in her own time – and she did. “Mumma, who’s the pretty lady in your picture?” Herrah paused, both confused and worried – gods, please say her toddler daughter hadn’t gotten into her private stash. “What pretty lady are you talking about, darling? What picture was she in?” Rather than waste her breath explaining, Hornet hopped off her pillow and ran to Herrah’s bedchamber, with her mother hurrying behind, crossing all her fingers that she wasn’t about to dart to the hidden section under the bed – but no. The spiderling ran to her mothers bedside table, throwing open the drawer and rummaging through with no regard to the mess she was making. Herrah sighed, and vowed to fix it come morning. With a triumphant ‘ah-ha!’, Hornet grabbed at something and came up with a ragged, creased picture clenched in her tiny fist. “This! The pale lady!” Oh. That picture. Herrah knew what it was before her daughter even passed it over, but she accepted it with grace nonetheless. All the time she had spent with her star, and this had been the only thing of Lace Herrah had been able to keep, forgotten in the bottom of her pack when she and her sisters had fled for their lives. Lace stood proud and resplendent in the photo, pin gleaming at her side and wide grin baring her fangs. The pair had both just routed a patrol that stumbled on one of the Weavers hidden caches, and Herrah liberated the camera from one of the corpses to Lace’s delight. She had begged for a picture together, but Herrah hadn’t known how to set it for the both of them – oh, how she wished she could have. Just to have something, anything, that proved their love was real. ...She had been quiet for too long. Hornet looked concerned, and began scaling her mother’s veil to pat her mask in a clumsy attempt at reassurance. “Mumma? Why are you sad? Was she a bad bug?” Herrah gently picked her daughter off her veil and cradled the child in her topmost arms. “No, daughter. Far from it – this was the most important bug for us when we fled our homeland so long ago. She was…” How could she begin to describe her star? She was her joy. She was her love. She was, almost certainly, dead at the hands of the mother the spiders had ran from. Herrah knew exactly how the Grand Mother treated those who turned on her – and Lace was even weaker to the Mother’s whims than the Weavers, made of Her silk as the pale bug was. How could she explain the enormity of the person in the photograph, to one as young as Hornet? She took the easier route. “...She was my friend. The dearest friend I had. She was the Protector of Pharloom, and she worked tirelessly with us to see all Weaver-kind free of the tyrant enslaving us. And she remained in that old land when we ran for new homes.” Her daughter had settled in Herrah’s cradle as she listened to her mothers story, entranced – but her tiny brows furrowed in confusion at the last line. “But why did she stay behind? Why didn’t she come with you?” Why indeed. Herrah was silent for a moment, mourning what had been lost. “On the eve of our escape, we were betrayed. The White Knight was stolen from us, and we found the Tyrant’s forces had planned a coup against us – our fortress had been breached, and we were nearly overrun. Had I not been quicker to return, my sisters would have been slaughtered.” Herrah breathed, fighting through the nightmares that struggled to rise to the surface. The screams of her sisters, the stench of blood in the air, the terror as more of the Grand Mother’s forces spilled into their final hideaway – but she forced herself to calm, and focused on the little body, warm and alive, in her arms. “We had no time to fight back; we barely had time to grab our wounded before we had to take to the wastes. It is why we have so little from the homeland – we all ran with whatever we were holding.” The others almost seemed pleased, with having only scraps to remember Pharloom by. They shivered at the memories, eager to cast the recollections of such dark times aside and focus only on the future that they were so keen to build. Herrah wished she could join them, sometimes. But to forget the past would be to forget the one who gave everything for Herrah to be free, and she couldn’t treat her lost star with such disrespect. “I tried to turn back, to save our Protector – but my sisters begged. It would have been suicide, either for myself or for those I left. So...we left, and she stayed behind. And I miss her every day.” Hornet was silent, enraptured by her mothers story as only one so young could be. It was for Hornet that the Beast Queen was so determined to find a happy end to her tale, faint as it may be. Herrah gently booped her daughter on the snout, smiling at her delighted giggle. “She was the best person I knew. And that is why I tell you this, my love – should you ever find yourself in Pharloom, for whatever reason, look for her. Find the White Knight, the Protector of Pharloom, and she will keep you safe and care for you. Because her heart was always the biggest part of her.” - The Dreaming approached, her end rushing in like shadows chasing the sun as it set. Herrah felt curiously little in those final days other than a deep, constant ache at the bottom of her very soul. Not because of her looming death – well, not entirely because of that. Because she was going to leave her precious girl behind, in a world that would be so unkind. Hornet would be alone upon Herrah’s slumber for once the Queen slept, the Weavers to a woman would leave. They would scatter to their sister tribes in other distant lands, and Hornet would have only Vespa and the White Lady to raise her with love and care. The last of the Weaver line in Hallownest, potentially forever. However, the path of fate never liked to run smoothly. As Herrah was preparing her wake and helping her sisters pack their worldly possessions for the long journey ahead, a sister came dashing into the Den, frantic and rambling as she trembled in dread. The Beast felt her heart lurch – had the Infection suddenly spread beyond control? Had the plan failed before it began? Had Hornet fallen to it?. She shouted her questions at the quivering spider, patience vanishing at the thought of her daughter bloated and destroyed by holy light. The reason for her sister’s panic was worse. The neighbouring clans, the tribes her sisters were to run to – they had gone dark. Only corpses and silence remained in their Nests, and the cause of their fall had been whispered by the lone survivor of one of the dens, shortly before she passed from her mortal wounds. The survivor spoke only of a ghost, hunting down the Weavers for the sins their people had committed. It was enough for Herrah to know in her heart who their silkspun ghost was, and to see how her people's story would end. But at this point...there was nothing she could do. No way she could avert her family’s fate. Either they would stay, and burn at the whims of a foreign god. Or they ran to the homeland, and were struck down by the wrath of one who had no capacity for forgiveness. Or...they tried to find a new home, and would be followed by the one they had condemned to the abyss so very long ago. She had no choices left. No cards she could play, no favours she could beg, no enemies she could slay. In front of her lay only the plinth, and the crushing knowledge of how this story would end. Surrounded by the sea of her sisters, anxious and frantic as they tried to come up with an option – any option, that let them live for just a little while longer – Herrah buried her face in her hands and mourned for her little star, who had fallen so dark. It was time. The trap was set, the bait ready. Hornet, standing defiant in front of the cocoon, had her needle drawn in challenge. You stand beside, waiting for your miserable excuse of a Mother to crawl from Her cage and meet Her end. Not with grace – the Grand Mother would never accept the end of Her story with anything other than pure unbridled fury. For once, you don’t mimic Her – you are only tired, and ready for this to be over. You are not sure if you believe in fate – if you want to believe in fate, considering all that has happened – but if it is real, then you feel this is where you are meant to be. Standing side by side with Hornet, and refusing to run. Your Mother stirs, and Her threads float through the air to land on you. When they make contact, Her despair is a deluge – but you are no longer a boat to be tossed around on the storm of Her misery. Her emotions touch you and run over your silk without consequence. Notably, your Mother does not even attempt to touch Hornet – Her words are for you and you alone. “child...why must you hurt me so again?...did you not learn...why do you insist on making the same mistake over and over again…?” She will never understand. She does not have the capacity to understand what love is when there are no strings attached. You are not sure you understand what that is like, but you want to learn. She never will. Through countless children and untold lives destroyed, She had never, ever learnt how to care in any way that counts. You no longer fear telling Her so. “You were wrong then, and you are wrong now! Even when it hurts, loving someone is never a mistake. No matter how much you try to convince me otherwise!” The tsunami of rage that pours from Grand Mother Silk is strong enough that you see Hornet flinch – she does not need to commune with the divine to feel it. She no longer bothers to confine herself to the role of lamentful mother, of noble guardian protecting her charge from the cruelties of the world. Now She is only wrath, and lets Her apocalyptic fury be heard by all. “UNGRATEFUL CHILD. I HAVE ONLY EVER LOVED YOU, UNWORTHY AS YOU ARE. DID YOU NOT LEARN FROM THE LAST ONE?” Her holy form, shining so bright in the darkness that you both can only see Her, is immense and terrible. All the ventures spent doing Her bidding have not prepared you for the truth as the God claws open her cocoon, spinning blades from the ether with naught but a thought. She is so much more than you ever knew, and you are terrified – what madness made you think you could kill a being like this? You take a step back – and Hornet’s hand catches your elbow. There is nothing but confidence and determination in her face, and it settles you. If she believes this is possible, then you have a chance. And that is all you need. Your Mother’s scream rattles the platform under your feet as you ready your weapon. “I DID ALL I COULD TO SAVE YOU FROM THAT TRAITOR LAST TIME. I KEPT YOU HERE! SAFE AND LOVED! YET YOU SPITE ME STILL!” It takes a few moments for her meaning to filter through your brain and then it is like you have been dosed in oil and set alight, a bonfire ready to burn this unholy temple to the ground. Before you can react, her fathomless gaze finally settles on Hornet. “I WILL FIX THE PROBLEM MYSELF, THIS TIME.” And then, her great arms come down intent on rending your spider apart. You feel something in you snap. The last lingering thread of love you held for your Mother, perhaps, enduring even after all Her failures? You have tolerated much and forgiven more from her, throwing your anger onto easier, weaker targets. But now can see the root of all your misery, and you want nothing more than to grasp it and tear it from the earth. With a roar more befitting a beast than a child of silk, you leap at Her, claws bared and heart blazing. You and Hornet move in unison, frenetic and deadly. When she leaps, blades flaring from her cloak as she strikes the Mother’s face, you duck low under a wild swipe, flinging a shortpin at her abdomen. When She raises her arms to grab at the half-weaver dancing around her head, you grab the pin and tear, ripping open a furrow in her stomach. The power contained within her flares out and beckons you, mesmerising – and you miss the backhand that hits with the force of a runaway train, sending you flying into the wall of the Cradle. The impact scrambles your thoughts, enough that you panic at not being able to catch your breath – nevermind that you have never needed air. In the moments you are stunned and vulnerable, the Mother tries to pounce, spinning a great web to ensure you and tear you asunder. Before the threads can tense and hold you in place, a flash of red dashes in front of you – Hornet, slicing through the weave and pulling you from harm’s way. She is a vision, godsblood splattered bright on her mask – she is in danger, another arm shooting towards her to crush. You move, faster than thought, and with strength you never knew you possessed you catch your Mother's wrist and pull. Her screaming is full of agony but you will not let her recover from this overreach. Tearing with all your might, you scream with her as her arm rips free from her shoulder. Binding the limb to yourself is instinctual, Pale desires hidden deep in your mind bursting through and screaming to bind, to ascend, to take what should be your birthright and take your rightful place on her throne. It is only Hornet's quick reactions that stop you from becoming a new, more terrible God than the one before you. While you are incorporating the fragment of power, Hornet is following your plan and drives her needle into the Grand Mother's face with a sickening crack. Someone screams – Hornet? Mother? Both? - and the trap snaps shut, lashing tendrils from the abyss latching onto the God and dragging Her to the only death a Pale being fears. You feel a spark of hope – and then the tyrant grabs Hornet and squeezes, giving up on fighting to live to instead punish you one last time. Unfortunately for her, you have no fear of the abyss. You have been living in it all this time, after all. Leaping, pin pointed at her throat, you tear through another of her arms and skewer her to silence her dying screams. You have just enough time to see Hornet fall free of her grasp, her face twisted in agony as you are dragged into the undertow and drown one last time. - Time passes differently in the abyssal sea. There is no you or her or I. There are just flickers of what was once a person. Feelings and emotions felt strongest before the fall. Exhaustion that is met with relief at a permanent rest. Grief that is quelled with the finality of the end. Mourning that the person that was will be another lost lover for the person that remains above – tempered by the knowledge they will join the sea, in the end. The only regret that stains too deeply to vanish is that the person that was will never get to see a free dawn with their – her? paw in the hands of another. But even that regret will be washed away by the sea. In the end. At least, it should have been. But a certain red maiden refuses to let a story end, no matter how justified it might be. She refuses to let the silken being die, and drags her – you – to the surface more each time she talks. “Because there is always a new day to live for.” You remember your first meeting. “Because you can always make up for your past mistakes”. You remember her laugh. “Because you can love again”. You remember her smile. “Because you deserve to be happy.”. You remember… You rise out of the dark, saturated in void. You are so, so angry and so, so tired. But underneath everything, growing stronger with each hit and each drop of void shed, you feel something you haven't felt in a very long time. Hope. - You are a good daughter, but when your Mother's gaze is not on you, you have a tendency to wander. It is not that you are unhappy, no! It's just that you are bored. There is little to do in the Cradle other than tend to your roses and wait for your Mother to give you a task. So, when she is dreaming and you are restless, you sneak out. (It sounds so much more scandalous than it really is, when you say it like that.) It is on one of these walks that you run into a spider. Well, she runs into you, more like. You are practicing forms against some charitable volunteers (you are skewering heretics and laughing a touch too maniacally, but the witnesses won’t live long enough to complain), and you only see them when you are pulling your pin from the last twitching corpse. While you are wary, you are also curious; Mother talks little of her first daughters, and so you know little of them. You truly only need to know one thing – for whatever reason, Mother has tired of her first daughters, and as she does with the toys that no longer entertain her, she has discarded them. The same as your imperfect sisters. The same as Phantom. You, however, are perfect. She will never tire of you – and you wear yourself threadbare to ensure She never does. If you work hard enough, you may even be able to bring your sibling back into the light of Her eyes. You both watch each other for a minute, atmosphere tense as you gauge your potential opponent as they do you. They are taller – taller than you, and more strongly built. That’s not all too difficult, spun as you were to be frail and delicate for your Mother’s pleasure. The weapon they hold looks brutal enough to cleave you in two with one swing; you will have to be quick and either disable their many arms, or stay out of range entirely. You know you are being appraised, and you wonder what they see – a fighter? A threat? A lost child? If they think the latter, you will be happy to correct their mistake at the point of your pin. The spider takes the initiative, and steps forward, holding their weapon loosely. At ease. You do not lower yours. “That was a beautiful display, stranger. They couldn’t land a single hit on you, even when they had you surrounded and outnumbered. Tell me, who taught you? I would love to learn even half the skills you possess.” Their voice – her voice? - is deep and rich, and you feel a sharp pang of longing to sound like that. Imperious. No one would mistake you for a child sounding like that. You titter, hiding your mean smirk behind a hand. Regardless of how much this spider tries, flattery will get her nowhere. You will not be sharing any of your boons with her. “Apologies, little spider! Those secrets are mine and mine alone. You will simply have to spend the rest of your life wondering how I can be so talented!” To your surprise, she laughs, not off-put by your demeanour in the slightest. It is refreshing – most of the bugs in this land are either blinded by adoration for your Mother’s light, or ground to a paste from the daily drudgery. Either way, they never prove to be interesting conversationalists. The spider continues to intrigue when she keeps talking to you. “Well, I can’t begrudge you for wanting to keep your advantages to yourself. This land can be cruel to those not able to face her dangers. As that is the case...may I be so bold as to ask for a spar with you, instead? I promise to pull my blows, but from the look of your pin mastery I may be too busy defending myself to have any chance to actually hit you.” A spar? The idea sounds exciting. She looks like she would put up more of a fight than the bland, untrained heretics you have been dispatching – she looks like she would be fun. But – Mother has never outright said to avoid her forgotten children. But you only needed to feel her displeasure once, when you returned from visiting Phantom, to know that She looks poorly on such things. You do not think she would be any happier to find you willingly cavorting with a Weaver. You hem and haw, wanting so desperately to accept but fearing the consequences all the same. “Hmm, I’m not sure. I would so hate to get your blood on my silk and stain it.” The spider laughs, and it sets off a curious fizzing in your belly. Like you swallowed a dozen silkflies and they are all eager to leap out your throat. “Well, I won’t push you if you truly would rather be alone. It’s just – you looked like you were having so much fun. I would love to have a chance to dance with you in battle, but I won’t insist.” And – she goes to leave. You can’t stop yourself, panic rising in your chest as the most exciting thing to happen to you in decades is about to vanish from your life forever. “Wait!-” She turns, and you fight down the embarrassed flush that rises in your cheeks at your eagerness. Collecting yourself, you are calm and unbothered as you talk to her again. “If it is simply a spar you want, then I suppose I could be charitable enough to allow that. It would hardly be befitting if the nation’s princess did not engage in charity occasionally, no?” Her eyes widen at the mention of your title. Shit. Should you have not said that? Does she think you are rubbing it in her face, that the Grand Mother favours you as she and her sisters were once favoured? Thankfully, she does not push the matter further, taking it in her stride and walking closer, a smile evident in her voice. “This humble Weaver would appreciate such charity. It would be an honour to cross blades with the Mother’s knight – I am sure I can learn much from a maestro of the blade as you are.” Inwardly, you are flattered. So often, any compliments that come to you are about what you were made to be – pure, innocent, angelic. A child with no desires other than reverence of the holy. They are never about what you have made of yourself – the warrior, the knight, a master of the pin and the battlefield. Yet this spider sees that – sees you. You both bow, and begin your dance. And it is glorious. More than that, it is fun, as much a game as an earnest attempt to kill each other; just as you like it. You find yourself laughing without restraint, and your heart skips a beat as the stranger is equally enthralled. Her greatneedle flashes, a wide cleave that you giggle as you slide under, and the spider laughs uproariously. “My lady! Where have you been for all these years? I shall cry if I cannot cross my blade with yours again! At least give me a name, so I may look for you in the future!” She provides an opening as she coats her words with honey, but strangely you find you find you are not against giving her your name. She has earned that, at least. Your blade meets her neck, the match going to you – but you still lean down to give her a reward. “My name is Lace, little spider. And might I know yours, in return?” You are not sure what the look is in her eyes, but you know it pleases you. She takes her defeat with grace, and bows to you. “Lace...a marvellous name for an equally marvellous bug. And I would be glad to give you my name. I am Herrah – and it is a pleasure to meet you, Lace.” She takes your hand, and places a kiss on the back of it – and you never stood a chance. And here you are. After everything, all the pain and grief and love and joy, you are in the shrine to your first love. But not your only love, anymore. Hornet is sat next to you, resting a hand on your shoulder. In your hands, the last piece of Herrah – the picture of you both, smiling and unsuspecting of all that would come ahead. But happy, and that is what mattered, in the end. Looking at this, the picture only brings you a dim warmth. The pain has been laid to rest, and you can think of the love you and she had without being overwhelmed as you once were. You look at Hornet stood by your side, smiling, and feel the blaze of your affection burn bright in your soul. You think you are strong enough now to let Herrah rest – she deserves peace just as you do. Not wanting to keep Herrah waiting, you bury the picture, tucked alongside the rest of Herrah’s mementos. The shelves in the shrine are bare, and once you leave this room it will simply be an empty cave again. Perhaps someone else can move in, and start their own story here. But you are finished, and are ready to close the book for good. You sit in the silence, wanting to let yourself grieve, but oddly – you find you just don’t want to linger any longer. You have been mourning for what was lost for what feels like your whole life. Instead, you lean your head on Hornet for a moment, grateful for her support. And then you both leave, letting old ghosts rest. Soon, you are resting at the edge of Pharloom, where the Blasted Steps turn to open wasteland. Hornet has spoken at length of her homeland, and you find yourself excited at the prospect of seeing where she lived before arriving here. It will be nice to see the world through her eyes for once – to explore a new land for the sake of it, rather than because you are tracking prey. It will be a novelty, for sure. You are happily listening to Hornet go over some of the things she is most excited to show you, before she stops and takes your paws in hers. “We will be travelling for a while, my love. If you would like, I could make you a new cloak and reweave your hands – they have been through much, and I would be happy to make them like new, if it would please you.” Oh, but her care will be the death of you. You lean forward to rub your face against hers, delighting in the purr it startles from her. You accept – to an extent. “I won’t turn down a new cloak. This one is rather old, and I am long due a replacement. But...leave my hands. Some sins cannot be forgiven, and they shouldn’t be forgotten.” Hornet does not argue, understanding how some evils mar you for life. And these hands have done much evil...but they are also the hands that held Herrah for the last time. That Hornet has so gently kissed. You want – you need – them to stay as they are. A reminder that you killed and hurt and committed so many sins – but you also loved. Oh, how you loved. Hand in bloodied hand, you both leave the reborn land behind you, and head into uncharted territory together.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75627046	{"authors": ["arsenicMonster"], "language": "English", "title": "No One Dies From Love (Guess I'll be the first)"}
Really Wish That I Could Cry Right Now (I'm Afraid That I've Forgotten How) Jason's tired. He's tired, and he's cold, and he doesn't want to be here. He knows better than to whine about it not being 'fair'; nothing is fair, it never will be, and that's… well, it is what it is. But every once in a while, he wishes things could just be… not 'bad'. Hell, he's even willing to judge it on a scale. He's fine stacking flattened cardboard boxes together for a bed, just to keep some of the winter chill out. He's fine wearing every piece of clothing he's got, just so it doesn't get stolen if someone grabs his bag. He's fine getting only one meal a day, and a few hours of snatched sleep here and there. He's fine with his blanket having a few holes in it, and the bottom of his left shoe being held together by a few stripes of duct tape and string he found. He knows not to ask for too much. He does, he's learned that lesson by now. But it seems like he just… every time he thinks, okay, I can handle this, something comes along and kicks him in the ribs. The cardboard underneath him is damp, all the way through, straight through his jeans, and he's freezing. And not like 'oh, boohoo, it's cold', but with the temperatures tonight, there's a good chance that that dampness will actually freeze. It's not snowing, which is a plus, but the CVS sign he passed earlier during the day had said it was only twenty-seven degrees then. During the day. And he'd had a plan for it. He'd found the place a few weeks ago, an out shed of a long-out-of-business gas station. He hadn't used it yet, saved it for when it got cold, when he couldn't stay outside, for nights like this. He'd listened to some of the older people, when they'd warned him about his first winter, and he'd planned. He'd thought ahead, and found a place, and he'd had a plan. He pulls his knees up tighter against his chest, his hands tucked between his thighs, shivering as he tries to hold in as much warmth as he can. 'Cause he's not gonna cry about it. Crying is for babies, and girls. Willis taught him that young and early, taught him that 'keep crying and I'll give you somethin' to cry about'. Crying doesn't help, doesn't change nothing, and makes everything worse. Even if he's not sure how much worse it can get right now. And Jason knows he's inviting Fate to come kick him down again just for thinking it but… It's true. Mostly. There's not a lot of ways his situation can get worse right now. At least he managed to get out before the guys could actually grab him. That's… that's something. Even if he lost his blanket, his right shoe, and tore the sleeve off his hoodie. That's… that's not that bad, really. Sure it's not great, but he'd been half asleep when the two guys had kicked a hole in the wall, and started trying to grab him. So it could've been a helluva lot worse: they could've actually grabbed him, instead of just being left with a shoe and a sleeve for their efforts. 'Cause Jason knows that it's a real bad sign that they were after him. Well, not Jason as a person, but that they were trying to grab a kid. Either they're traffickers, they're pimps, or they're working for the big gangs that get kids hooked on dope, then turn 'em into enforcers or whores. But that didn't happen. Jason got away, and… and he only lost a shoe and a sleeve. Not a bad price to pay for him being an idiot. Could've been worse. He even managed to get his backpack, even if it was only because he never takes it off. He may be an idiot, but he's not totally stupid. He can… He learns eventually, and he's had things stolen one too many times to take it off anymore. This will be the same way. He'll learn from this. No more small areas, no matter how well hidden he thinks they are. No more areas where there's only one way in or out. He got lucky this time; he's lucky that they only managed to grab his sleeve and his sneaker when he ducked between them and managed to get around back out through the door. It… it could've been worse. The real problem is… he's got nowhere else to go. Most the other buildings are already claimed, or full. And he can't go to the shelters, since they'll call the cops to come pick him up for social services as soon as they see an underage, unaccompanied kid. Not for the first time, he hates how small he is. It's obvious how young he is, that he isn't old enough to be in shelters by himself, isn't old enough to be at the food pantry himself, isn't old enough to do anything but be thrown in a group home somewhere. And that one doesn't even make any sense. His dad's tall. Maybe not like, super tall, but he's taller than a lot of people. And his mom wasn't short. She might not have been tall-tall, but she was like… normal height. So Jason being shorter than everybody else his age is stupid. He should at least be normal height, not… not shrimpy. But it's fine. It is what it is. Not like he can change it. Nothing he can do about it. He's just gotta… gotta learn to live with it.	Really Wish That I Could Cry Right Now (I'm Afraid That I've Forgotten How) Jason's tired. He's tired, and he's cold, and he doesn't want to be here. He knows better than to whine about it not being 'fair'; nothing is fair, it never will be, and that's… well, it is what it is. But every once in a while, he wishes things could just be… not 'bad'. Hell, he's even willing to judge it on a scale. He's fine stacking flattened cardboard boxes together for a bed, just to keep some of the winter chill out. He's fine wearing every piece of clothing he's got, just so it doesn't get stolen if someone grabs his bag. He's fine getting only one meal a day, and a few hours of snatched sleep here and there. He's fine with his blanket having a few holes in it, and the bottom of his left shoe being held together by a few stripes of duct tape and string he found. He knows not to ask for too much. He does, he's learned that lesson by now. But it seems like he just… every time he thinks, okay, I can handle this, something comes along and kicks him in the ribs. The cardboard underneath him is damp, all the way through, straight through his jeans, and he's freezing. And not like 'oh, boohoo, it's cold', but with the temperatures tonight, there's a good chance that that dampness will actually freeze. It's not snowing, which is a plus, but the CVS sign he passed earlier during the day had said it was only twenty-seven degrees then. During the day. And he'd had a plan for it. He'd found the place a few weeks ago, an out shed of a long-out-of-business gas station. He hadn't used it yet, saved it for when it got cold, when he couldn't stay outside, for nights like this. He'd listened to some of the older people, when they'd warned him about his first winter, and he'd planned. He'd thought ahead, and found a place, and he'd had a plan. He pulls his knees up tighter against his chest, his hands tucked between his thighs, shivering as he tries to hold in as much warmth as he can. 'Cause he's not gonna cry about it. Crying is for babies, and girls. Willis taught him that young and early, taught him that 'keep crying and I'll give you somethin' to cry about'. Crying doesn't help, doesn't change nothing, and makes everything worse. Even if he's not sure how much worse it can get right now. And Jason knows he's inviting Fate to come kick him down again just for thinking it but… It's true. Mostly. There's not a lot of ways his situation can get worse right now. At least he managed to get out before the guys could actually grab him. That's… that's something. Even if he lost his blanket, his right shoe, and tore the sleeve off his hoodie. That's… that's not that bad, really. Sure it's not great, but he'd been half asleep when the two guys had kicked a hole in the wall, and started trying to grab him. So it could've been a helluva lot worse: they could've actually grabbed him, instead of just being left with a shoe and a sleeve for their efforts. 'Cause Jason knows that it's a real bad sign that they were after him. Well, not Jason as a person, but that they were trying to grab a kid. Either they're traffickers, they're pimps, or they're working for the big gangs that get kids hooked on dope, then turn 'em into enforcers or whores. But that didn't happen. Jason got away, and… and he only lost a shoe and a sleeve. Not a bad price to pay for him being an idiot. Could've been worse. He even managed to get his backpack, even if it was only because he never takes it off. He may be an idiot, but he's not totally stupid. He can… He learns eventually, and he's had things stolen one too many times to take it off anymore. This will be the same way. He'll learn from this. No more small areas, no matter how well hidden he thinks they are. No more areas where there's only one way in or out. He got lucky this time; he's lucky that they only managed to grab his sleeve and his sneaker when he ducked between them and managed to get around back out through the door. It… it could've been worse. The real problem is… he's got nowhere else to go. Most the other buildings are already claimed, or full. And he can't go to the shelters, since they'll call the cops to come pick him up for social services as soon as they see an underage, unaccompanied kid. Not for the first time, he hates how small he is. It's obvious how young he is, that he isn't old enough to be in shelters by himself, isn't old enough to be at the food pantry himself, isn't old enough to do anything but be thrown in a group home somewhere. And that one doesn't even make any sense. His dad's tall. Maybe not like, super tall, but he's taller than a lot of people. And his mom wasn't short. She might not have been tall-tall, but she was like… normal height. So Jason being shorter than everybody else his age is stupid. He should at least be normal height, not… not shrimpy. But it's fine. It is what it is. Not like he can change it. Nothing he can do about it. He's just gotta… gotta learn to live with it. Besides, this isn't… it's not so bad. It's not as cold as it could be. And he managed to find some cardboard and tuck himself up behind a dumpster, so he won't actually freeze. He'll get cold, sure, and maybe he'll get sick, which will suck, but he won't die from it or anything. He's gonna be fine. It could… it could be worse. He's just gotta remember that. It could always be worse.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622761	{"authors": ["WakingNightmares"], "language": "English", "title": "Really Wish That I Could Cry Right Now (I'm Afraid That I've Forgotten How)"}
The Cat and the.... Chat??? Meulin was at her shared hive with her matesprite Damara Megido, they had just finished watching through Sailor Moon's first season when she got a text from her pitchmate Kurloz Makara. As usual the purple blooded troll had asked her to bring some nip along for the occasion, the occasion being that every Friday at 9:30 PM they would smoke catnip and furreak. Meulin signed to Damara "its time" and then got up, she walked to the bedroom quickly to retrieve a part of the catnip stash and some wraps. Meulin notices that they're running low on wraps and so she runs back out the living room and rushedly signs to Damara "wraps low", Damara obviously confused by the rapid fire sign language "何?". Meulin slows down and signs again "we are running low on wraps", Damara then nods in return acknowledging the statement mumbling something in ancient alternian before smiling and explaining to Meulin she will go get some. Meulin smiles and gives her matesprite a hug and a mildly sloppy kiss before running out the door to their shared hive. Meulin skips along to Kurloz' hive wondering exactly what he could have in store for her today, sometimes they just sat around and smoked, sometimes they got dirty and down right absurd. Letting her mind wander, it didnt take long for the feline type troll to arrive at her pitchmates hive, knocking on the door excitedly. Usually Meulin would be greeted with the purple blooded troll himself, but this time she is greeted with a different troll, this time its none other than Horuss Zahhak... her palemate?????? What was he doing here, with Kurloz? From what you know Horuss isnt actaully one to partake in nip so you are indeed very curious as to how this is going to start and end. "Hello dear Meulin, come in" Horuss brisks out quickly, letting the olive troll inside Kurloz' hive. She trots in much like her horse companion would, happily climbing onto Kurloz couch to start rolling up the catnip blunt. Meulin then signs to Horuss "where is Kurzoz??", He signs back "Abulition block." The olive troll blushes a deep brooding color as she knows that can only mean one thing if Kurzoz is still in his Abulition block,,,, Freak shit was about to occur. The Horuss standing before her was sweaty as ever and as she looked closer she could tell he was oh MY GOG HE WAS AS HARD AS A FUCKING ROCK.	The Cat and the.... Chat??? Meulin was at her shared hive with her matesprite Damara Megido, they had just finished watching through Sailor Moon's first season when she got a text from her pitchmate Kurloz Makara. As usual the purple blooded troll had asked her to bring some nip along for the occasion, the occasion being that every Friday at 9:30 PM they would smoke catnip and furreak. Meulin signed to Damara "its time" and then got up, she walked to the bedroom quickly to retrieve a part of the catnip stash and some wraps. Meulin notices that they're running low on wraps and so she runs back out the living room and rushedly signs to Damara "wraps low", Damara obviously confused by the rapid fire sign language "何?". Meulin slows down and signs again "we are running low on wraps", Damara then nods in return acknowledging the statement mumbling something in ancient alternian before smiling and explaining to Meulin she will go get some. Meulin smiles and gives her matesprite a hug and a mildly sloppy kiss before running out the door to their shared hive. Meulin skips along to Kurloz' hive wondering exactly what he could have in store for her today, sometimes they just sat around and smoked, sometimes they got dirty and down right absurd. Letting her mind wander, it didnt take long for the feline type troll to arrive at her pitchmates hive, knocking on the door excitedly. Usually Meulin would be greeted with the purple blooded troll himself, but this time she is greeted with a different troll, this time its none other than Horuss Zahhak... her palemate?????? What was he doing here, with Kurloz? From what you know Horuss isnt actaully one to partake in nip so you are indeed very curious as to how this is going to start and end. "Hello dear Meulin, come in" Horuss brisks out quickly, letting the olive troll inside Kurloz' hive. She trots in much like her horse companion would, happily climbing onto Kurloz couch to start rolling up the catnip blunt. Meulin then signs to Horuss "where is Kurzoz??", He signs back "Abulition block." The olive troll blushes a deep brooding color as she knows that can only mean one thing if Kurzoz is still in his Abulition block,,,, Freak shit was about to occur. The Horuss standing before her was sweaty as ever and as she looked closer she could tell he was oh MY GOG HE WAS AS HARD AS A FUCKING ROCK.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75627021/chapters/197773706	{"authors": ["EvanescentEmo"], "language": "English", "title": "The Cat and the.... Chat???"}
Notice me, Senpai! Alban wasn’t stupid. Or maybe he was, if you consider that he had switched majors to Music Production before almost graduating as an accountant after deciding he wasn’t cut out for it, and started a second major when he was closer to his thirties, but that’s another thought for his next therapy session. Alban wasn’t street stupid, if you know what it means.So when he saw the juice box on his usual sitting desk with a sticky note that said “Have a good day! ♡” he knew he had attracted someone’s attention. Really? A secret admirer? What was this? High school?Uki laughed at him when he told them during one of their breaks at university. Usual closest best friend's reaction: making fun of him first, then helping later.“That’s so fucking cute!” They exclaimed and Alban wanted to die.“Uki, I don’t have time for this.” He passed a hand through his face. “Between the finals and my job, I barely have time. What am I supposed to do?”“Oh c’mon, live it up a little! I liked you more when you were in your slut era.”Alban groaned.“Since when did you become such a depressive little shit?”w“Woah, thanks!” He said with sarcasm.Uki shook his head. “What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t be this bothered. So what if you get notes and free little gifts? Isn’t that awesome? Aren’t you interested in knowing who might be?”“No.”“Bitch.”He knew Uki was right. However, he didn’t want to give this situation more of his attention, hoping that if he ignored it, his suitor would take the hints and stop. It just didn’t seem like something to be taken so seriously. It could be a prank too, but who has the time nowadays for that? A freshman probably, someone still young with hopes for the future who doesn’t get welcomed by an empty flat after a shift. Alban put the “Have a good day! ♡” sticky note on his fridge and headed to bed. He skipped dinner. The notes didn’t stop.Kaelix was about to write his 6th sticky note, after deciding that switching it up and writing a pun this time would be a good change from very basic messages like “Cheering you on!!!!!!” and “Wishing you the best!!!!!”. He tapped his forehead with his pen while thinking at his desk in his dorm room.“Do you even know if he likes it?”“WAH!” Kaelix almost fell off his chair. “Woah! Hello to you too, Freo. Jesus!”Freodore, his roommate and long time friend, appeared next to him, his arms crossed and an unreadable flat expression on his face. Kaelix knew what he thought; he wasn’t that fond of his friend acting like a high schooler and bothering one of their seniors.“I mean, he hasn’t thrown them in the trash?”“How do you know?” Kaelix was silent, eyes big. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been snooping around trash cans.”“Well...”Kaelix puckered his lips, caught red-handed. There was silence again. Freo did one of his usual big sighs that meant “I’m over this conversation” and left. Kaelix knew it was silly, he knew doing this was going nowhere, and that entertaining a silly crush shouldn't be one of his top priorities when exams were so close. But he hoped that these could cheer him up.“Oh!”He wrote “This might be cheesy but I think you're grate”.He clapped to himself, thinking he was the best writer in the world. Go Kaelix!His stomach rumbled and he thought that he should get some mac and cheese as a celebration. Alban covered his smile with a hand. What kind of lame pun was this?One thing was for sure: this couldn’t be a joke. There was someone actually interested in him enough to leave these little details on his desk. He looked around quickly, checking if someone was watching him receive the note but didn’t find anyone, every student was in their own world, getting ready for the lecture.Now this was a situation. He grabbed the sticky note and the pack of candy that was pasted to it and put it in his bag. Maybe he should actively deny any kind of gesture, throw it away or ignore it, but wouldn’t that be too mean? And it’s not like it was bad. So what if there was some creep that at their big age didn't have the balls —or ovaries, he still didn’t know— to make a move on him like a normal person instead of leaving little gifts for him?It was a predicament. In his position, there wasn’t much to do. Actively searching for this person was a time-consuming task that he was too lazy for, and what would he do if he found them? Nothing. He wasn’t interested in a relationship at the time. Working and studying, yeah, no time for that.He was never a relationship kinda guy anyway, he had his fun, maybe a questionable amount of it. But that was the past; hell, ever since then, no one has ever tried to flirt with him again. “Metaphorical twink death,” Uki said once, and Alban flipped them off. But it was true that the comment stuck to him. The lack of… “game” he once had seemed to disappear made him feel a bit insecure.Too busy anyway, Alban always repeated to himself.Work was over. It had been a peaceful shift yet he felt anxious anyway.Back at his flat, he felt	Notice me, Senpai! Alban wasn’t stupid. Or maybe he was, if you consider that he had switched majors to Music Production before almost graduating as an accountant after deciding he wasn’t cut out for it, and started a second major when he was closer to his thirties, but that’s another thought for his next therapy session. Alban wasn’t street stupid, if you know what it means.So when he saw the juice box on his usual sitting desk with a sticky note that said “Have a good day! ♡” he knew he had attracted someone’s attention. Really? A secret admirer? What was this? High school?Uki laughed at him when he told them during one of their breaks at university. Usual closest best friend's reaction: making fun of him first, then helping later.“That’s so fucking cute!” They exclaimed and Alban wanted to die.“Uki, I don’t have time for this.” He passed a hand through his face. “Between the finals and my job, I barely have time. What am I supposed to do?”“Oh c’mon, live it up a little! I liked you more when you were in your slut era.”Alban groaned.“Since when did you become such a depressive little shit?”w“Woah, thanks!” He said with sarcasm.Uki shook his head. “What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t be this bothered. So what if you get notes and free little gifts? Isn’t that awesome? Aren’t you interested in knowing who might be?”“No.”“Bitch.”He knew Uki was right. However, he didn’t want to give this situation more of his attention, hoping that if he ignored it, his suitor would take the hints and stop. It just didn’t seem like something to be taken so seriously. It could be a prank too, but who has the time nowadays for that? A freshman probably, someone still young with hopes for the future who doesn’t get welcomed by an empty flat after a shift. Alban put the “Have a good day! ♡” sticky note on his fridge and headed to bed. He skipped dinner. The notes didn’t stop.Kaelix was about to write his 6th sticky note, after deciding that switching it up and writing a pun this time would be a good change from very basic messages like “Cheering you on!!!!!!” and “Wishing you the best!!!!!”. He tapped his forehead with his pen while thinking at his desk in his dorm room.“Do you even know if he likes it?”“WAH!” Kaelix almost fell off his chair. “Woah! Hello to you too, Freo. Jesus!”Freodore, his roommate and long time friend, appeared next to him, his arms crossed and an unreadable flat expression on his face. Kaelix knew what he thought; he wasn’t that fond of his friend acting like a high schooler and bothering one of their seniors.“I mean, he hasn’t thrown them in the trash?”“How do you know?” Kaelix was silent, eyes big. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been snooping around trash cans.”“Well...”Kaelix puckered his lips, caught red-handed. There was silence again. Freo did one of his usual big sighs that meant “I’m over this conversation” and left. Kaelix knew it was silly, he knew doing this was going nowhere, and that entertaining a silly crush shouldn't be one of his top priorities when exams were so close. But he hoped that these could cheer him up.“Oh!”He wrote “This might be cheesy but I think you're grate”.He clapped to himself, thinking he was the best writer in the world. Go Kaelix!His stomach rumbled and he thought that he should get some mac and cheese as a celebration. Alban covered his smile with a hand. What kind of lame pun was this?One thing was for sure: this couldn’t be a joke. There was someone actually interested in him enough to leave these little details on his desk. He looked around quickly, checking if someone was watching him receive the note but didn’t find anyone, every student was in their own world, getting ready for the lecture.Now this was a situation. He grabbed the sticky note and the pack of candy that was pasted to it and put it in his bag. Maybe he should actively deny any kind of gesture, throw it away or ignore it, but wouldn’t that be too mean? And it’s not like it was bad. So what if there was some creep that at their big age didn't have the balls —or ovaries, he still didn’t know— to make a move on him like a normal person instead of leaving little gifts for him?It was a predicament. In his position, there wasn’t much to do. Actively searching for this person was a time-consuming task that he was too lazy for, and what would he do if he found them? Nothing. He wasn’t interested in a relationship at the time. Working and studying, yeah, no time for that.He was never a relationship kinda guy anyway, he had his fun, maybe a questionable amount of it. But that was the past; hell, ever since then, no one has ever tried to flirt with him again. “Metaphorical twink death,” Uki said once, and Alban flipped them off. But it was true that the comment stuck to him. The lack of… “game” he once had seemed to disappear made him feel a bit insecure.Too busy anyway, Alban always repeated to himself.Work was over. It had been a peaceful shift yet he felt anxious anyway.Back at his flat, he felt like going straight to bed but then his phone buzzed in his pocket. A Discord notification, “Are you hopping in?” the message said. It was game night with the boys. He looked at the clock and answered: “Give me 10, I just got home”. He ignored the following buzzing, knowing they were giving him shit for being late.After a change of clothes and a light meal, he headed to his computer. His gaming, beefy PC that he had worked so hard to build, but barely used it to play. He got in call and greeted his friends.“What took you so long, man?” Sonny’s baritone voice sounded so full through his headphones.“I told you guys I just got home,” Alban rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sleepy, fuck.”“Gaming in your thirties be like,” Fulgur joked.A choir of laughs followed.“Hey, I’m not thirty!” Alban defended himself, then added in a small voice. “Yet.”It felt good for a while to play some random brain-off zombie game with his friends, joking around and having a nice time. The company of his friends even at a distance made him feel full till the last round. Towards the end, his eyes were closing by themselves.“I’ll dip out now guys, thanks for the games.”“So early?”“Are you okay, Albanyan?” Alban smiled at the nickname, the one he made his stupid gamer tag that he had been using for years. Fulgur always called him that. “Today you seemed a bit off.”Fuck that man and his sixth sense.Alban told them about his “situation”.“'This might be cheesy but I think you're grate'!? Are you sure this is a freshman? That’s so old!” Of course, Fulgur lost it at the pun, being the piece of information he couldn’t let go of all he explained. “Yeah, what if it’s some sexy classmate of yours? No? Not interested?” Sonny asked.“I- I don’t know.” Alban sounded sad.“I don’t get it, you have someone behind you and you don’t seem that happy?”“Sonny, I think Alban is just… confused.” Alban knew what that tone meant; Fulgur was definitely going to make him call later just the two of them to unpack a few things. Alban wasn’t looking forward to that.“Anyways, I’ve been here long enough, I’ll just leave now.”Alban didn’t let them have any parting words, suddenly closing Discord. Not today. He wasn’t ready to talk about it. Kaelix was curious, okay? He had never been present to see his senior's reaction to his notes. And today was different, he was making a big move: this time there was a flirty line on the note. This was important, okay?He always left his little present before he arrived. Probably the most adrenaline-inducing moment of every Thursday, and he lived for it. Before all of this started, Kaelix knew he had to do this in a class they didn’t share to reduce any kind of suspicion. Though, he knew that never in a billion years Alban Knox would imagine that the notes came from Kaelix Debonair, the freshman student from Musical Theory, a class that didn’t come until much later that day. He was playing the smart game.So he was quick with it, as always, he came inside, left the note in the second desk from the front on the right side and left the classroom. Not crossing looks with anyone, just walking in and out. His heart was hammering in his chest. Then he decided to wait in the empty classroom next to it. Perfect execution.It was risky, he definitely knows that if Alban asks any of his classmates, they could tell him a 6'1" tall, white haired guy came in every time before class to leave him his gift. But that’s when his Alban Knox knowledge came in: Alban didn’t talk to anybody in that class, his closest friend at this university was the one he met during breaks, that other purple haired guy, girl? The very gender looking one. And some other few people that weren't in this class.He wasn’t a stalker, he just noticed a few things from watching from afar.Once enough time passed, he got closer to the windowed door. Hands sweating, ready to watch his crush react to his gift.“Who are we stalking?” Zeal joked leaning over closer to his ears and Kaelix almost pooped his pants.Took him everything to not scream, he didn’t want to bring attention to them.“Hi Zeal” Kaelix said with no air in his lungs.“Why are you here today? Musical Theory is in like what, 5 hours?”“Oh! I just heard that this professor's classes are very good, you know, even if I’m not enrolled in this class, I was curious,” Kaelix explained quickly with his hands and adjusted his glasses. He was so bad at lying.“Oh?” Zeal smiled, slowly, thinking. Kaelix shuddered. Although they were friends, Zeal was older, wiser, and more intimidating when he wanted to. “Then will you join me?”Kaelix wanted to scream again, but just nodded. Zeal definitely knew something was going on, but decided to mess with him instead of forcing a real explanation out of him. He mentally did a prayer as they walked together through the door into the class.It keeps getting worse: Alban waved at them, waved at Zeal, actually, who was definitely closer to the guy than him, but since they were together, Kaelix waved too. He needed to act normally, and if a senior waves at you, you wave back at them. He screamed internally even more when he noticed Alban had already put his things out on the desk in front of him, he had missed his reaction to his gift. Zeal seated them on the back side of the classroom.This is bad bad bad bad. Not only did he get caught by none other than Zeal, who keeps smiling next to him, he also missed Alban’s reaction and now he has to sit through a class he wasn’t even enrolled in!It was so over.The mental anguish he was having didn’t allow him to focus on enjoying the class (technically, he didn’t lie when he said he heard great things about this class), he couldn’t steal glances to Alban’s round head either because Zeal had one eye on him all the time. It was torture!After what felt like two thousands years of anxiety, the class was over. Alban left quickly, Kaelix’s eyes following him unconsciously.“So, how do I make you tell me?” Zeal's low voice rumbled next to him in the empty classroom.“Zeal!” Kaelix yelped. “T-tell you what? Haha!”“You didn’t know I was in this class?”“Huh?”“You really thought no one was gonna notice your little game?”.One, two, three.Kaelix kneeled.“Please don’t tell him, please don’t tell him, please don’t tell him. Please Zeal! Pretty, please!”Zeal laughed and threw his head back. He was enjoying this.“I actually just found out it was you today with this reaction.”Kaelix's jaw dropped. “What!?”“I saw Alban receive gifts, but I never saw you here. You just gave yourself away with it. Though if you think about it… Alban?... yeah, it makes sense.”“You make me sick Ginjoka.” Kaelix stood up and brushed the dust off his knees with a defeated expression on his face. “Do you always arrive so late to this class?”Zeal shrugged with a smile. That was a yes. Of course something out of his knowledge ruined his plan, he missed this important fact: Zeal was taking this same class as Alban.Zeal Ginjoka, a student he met when he started in one of his classes and clicked instantly even with their almost ten years age gap. Zeal was also acquaintances with Alban as he had seen them talking together before.“So… will you tell him?” Kaelix sat down again next to him, carefully, his mind already running through all the different possibilities and scenarios of how to buy the older's silence.“Nah. Not my style.” Kaelix sighed, a wave of relief running through him. “Though you'll have to tell me how this started.”It was going to be a long afternoon till next class. When Alban heard that the way the professor decided to grade Music Theory was a group project, he really considered just leaving the country and starting his new life as a retired farmer. The last thing he wanted was to be behind kids, aka early twenties brats, that barely could write 2 sentences without ChatGPT. He had been through it before, he knows how group work usually goes. He knows he will get ghosted and he'll end up begging people to do their parts. That or doing the whole project by himself.“You can choose your partners. This will be a graded group essay and presentation. Up to 4 members per group, please.” Their professor said above the increasing chatting that erupted after the announcement.At least, they can choose their partners. Alban turned around quickly, looking for someone familiar. He saw him. Alban quickly typed on his phone to Zeal.Please save me from ending up with some kidsZeal answered with some laughing emojis.I got you man. Though we need more membersAnyone in mind?Well… yes. But he's a “kid” xDDoes he work properly? That's all I'm asking.Oh, yeah, perfect grades actually.Ok, let's make a GC. We still need a fourth.A group chat named “Musical Theory Group Project” was quickly created.Kaelix took his phone out of his pocket at its constant buzzing. He read the screen once, then twice. He whipped his head to the other side of the classroom, he saw Zeal winking at him. He was gonna kill him.hello! i'm kaelix debonair, Thanks for adding me!Hi Kaelix! Zeal told me you wouldn't give us trouble in the project hahanot at all! i get it tho, i was actually dreading when i heard it would be a group projectOMG Just like me fr fr!Kaelix bit his lip. Yippie his sugoi awesome life.We still need a fourth one, Zeal added.oh can I add freo? i'm sitting with him rn we were just talking about making a group but we lacked peopleYeah!I trust you Zeal, Alban replied.Freo got added, Kaelix signaled him to grab his phone. The other picked it up, saw the group chat, the members on it, the messages, and looked back at him.“Kaelix, I really want to pass this class.”“Uh-huh?”“Don't do anything crazy.”“I will not!”Freo left his message in the chat, presenting himself and wishing the group the best to pass the class. The first couple of times the group met up to work together were Kaelix's tests. Kaelix loved singing, but he also loved acting, and he was an actor. He was holding it so well. He was just himself around the group, even if Alban was there. He was so normal about it.Their usual meet-up point was the library before their class, after Zeal and Alban were done with their previous class. The thing about group projects in university is that the biggest obstacle is always working around every student's schedule. Aligning meetings at some other day or time seemed impossible for all of them. So the library before class was the best option.During those meet-ups, Kaelix found out that Alban was a full-time student while having a full-time job, he also learned he was older than he appeared to be and that his favorite snack for their little breaks was dark chocolate. He was on cloud nine.Alban's personality lived up to the things he had heard of him. That's how he found out about him at first, through others. Everyone he knew in his major had mentioned the nice guy who one could ask pretty much anything. He often guided new students, or helped others if needed, without being part of the student council. Kaelix had asked more about him before, but that’s mostly what he would always get: a very nice, kind person. And from being mentioned so much, he thought he would be some kind of popular guy with people around him all the time. So when he finally shared a class with him, he just saw the brown haired man, round glasses, soft looks, sitting quietly on his desk before the class started. Definitely not what he expected.But Alban wasn’t antisocial, anyone could talk to him and get a kind smile. Distant, but kind smile.Awfully cute guy that everyone loves, yet stays in his little bubble, he sounded like a mystery, and he was a curious person. It was a matter of time till Kaelix’s curiosity grew stronger and led him up to this position.Kaelix looked at Alban's round glasses and how they sat on the bridge of his small nose.“What do you think, Kaelix? Shall we meet up to continue our part next week?”Small nose, cutely round too.“Kaelix?”“Kaelix?” Zeal repeated and poked his elbow.He jumped on his seat.“Wah! Sorry, I was just thinking! Yeah, yeah, of course! Not a problem at all!”Freo didn't say anything, but he could feel his heavy look on him.“Why don't we go for some snacks, Kaelix?” Zeal asked, but he was already standing up and grabbing his jacket.Kaelix didn't answer, already following the others' actions. Alban and Freo shared a silence before the older stretched up and took his glasses off for a moment.“A snack break sounds nice, no?” He started the conversation. Freo was a bit on the reserved side.“Resting for a bit could help us focus better later,” Freo answered, closing his notebook calmly.“They seem close.” Freo looked at him, his expression not saying much, but his demeanor oozed inquiry. “Those two, I mean, you know them both, right?”Alban pointed at the door from where Zeal and Kaelix had left.“Kaelix has been my friend since we were kids, and my roommate since we started studying. We started almost at the same time. And Kaelix met Zeal in one of his classes, they have been inseparable since then.”“I see, I talk a lot with Zeal and saw Kaelix with him a few times, but he never introduced me to him for some reason. Never bothered asking anyway.” Kaelix quickly realized that Alban could be more talkative than expected, especially when the conversation topic was of his interest and when it was just the 2 of them. Obviously, it might be that when they were all together, his focus was on the project and leading everyone's efforts. But ever since they agreed to continue for a little bit in pairs due to some schedule changes between members, Kaelix felt a bit closer to him. He looked forward to studying and preparing together their part of the work at the library. His favorite part was the chats they had in between.“Just a tiny break, please.” Kaelix stopped typing on his laptop, reached over the table, and tapped Alban's hand once.Alban looked up from his notebook, big eyes looking at him over his glasses frames. Kaelix pouted, ignoring the little hiccup he felt on his chest at the older's gaze.The other smiled.“Okay, just a bit!”“Yippie! So, so, so tell me, have you seen the movie I recommended to you?”“Yes, I have, I'm surprised you knew that one. I feel someone your age wouldn't know about that.”“Hey!” Kaelix acted offended by putting a hand on his chest, seeing Alban giggling as his victory. “I was raised between VHS tapes, okay? And “Giant Ants” is a horror classic in my books.”“Raised between VHS tapes?”“Yeah! My parents are cinephiles, and I grew up in a rural area with no internet. My siblings and I's entertainment was their many, many VHS.” Kaelix spoke fondly, reminiscing about his childhood. With a pang of nostalgia too, maybe he should call home soon. He missed them. He continued the conversation: “What was your childhood like? Any siblings?”“Oh.”Alban said softly. There it was. That “wall,” as Kaelix thought about it.From time to time, whenever they had a conversation, just sometimes, Kaelix felt like he had chosen the wrong option of dialogue in a visual novel. There were some topics that Alban would avoid talking about, totally understandable, but it made him seem so distant. Kaelix didn't feel bad about it, just curious, and that was, if not, worse.“Well, I do have a sister.” Kaelix paid attention immediately. This was new. “A younger sister, she's very nice, she looks the same as mom. They live far away, though.”How could an answer still be an answer while being so vague? Kaelix wanted to know everything. What's her name? How's your mom? Where are they? Do you still talk to them? Why did your smile drop while talking about them?“I see! You do give older brother vibes!” He laughed and lightened up the mood. “You are very responsible, and I feel very at ease knowing you are helping us all! Thank you for always organizing us and stuff, I really appreciate your work.”Was that too much?Alban opened his eyes in surprise. And was that a faint blush?Kaelix was sure he would die right there.“Ah! Oh wow, haha, Kaelix, you are very sweet.”About to die? Nah, he was dead already.“Like, really, thank you for saying that. That's very kind of you.”Kaelix Debonair was a ghost.“Thank you, Alban.” “Freo, if you keep staring at me like that, I will end up with two holes in my head,” Kaelix said without turning around.Once again, he was at his bedroom's desk in front of a blank sticky note. Although it was a bit harder to do it now, he was still writing messages to Alban. He thought that if he suddenly stopped after starting to interact with him, it could be suspicious, also he now knows Alban keeps up the sticky notes because Zeal told him. Thank you, Zeal.“How do you even have time for this during exam seasons?” Freo said calmly, but Kaelix knew when his friend was not as calm as he sounded.“What's the problem?” Kaelix finally turned around with his chair. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and he could have looked more intimidating if it wasn't for the fact that he was balancing a pen with his upper lip.Freo didn't react.“At first, my disapproval came from a place of respect. Alban is a very nice senior who you shouldn’t be bothering. But now we both know this has been going on for too long.”Kaelix dropped his pen in surprise from opening his mouth. Oh, it was serious.“Wait, Freo, what do you mean? I'm not doing anything wrong.” A bit of panic started to build up inside him at the thought of his closest friend getting mad at him for real. He tapped his fingers together and started speaking, his tongue moving faster than he could process his thoughts: “I- I just wanted him to cheer him up, okay? I really admire the things he does for others, and I think he should be appreciated, too! I- I don't mean harm, I don't want anything in return!”Kaelix needed a few seconds to calm his heartbeats, his nervousness getting the best out of him. Freo’s eyes never left him, although they felt softer than before. The tallest put a hand over his chest and breathed in deeply a few times. Freo took a step closer, and that was a lot coming from him, his proximity was enough comfort. Freodore wasn't the type to do physical touch, but standing close like this, it meant he could do it if he decided to. That gesture alone was reassuring.“Everyone talks so kindly of him, but does he know about it? I don't know. I feel like he goes out of his way to help others, but why is he alone every time I see him? He kinda reminds me of-”“Of you?” Freo cut him.After a few moments and with less sweat on his forehead, Kaelix looked up from his seat to him.“Is that weird? Is this some kind of narcissistic pseudo-psychological reason? Should I call my therapist again?”“You fool.” Freo put a fist over his head. It should have been a hit but with the soft landing it had, it felt like a pat. Kaelix was shocked. “You are overthinking again.”This is why they've been friends for so long. Whenever he felt like his brain was working against him, Freo, the so logical Freo, would intervene. And whenever Freo needed a new perspective or energy to affront things, Kaelix, the so emotional Kaelix, would help.“It's not weird.” Freo put his fist down. Kaelix immediately missed the physical touch. “I'm watching over you because I know you. And I'm figuring out how much I should prepare to catch you when you fall. Every time I see you chase and chase, you get higher and higher, I don't want to see you crushing down.”It is true that Kaelix wears his heart on his sleeve and that when he falls for someone, he falls hard. He was easy to give his all. He never once regretted it. Giving away his heart was both painful and beautiful because it had given him a lot of precious memories. Yet, when he gets his heart broken, he usually needs a long time to recover, his last relationship being years ago. And it wasn't a nice process, coming back to normality, and the person he saw that process the most was always Freo. Kaelix took a few seconds to think about it. At least, as he got older, he was more aware of his feelings and how to understand them better.“If I get my heart broken, then so be it. But I know it is my own doing, Freo. It is my own responsibility to know how I do emotionally.”“That's good to hear. So you are aware.”“Yes, thank you so much. For always watching over me.”“Hmm.” Freo took a step back, seeing his friend a little bit more cheerful. “Don't make me regret this. It's all your fault, remember? Es culpa de Kaelix.”“Aw, Freo! You worry about me? You do love me!” Kaelix said happily.“I'm out of here.”Kaelix laughed and turned back to his desk, a new idea for a new message coming to him. Yeah, he was going to be okay. This time was different. Alban reached home and did the usual: untied his necktie, took his shoes off, and reached for his bag to paste that day's sticky note on the fridge. They were starting to become a big number now, so he stopped to stare at each paper. Different colors, different messages each, never repeating once. A small smile crept up his lips.Someone knocked on his door. Then the bell rang multiple times.Only a few would be that invasively impatient at his entrance, and with Sonny and Fulgur away, he knew who it was already.“Hi Uki”Uki raised 2 bottles of wine in their hands. “I know your schedule, you have a day off tomorrow, and I need a drink buddy.”The other didn’t wait for a reply before making themselves at home, Alban saw Uki occupy space in his flat like he owned the place, heading to the small kitchen. And he felt warmth in his heart.“I'll order something, Chinese?”“Sounds good. Oh wow!” Uki stopped in front of the fridge. “I guess your secret admirer is still at it.”They turned around to him with a sly smile.“Shut up and pour me a cup now.”Uki laughed and reached for the wine cups, without the need to ask where they were. They both sat down on the sofa, drinking while waiting for the food to arrive.“What's up with you? Why the sudden need for… this?”“I haven't gotten laid in a while, and it's getting to me.” Alban nodded slowly while snickering at Uki’s answer, “Exams are fucking me up and not in the way I wished.”“You thinking of dropping out like Sonny?” Alban joked.“Maybe.” Uki wasn’t joking.“What the fuck? Are you leaving too?”Are you too leaving me behind?, he thought.“Oh, Albie, c’mon now, don't act like that.”Uki sounded weirdly maternal, like a mother reprimanding their kid. Alban did feel like a child, an outburst escaped him there. A silence appeared, not awkwardly, but it was needed to calm down the air between them. The brown haired took another sip. “Now tell me about your exams instead, or that group project you told me about before? Who's in your group? Are you suffering?” Uki said in a lighter tone, tapping their nails against the glass.“For your disgrace, no, I'm actually doing pretty fine. I'm very lucky to end up in a group where everyone does their part, managing newbies on top of the others exams and work would have been the end of me. I'm with Zeal, you know, the producer guy I met a while ago? And some boys, Kaelix and Freodore.”“Oh, I remember Zeal, he's handsome.”Alban shook his head, not giving a second of his time to entertain Uki's horny thoughts.“Zeal knows Kaelix, and Freodore is Kaelix's friend and roommate. Freo is a bit quiet but very responsible, he's smart and diligent, he has some scary sharp eyes, but he's very nice actually.” Alban said while holding his chin, reminiscing about what it was like to hang out with them. Uki poured themselves some more wine while listening, elegantly and slowly, before coming back to a relaxed position on the sofa. “Kaelix, on the other hand-”“Doesn't work? You don't like him?”“No, no! Not at all! Zeal added him because he has amazing academic performance, like I think he might be a top student. He's also very nice, he's… kinda like a giant dog?”“What? Puppy? Golden retriever vibes?”“Something like that! We actually talk a lot. He's always making sure everyone is doing okay, he's always cracking up a joke, and lifting up the mood. He's very expressive and laughs loudly. Such a very positive energy! He kinda reminds me of…” Uki paid attention to the silence. They waited, but Alban's eyes told them he wouldn't end the sentence he started.“Of you? A few years ago?”Alban didn’t answer.Uki left the cup down and opened their arms.“Albie, come here.”Alban snuggled up to him like a cat.“I don't know what's gotten into you.” They sighed and ran their nails through Alban's scalp. The other relaxed, but Uki felt that if they let go, he would disappear. “Nowadays, all I see is tiredness in your eyes. Where's my happy guy?”Alban replied softly between their arms. “Maybe it is the weather, or the fact that things aren't the same. I don't know. I miss those days, with everyone.”And another silence. They didn’t need to explain to each other what that meant. Life has its crazy twists and you never know when people come and go.Uki always felt warm, and they also always smelled nice. Alban hugged them tighter. Uki allowed him. They stayed like that for a few minutes, just hugging each other. Familiarly, privately.“Should we date?” Alban said after a while, and Uki laughed loudly. Alban felt their laugh reverberate through their body and he smiled.“Should we fuck?” Uki replied.It was Alban's turn to laugh. At some point, the group chat evolved into a Discord server, since they were done with the early stages of the essay, and calling seemed an even easier way to accommodate their always-changing schedules. It was called “Alban’s Sparkle Nyan Nyan Kittens” as a joke after seeing that Alban's username was “Albanyan” which made him the target for friendly teasing.“Oh, wow, I didn't know you were like that, Alban” Freo said, and the way he spoke made the others laugh.“I swear it's just an old gaming handle! An old friend gave me that nickname, it's ironic! I promise!”“The name of the server does fit, no? Because Alban's been leading this project like a mother,” Zeal added.“A-Alban mother? Alban mama?” Kaelix stuttered and laughed nervously.“Oh God!”Alban's voice came muffled from the way he covered his face with his hands, red up to his ears.One does feel when a group of classmates starts to feel closer, evolving beyond university-related relationships. The server had dedicated channels to the project, but also some where they would message each other about things that were not related to it. They shared memes, games, and movies they liked. And Alban found out that, between them all, there were a lot of things in common. It had been a while since he felt so happy to interact with others.They would call to organize the upcoming presentation and share notes with each other, but after a while of working, the call would always evolve into just hanging out late at night.That night, Kaelix insisted (aka begged) for them all to try a new silly game, with the excuse that it would help their “teamwork” for the final presentation. That was the first time they played together, and the call lasted more hours than usual. They laughed nonstop and fooled around more in-game than actually reaching the objectives. Until it was pretty late.“My God, look at the hour!” Alban said, knowing he was going to be restless for tomorrow's shift.“I guess time flies when you have fun.” Zeal said.“My cheeks hurt from laughing,” Kaelix said. It sounded like he was smiling.“We should leave it here, Kaelix, if you keep laughing so loudly, we'll definitely get a noise complaint soon,” Freo said, “Ok then, I'll head off, thank you guys for your time.”Freo left the call quickly.“I'll make some coffee and get back to some track I wanna finish,” Zeal said, and Kaelix complained about his weird sleeping schedule. The producer laughed and left the call too.Alban saw both of his and Kaelix icons being the only ones left in the call and waited.Nothing happened.“Why aren't you leaving?” Alban said, amused.“I always like to be the last one to leave calls with friends.”Alban stretched on his seat and laid back, closing his eyes. After all the laughter, the tiredness finally met him and made his eyes burn a little.“I don't like losing by the way,” Kaelix added. Alban smiled without opening his eyes.“You are so goofy.”“I know.”“Thank you for today, Kaelix. Suggesting we played something was good, I had a lot of fun.”Kaelix stayed quiet on the other side of the call. Alban waited, doubted a bit before continuing.“I've been having so much fun with you guys, which is crazy, knowing it all comes from a uni assignment. But I wouldn't have met you all and shared today, for example. It feels… nice. Honestly, lately, I haven't… been talking a lot to people. Busy with work and studying.” He blew some air out of his nose and opened his eyes, he saw the ceiling of his bedroom in the darkness. Kaelix was still quiet, but he knew he was listening. “I had- I have some friends, but everyone's busy, you know? Each doing their own thing, it's hard to hang out. So things like these really make me happy. I hope even after the presentation is done, and we pass this class, we can still hang out together.”“Oh, Alban…”Alban immediately looked at his screen, even if it wasn't a video call. His eyes stared at the other's icon, slowly lighting up in bits in the call. “Kaelix, are you crying?”“Sorry! It's a bit late and I get emotional easily! I'm just happy, you are happy,” Kaelix sniffled lightly. “I hope you know we also enjoy your company and everything you do for us.”“Why are you the kindest person ever?” Alban felt his eyes watering a bit, but held back. Maybe he was just really tired.“I could say the same to you.”“Stop.”“I mean it.”A silence. He fiddled with his fingers a bit. Some nervousness was building inside him. He didn’t know how to take compliments.“Kaelix, you win.” He said and left the call.He immediately took off his headphones but stayed in his seat for a bit. What was that? He put a hand over his chest, trying to calm down whatever was going on underneath.Kindness. He wasn't used to it being directed to him. He ate a chip, and another, and another. He saw his fingertips tinted by the dust from his snacks and all the probably overprocessed colorants, he shouldn’t be eating this unhealthy stuff. Hell, he didn’t even like salty snacks that much, he actually had a sweet tooth instead. Kaelix looked around to see if there was a napkin or anything to clean his fingers. He thought for a moment, looking down, firstly at his shirt, then at the fancy black leather of the sofa. He shook his head, no, that’s dirty, but-“If you clean your fingers there, I will make you buy me another sofa.” Zeal said. Kaelix never noticed when the other had turned around in his ergonomic chair. He didn't know how long he had been staring at him either.He wiped his fingers off on his shirt. Zeal facepalmed.“Not only I should start charging you rent for the amount of time you’ve been around lately, but also the amount of food you’ve been eating from my shelves, you giant rat.”“Shut up! Shut up! You like that I hang around here because otherwise your only social interaction would be with your crazy over-layered FL Studio projects!” He childishly protested, kicking his feet against the floor.If Kaelix wasn’t at the dorms, the university, or on some random quest in the city, he would always end up hanging out in Zeal’s flat, mostly in his home-made studio, where the man would spend most of his time. Even if it was home-made, it had a pretty professional setup, soundproofed to the brink, giant mixers that Kaelix had only seen in photos before, and clean, nice vibes from the carefully low lights placed around, which Kaelix had told Zeal many times would hurt his eyes, but Zeal said any other lighting would ruin “the vibe”.In any other time, Kaelix would probably be sitting next to him, watching him work and learning a thing or two about mixing, talking calmly. He really liked Zeal’s company, because he always made him feel at ease. Never too nervous to ask questions or crack a joke. He could be himself without any restraints, which was a lot to take in for others sometimes. That’s why he was currently stress eating and throwing a tantrum at his place.“What am I gonna do, Zeal! What am I gonna do, Zeal!”“About Alban?”He put the chips down and sighed dramatically. “I even told Freo I had it under control.”“You don’t seem like someone that ‘has it under control’ if you ask me”Kaelix sat next to Zeal, his eyes quickly going over the screen before speaking. Yes, those were a lot of vocal layers. “I don’t know what to do, am I doing okay? Why do I feel anxious?”“You are overthinking it.”Deja-vu.“It’s easy. You like him, no? Nothing wrong with that. What I am suspecting is that you are getting nervous because you had a taste of him.” Kaelix screamed “WHAT!” but he ignored it, the phrasing was intentional. “You wanna spend more time with him now, yeah? You are starting to feel that this is not enough. You want more.”“More!? No! No! No!”“Really, Kaelix? I’ve seen you two hanging around in calls on the server. Why are you hanging out so much with him? Just to be friends? C’mon now.”“It really is just to be friends!” Kaelix started raising his voice in pitch more and more. “I never expected more, I just really like talking to him! I can’t imagine anything else!”“Why?”“You know how he calls me? ‘Sweet summer child’, Zeal. That’s what I am Zeal, a child!”“That’s because you keep calling him ‘Alban mama’! Listen, I don’t know what kind of weird roleplay you guys are into but-”“Zeal!”“Sorry, sorry.” Zeal backed up from teasing. That was enough. He sighed and continued a bit more softly this time, “Seriously speaking, you are overthinking it. If you like someone, what’s wrong with wanting to date them?”Kaelix took a moment to think about the question. The other gave him the time, knowing he lost the younger to his own thoughts. It wasn’t the difference in age the main problem, they were both adults and Kaelix always fell for older people than him. The problem was the difference between their lives and their current positions. Alban didn’t deserve some loser student, he should be with someone like him, someone who has their life put together, someone who can provide and look after him properly, match him, take care of him. Someone else.“You are frowning, Kaelix.” Zeal poked him, “What’s going on in that big head of yours?”“I don’t think I have what’s needed.”“That’s what you tell yourself to scare yourself away from it. Also, it is very selfish of you to think you know “what’s needed”, as if you know everything, even what he thinks…” There was a silence in which the oldest studied his expression, reading how he reacted to that. Zeal remembered what it was like to be in his position. “But what do you want, Kaelix?”The other scuffed, he wouldn’t say it aloud. He stretched in the chair next to Zeal’s and looked back at the half-eaten bag of potato chips on the coffee table next to the sofa. He didn’t want to eat anymore. He wished Zeal continued working so he could hear the track he was working on instead of the telltale silence.“I wish I were more laid back like you, Zeal.” He ended up answering with a light smile.Zeal felt the switch of his tone and respected the other’s wish to end that conversation there, it wasn’t easy to come up with an honest answer at the moment, probably.“With age, you learn how to win the IDGAF war,” Zeal posed with an inverted peace sign, winking at him cutely, a pose more proper of a Japanese girly young idol than a male producer of thirty years old. Kaelix still laughed at it with content. “Now, would you take a listen to this and give me your opinion?”Zeal passed him his headphones, and Kaelix thanked him internally. Alban was walking towards the classroom for his final class of that day, Music Theory. Thursdays were always his longest days.He was thinking on his way there about how quickly days have been passing lately, without realizing the presentation for the class was due next week. Students were laughing and chatting in the hallways, in pairs, in groups, and he looked at the full picture with a bit of nostalgia. His university days were slowly coming to an end. After this semester, he would be done with classes and ready to take on his thesis to graduate. Finally, “catching up” to all his peers. What would come next? A job that didn't make him feel miserable? A trip? A family, a house? He shook his head, yeah, right. In this economy?He took something out of his jeans pocket: a candy, attached to that day’s sticky notes. “You are so lovely” was written between hearts.For a moment, he wondered if this secret admirer knew he would not see him after this year anymore. Silently breaking someone’s heart. Alban thought that that was ridiculous and put the sticky note back on his pocket, but unwrapped the candy to snack on it before arriving to class. There was no time for that type of thing, he had some objectives first, then maybe he could focus on playing the role in that sit-com life was offering. He would focus on his growing loneliness afterwards, not now.He entered his classroom and gave a quick look at the students gathering. He spotted Kaelix in their usual seats but didn’t move yet. He was alone and deeply focused on a book he had in hands. Posture relaxed yet proper, eyes scanned the pages with attention behind his glasses. It was a different Kaelix, and Alban took some seconds to understand that the bubbly freshman could also look like that: serious, focused, mature, attractive even.“Hello, Alban,” Zeal greeted him and Alban turned to him quickly, a bit surprised. Zeal gave a glance, following the line of view his classmate had before he appeared. He understood immediately. “Such a bookworm, isn’t he?”Zeal smiled, closing his eyes. He could be a bit intimidating sometimes, even while smiling.“Hi Zeal! Ah! Well! Yeah! I was on my way to our seats.”Alban started walking with Zeal to their seats. They used to sit all separately, but once they got the project assigned, they switched to sitting all close to each other since they would always arrive together from the library when they had their meet up. Now it was a habit.“Hi Alban! Hi Zeal!” Kaelix greeted cheerily and closed his book. Alban saw that the same Kaelix as always was back, leaving behind the intellectual, quiet student he had seen a moment ago. “How are we feeling for next week? Maybe today we can take some notes or ask the professor about it!”Kaelix continued talking about a few ideas he had for the PowerPoint design-wise because he wanted to have something “aesthetically pleasing”. Alban sat next to him with Zeal, and a few moments later Freo also arrived at class, greeting everyone politely.Class went on as normal, and at the end, the professor explained how the next class would go and how much time each group had to present their project. Alban paid attention but saw on the corner of his eye that Kaelix was taking notes quickly next to him. Some students had questions and the professor answered each one of them carefully.When class was dismissed, his group stayed a few minutes in the room before leaving, talking a bit. Alban had decided he would be the last one to read their essay and do the finishing touches before printing it for the professor, even though the others complained he didn’t have to do it. In exchange, he told them to work on their slides because he wasn’t very good at those, and that seemed to ease the others.There would not be a meeting or a call later that day, so they finished deciding the last bits of their tasks for the upcoming days. It's crazy how quickly the days passed, and Alban gave a quick look to the guys around him, a bit nostalgic already at the fact that it was going to end soon.Hopefully, even after it ends, this little group will still be willing to hang out with him.They said their goodbyes, telling each other that they could continue any needed talk in Discord. Alban headed in the opposite direction from the others, since he always used a different exit other than the main one. His mind was already thinking about what to have for dinner that day while doing his homework when he heard Kaelix calling him.“Alban! I almost forgot to pass you my notes for today!” Alban waited and smiled while watching the other running to him. Once he got closer, he adjusted his glasses and looked for something in his bag. “I could just have sent them through text, but since I already took the notes by hand, I thought of just lending you them since you will be doing the last touches to the essay.”“Thank you, Kaelix, always so attentive.”Alban accepted the papers he was given, Kaelix's handwritten notes about the lecture filling both sides of each page, and then, he was ready to make his leave. He waved at the other and continued his way, but he looked behind him again, trying to steal a glance at Kaelix.When he saw Kaelix standing still there, holding a sticky note in the middle of the hallway, reading, frozen in space, and with a blank face, he felt his heart drop. Alban rushed back with a quick step, snatching the sticky note in one go. He didn't need to look at it to know what it was, he remembered what color it was today and how he had forgotten to put it inside his bag like he would always do. Of course, it somehow fell out of his pocket at that moment.“Alban,”“Haha! That's embarrassing!” Alban babbled while trying to understand Kaelix's unreadable expression. He put the note in his pocket again.Not knowing what the other was thinking when he would always be so expressive and sincere was making him really nervous. Alban was probably blushing as well from embarrassment because he could feel his face burning.“Alban-”“I'm not dating anyone- this is- someone has been- to me-” What the hell was he saying? “I have to go, I-”“Oh, that's not what I-”Panic, shame, shyness, embarrassment, crashing into him. Suddenly, the almost 20 cm of height difference they had looked more apparent than ever. Kaelix wasn't judging him, but Alban was judging himself, his mind spiraling so badly into thoughts that weren't logical or healthy. Something about a secret that was being exposed made him feel like that, as innocent as it was.“I gotta go!”“Wait, Alban!” Kaelix followed him. His voice rose in volume. “Wait, wait, wait. Alban!”Alban ran.Kaelix ran after him.What?Alban ran even faster.Kaelix ran even faster, too.Why? His head was a mess, and some growing panic started blinding him. He needed to get out of there, and he knew that Kaelix's long legs would probably catch up to him soon, so instead of trying to outrun the younger, he changed his strategy. He took a turn to the left, then to the right, then to the left again. He waited a few minutes, then continued his way out after confirming he had lost him.Why did the other run at him like that? What was going on?Even after he reached home, the weight on his chest didn't lift. Uki always told him to trust his instincts and intuition, and something was telling him that this wasn't right. He thought and thought again while aggressively kicking off his shoes and taking off his jacket.He left his bag on the closest table and took the sticky note from his pocket. He looked at it, stared at it, cursing it again and again for ruining what it could have been just another day. He looked at the fridge, where the rest of the notes were, now occupying half of the furniture. A wall of color that told him someone, somewhere, was cherishing him. He felt dizzy for a moment.And then a realization.His intuition finally spoke to him in words he could understand. Clear and loud.Slowly, so slowly, he reached for his bag. He took out the papers Kaelix had given to him that day and again, slowly, because his body couldn't move faster, he put both the sticky note and the notes of class next to each other.The same writing. The same curves, the same lines, the same shapes, the same clean letters, so easy to read. Almost a bit feminine in the way they were round and small. Cute. And both from Kaelix.“No…” He said aloud. His heart started palpitating and he felt the tips of the fingers holding both papers going cold.Then it all came to him in flashes, in waves, in feelings; he saw Kaelix again and again in his mind. He saw his smiles, he saw his gestures while speaking, he heard his laugh, he heard him call his name. He saw his profile, and the way he looked at him, like he was being seen properly, he always looked his way, at him. Like he mattered.“No.” He repeated again and got closer to the wall of messages while still holding his notes.He wanted to deny it so badly, but now, having more examples of it, he was sure that it was Kaelix Debonair's handwriting. One he hadn’t seen until today. He looked around the hallways a bunch of insane times. It was obvious the silhouette of that brown-haired man was nowhere to be seen but Kaelix didn’t want to leave yet. Leaving meant he accepted reality, he needed a bit more time. He ran his hands through his hair and held his head while still looking around from his spot. University was becoming empty and quieter than usual, leaving Kaelix alone with his thoughts screaming at him.He knew, he could feel it, his mistake haunting him: he had been doing such a good job at keeping Alban away from seeing any kind of writing from him and then, carelessly, trying to do his best to help the other, shared his notes from that day. Curse him. The moment he relaxed, his well-executed plan was over. In just a moment, weeks of effort to the trash. And Alban was quick to notice things, he was observant and had an eye for detail, he would obviously notice. If he didn’t realize from the papers, then his reaction today obviously put him in a suspicious position.He should text him and apologize for running at him like that, shouldn’t he?He kneeled in the hallway while still holding his head, he felt his cheeks burn, and he also felt his eyes burn. With the initial shock subduing, his head leaned into a more dooming train of thoughts. This wasn’t how he wanted it to end. He wanted to come clean to him, explain himself, and the notes, and the reason why he couldn’t get enough of his company. Properly, not like this.Kaelix allowed himself to drop a few tears till he heard some footsteps, clean, loud, firm and coming towards him. Familiar, and he knew who it was when he felt the presence next to him.“I came back when I noticed you were taking too long.”“Freo…”Kaelix looked up at him, the few tears from before becoming abundant in his blue eyes and dropping like shining diamonds. Everything was overflowing him. Freodore grabbed him by his arms to make him stand up again and make him walk with him.“Let’s go to the dorms first, okay?”Kaelix barely remembered how they got to their place, vision as blurry as his head. Once they reached their place, the taller one sat down in his bed in silence, still trying to figure out what to think or what to do next. Freo came in from their “kitchen,” which was barely one from how small it was, with a cup of tea. He put it on Kaelix's hands, and the other noticed it had been blended by hand. Freo’s specialty was coffee but ever since they became friends, he also learnt a thing or two about tea because he knew his friend didn’t drink it as much as him. The scent of herbs reached his nose: Chamomile and ginger. Not his favorite, but he understood the purpose immediately and smiled weakly.Freo sat next to him and waited in silence, ready to listen. Kaelix also knew that if he were to say “I don’t want to talk right now,” the other would give him space, but he needed this right now. Closeness, presence.His eyes prickled again with tears.“What a surprise, right? Kaelix crying,” He started sarcastically, his tone a bit bitter. Freo frowned at him.“Kaelix.” His voice sternly reprimanded him. Tough love.“Sorry, I just- my head is a mess. I know it’s stupid, but I feel like I ruined it all. I was going to lend Alban my notes, and when I reached him, I saw one of the notes I’ve written to him fall out of his pocket! I was going to grab it and put it away quickly, but he saw me. Then I panicked because I realized my mistake: if he kept my notes, he would notice the handwriting, right? It’s not like I changed my handwriting for the sticky notes, I never imagined we would end up talking to each other at all, nevertheless that he would see my writing!”Freo nodded to show he was listening. Kaelix held onto the hot cup, waiting for it to get a bit colder before drinking.“And listen to this: I chased him! I ran after him, and he ran away from me! Oh my God! He probably thinks I’m a freak! What a disaster! Disaster! Disaster! It’s over!” Kaelix cried more tears, droplets falling on his hands, each of them missing the cup of tea.Freo put a hand on his back, soothing him. And Kaelix felt comforted, so he cried a bit more freely, letting it all out. His friend waited till he calmed down a bit before speaking, so he could listen to him more properly over his sniffing.“You probably know what I am going to say, you are smart. Me saying what to do next or the most logical approach to continue this is not what you need. Me saying that you should talk to him, apologize, and clear things up is probably already something you have thought.” He was correct, he always was. “So I’ll just say this: No matter how things go, you should stay respectful. Alban is a very nice senior, and I know he’ll hear you properly. Don’t fall victim to your own worries and explain yourself to him.”“I'm scared, Freo.”“I understand, it must be scary. But that is the best way to navigate this.”“Can I take my time?”“You can, but the longer the wait, the weirder it will feel.”“And- Oh God, the presentation is next week!” He turned to him quickly. Freo worried he would spill the tea on his hands. Kaelix's eyes watered again, and his voice wavered. “I’m sorry Freo, I promised I wouldn’t ruin it all! I was actually going to clear things up with Alban after class was over!”Freo held his own chin and gave it a thought. “Hmm, true, the presentation is next week, for the sake of it, you can wait after we are done with it. Emotional tumultuousness at this time might affect our academic performance- Wait, did you say you would have confessed to Alban anyway?”He was probably surprised since the last time they spoke, Kaelix seemed okay to stay as acquaintances.“Yeah, I don’t think I even have a chance, but the more we talked, the weirder it felt to hide something from him, you know?”“I see.”Kaelix tried the tea, it was still a bit too hot for his liking, but he committed to drinking it. The smell and taste entered his sensory system, and he appreciated it. It reminded him of the nights when his mom couldn’t sleep and she would brew a similar blend, but instead of Ginger, she would add Mint to her tea. He saw that image of her, sitting in the kitchen late at night, waiting for the tea to start its calming effect.He looked at Freo with a smile. “Thank you. If you didn’t appear, I would have just crashed out at University, and I don’t know? Die by spontaneous human combustion?”Freo laughed softly. “Oh no, are you back at investigating that?”“Well, it’s a mysterious pseudoscientific phenomenon, okay?”Freo prepared himself to hear a long, detailed recap of all the YouTube essays about it and other topics with ease. For now, he was happy to see his friend somewhat back, though he knew the following days he would have to watch out for any mood swings. Freo was asleep. And Kaelix wasn't.He had a small notebook and a pen in his hands, his nightstand lamp softly lighting it. Whenever he felt like his head was going too fast to understand it, too many voices at the same time speaking, he liked to write things down to calm down.His best friend had comforted him amazingly before so he wasn't going to bother him anymore. Yet his mind was as blurry as it had been in a while. He was scared of it. He was also scared of his heart.Any kind of feeling or thought he could listen clearly was written down, quickly, one behind the other in a weird word salad that only made sense to him. He had to get himself back together even if he felt some disconnection.There, in the quiet bedroom late at night, Kaelix tried to analyze himself to not break down. Reading over his notes trying to figure out what was going on. It was overwhelming to feel like this but he had accepted a long time ago that sometimes he would feel like this and that sometimes the biggest mystery was himself.Almost academically, he researched himself. Addressed what he was feeling. His fears and worries. Some may say he was intellectualizing his emotions, but this was needed at least for a while.He circled Alban's name written between lines. He wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. The essay was done and printed days prior to the deadline. Alban had worked on it to distract himself from the obvious matter waiting to be addressed. It had been torture both from the pressing worry it was and from having to read Kaelix’s notes from class to finish it all. It was so weird to see that font used for another type of writing other than sweet messages.It was eating him alive, he also avoided looking at his fridge. How long could he hold it in together? He was thankful the other didn’t reach out to him yet. But Alban always jumped at the Discord notification, always imagining it would be a DM asking to talk to him.He spent his weekend at his place, like most of them honestly, only that this time he was suffering, clawing at his walls and dying, figuratively. Once he started thinking about it, he felt too confused to go on. He ignored the boys's invitation to play games and instead tried to entertain himself by reading manga and moping in his bed.Until he couldn’t anymore. Too obvious, too big, too smiley, too overflowing, too kind. Alban kicked the sheets off and grabbed his phone. Uki answered almost immediately.“I get scared when you call me, because it means it's serious.” It was the first thing they said.“Uki, I know who the secret person is.”“Hit me with it.”“It’s-” He felt so shy saying it aloud. “It’s Kaelix.”“What! The! Fuck! How do you know?”“I- He lent me some notes the other day and I saw his handwriting, it’s- it’s obvious and also could explain why-”“Why he has been attached to your hip like a dog?” Alban groaned, he started walking in small circles in his bedroom. His hands were starting to get sweaty, like the part of the face that was against the phone. He told himself he needed this; he needed a slap on the face to come back to his senses, so he needed to face everything Uki had to say. “Okay? So what next? Should I say congrats or what?”“No! We are not- We- I didn’t say anything! And I also don't think I want that either!”“Really? You haven’t considered it?”“I cannot imagine that. He’s like a baby to me! He’s my sweet summer child.”“Well, it seems like your child is into incest.”“My God!”He felt embarrassment in his face; in other circumstances, he would have laughed because that was a funny joke. He had to give them that. Alban went to the kitchen for some water, mentally cursing already when the fridge and the notes came into view. “Why don’t you bang him? To try?”“Uki!”“Why are you acting like you are a virgin?”He poured a glass of fresh water and gulped it down quickly, trying to drown out the thirst. He was still burning.“Why does it always go sexual with you?”“Hey, I’m making sense, no? Physical attraction is part of liking someone, in my opinion. And well? Do you find him attractive?”Alban held himself against the counter. He looked at the fridge again, he saw some messages and allowed himself to imagine Kaelix saying each line to him, not in notes, but in front of him. Smiling, probably, kindly, like always. He remembered how tall the other was and how last time they saw each other, he towered over him. Would Kaelix also be able to look at him attentively the way he looked at his books? Maybe he would lean in and tell him nice things, cherish him, holding him.He backtracked immediately, pushing himself off the counter. Damn Uki and their questions.“You haven’t seen him in person yet, he's stupidly handsome,” Alban confessed in defeat; there was no point in lying. He went back to his bedroom and changed the phone from one ear to the other. “But that’s not the point, it’s not just physical. I don’t sleep around with people anymore.”He paused for a bit and heard Uki on the other side of the line sucking his teeth, making a disappointed sound at him, then something moving, they were probably leaning back into his bed.“I just don’t think I deserve it. Uki, please, I don’t do ‘pure’, ‘kind’. This isn’t it for someone like me.”“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You don’t deserve love?”“That’s a big word.”“Alban, I’m not telling you to marry him, just… think about it? He’s clearly interested; it’s up to you.”“I’m not ready.”“And when will you be ready? Huh? When you graduate? When you land the job that you want? When?”Alban laid down and closed his eyes. He knew Uki would make him face the things he didn’t want to face. They were making sense, and asking him all the questions he had been avoiding for a long time now.“Alban,” Uki's voice sounded serious. Alban prepared for impact. “I love you to death, but I know how complicated you are. And you always, always do this. You close yourself off to the chances of trying new things. Does being happy scare you? For once, Alban, for once, don’t scare yourself away from it. I’m begging you. And if someone managed to go through your fifty Great Walls of China, then hats off to this kid because he clearly got in your head. You hear yourself? All of this?”They didn’t expect an actual answer, leaving Alban to deal with all the questions by himself. Uki sighed, hoping it wasn’t too much for his emotional best friend. Maybe they could have worded it better, but they lacked the patience of Fulgur or the friendliness of Sonny. And Alban could be a lot sometimes. Uki loved them all insanely, though.“I love you, Uki.”“I love you too, bitch, don’t ever forget that. And if things go wrong, know I’ll be there.” Uki waited, and when they heard more silence, they added, “Do you want me to come over?”“Yes. No wine this time, please.”“Got it. I’ll be there soon with some face masks and my tarot deck.”Uki hung up, and Alban knew he was in for a long night, and that he would probably cry a lot later, but at least he wouldn’t be alone. He wondered if Uki would also pamper him into cooking for him too, he would love that. He felt a bit more at peace after finally talking to someone, but that also meant he felt the tiredness from all the exhausting worry he’s been doing the past few days.Suddenly, his phone vibrated, he looked at it quickly, thinking it was Uki who had maybe forgotten to say or mention anything, but he was shocked to see a notification from Discord, from “Alban’s Sparkle Nyan Nyan Kittens” general channel. He read the text from the notification bar. It was Zeal asking how things were and also proposing to hang out after the presentation, go to a nice place to eat all together something and celebrate the end of the class.His thumbs hovered over the screen for a bit, thinking of his reply carefully. He opened his notes app and wrote the reply first, checking if the wording was weird before sending it. He copy and pasted the message in Discord:Hi Zeal! The essay is done now, everyone can check it in Drive, if anyone agrees we can print it already! Also I already had plans with Uki that day to also celebrate the end of the semester…One lie, one truth. He already printed the essay to ease his mind, but he didn't mind if someone wanted to change any details and print it again. And he did have plans with Uki that day.Kaelix replied after him and he jumped in surprise when he saw his icon pop up after his.hellooo, after we talked zeal me and freo finished the slides! they are also on drive if anyone wants to see thumbs up emoji. and btw i was going out with seible after classWho is Seible? And why did it feel like he ignored him.Another message.thank you alban!!! I'll give a final read and tell you but it's probably doneOkay, that's something… Is this what he will do? Act like nothing weird happened. Alban didn’t expect Kaelix to address anything in this chat but seeing him be able to send messages when it has been radio silent since last Thursday was making him feel a bit uneasy.Freo reacted to Kaelix's and Alban's message with a thumbs up emoji. He was also online. Zeal sent another message that took Alban by surprise.awesome thanks guys! I'll also check out everything and we should be set for the presentation. And why don't we all hang out? Invite Uki and Seible too! finally relax after classes are doneIf Uki hears Zeal invited them and he said no, he wouldn't hear the end of it. But a big hangout when he just wanted to close off and never appear in public was complicated. Also Kaelix would be there… after classes, in a social setting not a studying setting. That was making him feel nervous just from thinking about it.Kaelix replied first.i asked seible and he agreed! if that's okay with everyone!And by “everyone” he meant Alban, because he was sure both Zeal and Freo already knew this Seible guy. Alban didn’t have to check on Uki to know their reply. There was no way out of this one.Uki is always down for hanging out like this so I'm sure they wouldn't mind, let's hang out together!He also sent a smiley face but he wasn't smiling. A lot could go wrong. He saw his own reflection in the mirror after he splashed some water on his face. Alban looked for any signs that showed how he was feeling, controlling his eyebrows's positions and mastering a blank face to avoid being obvious.That Thursday he arrived at university, somehow calm thanks to all the talking he did with Uki the past days. But the moment he sat down for his first class, he saw a sticky note. He waited a few seconds, sitting there with his heart in his mouth.It wasn't attached to any gift and it said, “I hope we can talk later”. The message was simple, what really shook him was that at the end of the note it said “Kaelix”. He had signed this one, he was owning up to all the previous notes like this. He knew that he knew that they both knew. This confirmed it was real. Even as obvious as it had been since he realized, finally seeing it be confirmed like this was another thing. It was real.Now Alban was building up his courage, because he might be in a weird position. Nauseous, worried. Not because of the upcoming presentation, but because he didn't know what was going to happen later.He looked at himself again one more time. He was a student about to give the presentation of his life to end his time at University classes. Nothing else. Kaelix remembered all the breathing techniques he had learned through his life: in his singing lessons, in his therapy sessions, and the one he learnt in that yoga class his sister forced him to take once with her. To say he had been okay would be a vague answer.Freo looked at him from the seat next to him, observing his posture, the way his fingers tapped against the desk and how his eyes were staring at the classroom's entrance. He wondered if advising his friend to wait for the presentation to deal with his… “personal troubles” had been a bad decision. The last days Freo had seen Kaelix go through it.Even Zeal had contacted him to ask for him because Kaelix was not answering his messages nor appearing at his place. “I don't want to talk to anybody right now” was what he said and hyperfocused on his studies for the rest of the exams. He also prepared and practiced their presentation over and over again, mastering even the topics he wasn’t assigned to explain “just in case”.Now, Kaelix was a bundle of anxiousness and fear next to him. And Freo knew exactly why.Alban appeared from the door and Kaelix looked down and took a deep breath. He counted a few seconds and got back into position. Alban walked to them, notebooks in hand and his fringe pushed back to the sides. He seemed fine.Show was on.“Hi Alban!” Kaelix greeted with a smile. He begged it looked more normal than how it felt.“Hello Kaelix” Alban nodded and sat down next to them. “Freo.”“Hello Alban.”“Is Zeal the only one missing?” Alban looked around, avoiding any eye contact.“He messaged me that he was on his way.” Freo quickly answered. Concise and direct as always.“Thank you, Freo. I hope he makes it on time for the presentation.”Students kept entering the classroom, everyone gathering with their groups and chatting on some last minute decisions probably. They should talk too, right? But they weren't, a silence fell upon them and it grew stronger each second. Kaelix should say something. If he was trying to act as normal as possible, he should fill up that silence, with something, anything. But words died in his throat.Kaelix opened up his notebook and acted like he was reviewing his notes. He wasn't, he just felt nervous from not doing anything. His eyes wandered to his side and looked at Alban, who was looking towards the front in the direction of the professor talking to some students as he arrived.Was he mad? Nervous? Worried? Was he thinking about the presentation or about his note? Did he hate him? Did he not?He saw the profile of his face, the serious look, the unusual way his fringe curved, the tips of his hair a bit wet, as he had just washed his face. He saw his Adam apple wobble under his turtleneck and he blinked once, twice, slowly before his eyes turned to him.“You are staring.” Alban said, almost whispered to him. Quiet enough to not call Freo's attention.Kaelix froze for a bit. His eyes basked into the gaze of the other even if Alban looked at him a bit distant. Alban felt cold, and Kaelix wished he could just drop down on his knees and ask for forgiveness or attention or anything that could bring back the smiley Alban he missed so badly. The one that would look at him so fondly.“I'm sorry.” Kaelix whispered. “How have you been?”It was Alban this time who seemed surprised. He opened his mouth to answer but closed it immediately. Even at the awkward point they were, Kaelix was still reaching out again, softly, kindly, attentive. It wasn’t a simple greeting, it was a question of genuine interest and worry.How dare he ask that as if he wasn't the reason his whole world felt upside down.“I thought we would talk later.”Alban cut the conversation with that line, going back to looking at his front.Zeal arrived a few moments later to a very quiet row of students. He looked at Freo first because Alban and Kaelix seemed both lost in thought, Freo shook his head at him.Incredibly, the presentation went smoothly. The group showed the slides they prepared and explained the topics they have been researching. Freo introduced the main topic of the research and opened up the talk with very interesting questions. Zeal followed while explaining the theory they used, how they investigated and elaborated on the project.The professor listened attentively to each member, allowing them to talk without interruptions. The class fell into a deep silence as the group progressed on their lesson.Kaelix continued with the talk with his own part, talking confidently and smiling while explaining. Charismatic and eloquent, the white haired boy attracted everyone's attention. If it wasn't with his words, it was by the way he enthusiastically explained while owning the space, using his hands and gestures to put emphasis on the key concepts, as expected from an honor student. When he was over he looked at Alban as a signal, with a genuine smile, probably still giddy from having nailed his part and just enjoying it. Alban smiled back and took a step forward, still a bit nervous but confident that no matter how he does, he'll have no regrets this semester.He spoke fluidly, the words coming to him without problems.Kaelix looked in awe from behind. It was different to see Alban, the usual quiet guy on his own Alban, talk in front of everybody. Explaining professionally with examples and easy to follow descriptions, the class stared at him. Kaelix felt both happiness from seeing him shine but also some coldness again. He felt the distance between them.If Kaelix sounded like an enthusiastic student, Alban sounded like a professor.Alban asked Freo to pass some slides and then it was over. They waited for any comments but the professor just said “I have no questions to ask, congratulations.” and clapped. The rest of the class followed and eventually the choir of clapping surrounded them. The classmates looked at each other happily, all that time studying and preparing had been worth it.Kaelix noticed the professor approached Alban and shook his hand but he didn't ask why. He also saw Alban tear up a bit. Some guilt pooled in his stomach as he wondered if he had been adding to Alban's nervousness with his silly, unprompted and unclear confession.“Let's celebrate now! Let's go have dinner!” Zeal said after class was done. The group cheered, even Kaelix and Alban felt more relieved after the presentation, even with their unresolved things between them.The moment they stepped out of the classroom, an elegant, stylish, purple-haired person approached them. Kaelix recognized as the person who Alban would hang out with the most in university and looked at him. They all looked at Alban with inquiring looks when they noticed the newcomer was directly walking towards him.“Uki” Alban said softly, with care and love.Uki was holding a small bouquet of flowers. “Congrats Albie. I’ll get you an even bigger one when your thesis gets approved.”Uki gave him the flowers with a deep hug. Alban blinked a few times, fighting off tears. The rest stared curiously at the private scene. Kaelix started fiddling with the hem of his sleeves. Once the hug was over, Alban presented Uki to the others.“Guys, this is Uki, they are one of my closest friends ever. Like a brother to me. Well, you know Zeal, already.”Uki extended their hand softly, Zeal grabbed it to place his lips on it, a soft smile dedicated to them only. “Of course,” He said and Uki giggled. The rest of them rolled their eyes.“This is Freodore.”“Nice to meet you,” Uki said and shook hands with Freo, both sharing the same elegant and respectful approach to it.“Nice to meet you, Uki.”“And this is-” Alban started.“Kaelix?” Uki said, smiling at him.Kaelix awkwardly reached out for their hand. Uki was gorgeous and that was a bit hypnotizing. Also the fact that they knew exactly who they were told him that Alban had probably talked about him too. It shouldn’t surprise him, if they were that close, that was normal. But Uki’s eyes studied him from head to toes, quickly, not subtle but not obvious either, the type of detail only Kaelix’s observant nature would catch.“Nice to meet you, Uki. I really like what you did to your hair.”Their hands were holding onto each other a bit longer than the previous handshakes. Uki was feeling him, connecting with him, their hands soft and warm. They gave him one soft squeeze before releasing him.“Thank you! I could say the same to you, Kaelix.”Alban giggled awkwardly before continuing talking, answering the other question that lingered in the air. “Uki brought me these because this was my last class. All I have left it’s my thesis.”The group turned to him in surprise.“Woah! Really, Alban? Oh man, it must have been nerve wracking.” Zeal jaw dropped.“Congrats, Alban! If I knew about this, I think we could have done even a better presentation,” Freo said surprised.“Alban! You never told them?” Uki reprimanded him quickly, turning to his friend.“Guys, it went awesome! Don’t worry! I didn’t share it before and, after a while, I thought it was better to not add pressure. To be honest, even I was trying not to think about it.”Alban laughed, his body shaking and making the flowers shake with him. He was shining, he looked accomplished. Kaelix stood there not knowing how to react or what to say. Somehow Alban, who was just some centimeters away, looked more and more far away from him. He was slowly regretting asking him to talk later, and debated internally if he should just quickly apologize and move on.He was about to graduate. It was almost a fact at this point, knowing how diligent and intelligent the other was, that thesis wouldn’t be an obstacle for him.“Congratulations, Alban,” Kaelix said weakly. For a moment, he thought no one would catch that.But Alban replied.“Thank you, Kaelix.”Uki grabbed Alban and intertwined arms, excitedly telling everyone they were ready to go. The group moved through the hallway. The initial surprise lingered and made Kaelix feel clumsy on his feet, following from behind everyone automatically, quietly. At the very front, Uki was talking to Alban, their conversation covered by the usual noise of the hallways.Freo gave a look and Kaelix shook his head. He was… okay. Hopefully. He felt a bit of an uneasy feeling in his chest which he tried to calm down by putting one hand over it. Did he just get heartbroken? If not now, then afterwards probably.Who would like to date a freshman at that point of their life? The place they have all agreed to go was suggested by Freo. It was a simple but highly reviewed Korean BBQ restaurant served by their own owners. It wasn’t fancy or expensive but the mood and the way the meat looked on the grill was enough to make up for it. Alban met Seible there, Kaelix’s friend who was waiting for them. Alban had imagined another quiet, interesting person, assuming Kaelix’s friend preferences after meeting Zeal and Freo. He was wrong. Seible was interesting, in another way. He greeted them excitedly, and introduced to him and Uki cheerily before immediately teasing Kaelix, joking with Zeal and giggling at Freo’s stare. They all got to their reserved table together, Alban sitting in the middle of Uki and Freo, while Kaelix sat in front of him with Zeal and Seible at his sides.“Kaelix is the maknae, so he should be in charge of cooking for us, right?” Zeal said with a smile.“Yeah! Yeah! The youngest should treat us, why don’t you pay too?” Seible said on his other side, smiling too.Kaelix whined. “Freo, why did you leave me with these two over here?”Freo put down the menu and looked at him.“You are right where you want to be.” he said shortly and went back into investigating what to order.Uki giggled and looked at Alban. With a look, they both shared what they were thinking: they were enjoying the other’s group friend dynamics, reminiscing a bit about their own too. It was different but lively.“Kaelix, can you grill for us?” Uki joined.“Oh not you too Uki!” Kaelix pouted.“I’ll help you, Kaelix,” Alban said and everyone at the table looked at him. “I- I’m also in the middle so we kinda sealed our fate when we sat here.”Maybe they were expecting him to join in teasing the youngest and that’s why they were surprised. No other reason.“Ok, who’s digging soju with beer with me?” Seible said, wriggling his eyebrows.“I’ll not have it with beer but I guess we all are ordering soju?” Freo said while looking around the table, seeing looks of approval except for someone's. “Maybe juice for you, Kaelix?”Then everyone looked at him. Kaelix felt his cheeks burn from the sudden attention. He knew there was nothing wrong with not drinking but he felt a bit excluded.“You guys really are making me feel like a 5 year old.”“Bu you don’t drink, and you don’t like soda either. Maybe I can ask for tea, but that doesn’t sound good with meat.”Everything Freo said was correct but being in the spot like this felt even more embarrassing. Freo was his friend, not his legal guardian.“I’ll drink!” He snapped, trying to quickly move on from the topic.“You sure, bud?” Zeal said at his side. “We can ask for something non-alco-”“No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry! I wanna try soju!”Kaelix hid behind the smoke hood pipe to avoid feeling Alban’s stare from across the table. Freo called the waitress, a korean old lady who smiled very kindly, and everyone ordered. Once their order arrived, the group fell into conversation while Kaelix and Alban grilled the meat. Zeal helped Seible mix the soju and beer, and Uki and Freo talked about the drink seen in the K-Dramas they have watched. Alban looked at Kaelix, who ever since they left university had been acting a bit differently. He looked at his eyes, focused on his given task by everyone, serious again. On other days, he would have expected the younger to be lively, joining conversations and cracking jokes. He kind of misses seeing him like that. Alban grilled some and shared the first pieces to Uki on his side.Once everyone got their drink ready, they toasted after a rough semester. The group looked at Kaelix's reaction after the first sip and laughed when they saw the other stick out his tongue.“This is terrible.” He said and took another sip, hoping it would somehow magically change its taste only to end up having the same reaction. “It’s bad.”Then he took another sip. They all laughed. Zeal suggested he could try with a bigger ratio of soju-beer. It didn’t help but Kaelix didn’t order a different drink.. Alban didn’t say anything but he couldn’t help but look at him and the amount of sips he was taking. If Kaelix didn't usually drink, he should be careful, especially with such a high alcohol percentage drink like soju. He kept grilling a few more pieces, a bit more distracted now. The youngest took another sip and Alban bit the inside of his mouth, he should tell him to stop, no?Uki leaned closer to him. “A bit worried aren't we?”Alban looked around to check if anyone heard, but Uki whispered low enough. “Just looking after the kid, okay?”“Hmm-hmm.” Uki sang, and took a sip of his drink. “By the way, he's stupidly handsome indeed.”“Uki!” Alban said aloud, a bit scandalized. That's when everyone looked at them. Alban panicked. “They- they just-”“I was making Alban remember his slut era.”Thankfully, Uki switched the topic but to Alban’s demise to the wrong one.“His what now?” Zeal said, taking a double look. “Uki, I swear-”“Let's just say we had a lot of fun back then. When we were freshmans.” Uki shook his head while remembering. “And you boys, are you having fun?”“I don't know if we have the same definition of fun, Uki.” Freo raised one eyebrow at them.“I finished Zelda Breath of the Wild again, that was fun.” Kaelix took off his glasses to wipe them because the smoke of the grill was making them a bit foggy.“Tell us more about you guys's freshman days!” Seible asked enthusiastically.If Alban would have known him better, he would have known it wasn't innocent friendliness. Seible gave a quick look to Kaelix. Uki replied anyway.“Our story basically was: 3 queers and a straight Australian man meet each other in university. We became so close. I ended up dating one of them, but he moved away, we broke up because we agreed we don't do distance relationships. Alban, have you and Sonny ever…?”“No, no. We just were really close.”“I see. Me and my ex's relationship was open so me and Alban would go around hunting men, if they were pretty enough.”“Oh God.” Alban felt shy, from remembering what it used to be and from the looks the others were giving them. He never talked to them about anything like this before.“But those were old times. Later the Australian one also dropped out and went back to his homeland, now it's just me and Albie, a grown and boring Albie.”“I'm not boring. I'm just… focused on other stuff.”“Yeah, just your work and studying.”“Well, it's important to me. That's not boring, right?”No one replied, either out of pure confusion or surprise. The only thing that could be heard was the sizzling from the grill. Alban remembered how the tone of his voice sounded like when he talked and realized he might have overreacted. He felt that he was making a fool of himself in front of everybody.“I need some air, I'll be right back.” “I didn't know you smoked”Alban looked up towards the voice.Kaelix looked back at him and then to the cigar in his hand. The other took a drag, his eyes never leaving him and Kaelix felt his steps falter. Alban didn’t quite fit the smoker vibe, his looks too cute, too innocent. But now Kaelix knew that even the sweet guy had sides he had yet to see.“I stop, then I get back to it. I only do it when I'm nervous. Bad cycle.” The other said, his smile quite not reaching to form properly on his face.It was quiet for a night in the city, distant transit, low lights, not many people around. The younger wondered if he was somehow guilty of making the other fall again into a bad habit. He took some more steps till he was in front of his senior. Maybe this was it.“Alban, I want to explain myself to you. I haven't been honest and I wanted to tell you how it all started and how-”“Wait, wait, Kaelix, are you sure you wanna do this here? Like this?” Alban panicked a bit and gestured at him with his hands.“What do you mean?”“In this… state, you clearly aren't used to drinking alcohol” Alban had noticed Kaelix's faint blush. He took another drag. “We can talk tomorrow, yeah?”Kaelix felt some shame that shook him from the core. His thoughts juggling and his feelings overtook him. Was he the only one who was so worried about this situation? And again he knew Alban was clearly correct and he shouldn't be doing this, but his mind was a mess. Alban looked cold again and Kaelix felt again that distance, the distance that told him that they were too different, that the older had other things in mind while Kaelix felt his legs shaky just by standing in front of him.He felt powerless and immature for doing this. For chasing after someone who could stay calm and collected, someone who was smoking after drinking while talking about past flings and more stuff that were totally out of his sphere. Same someone who was about to graduate to change their current job, someone with more grand plans for their future. Of course none of those things defined adulthood per se, but what was Kaelix if not a brat that was aiming too high? Too ambitiously?Kaelix realized he was more immature and insecure than he thought. ‘Have it under control’? Not at all. He wasn't thinking, he was feeling, and his feelings told him to take and prove himself.And he couldn't wait.He took some steps more and tripped, falling towards the other. Alban put his hands up to avoid getting crushed but Kaelix stopped himself against the wall, first with his hand then with his elbow.Alban looked at him, now closer. He felt his heat and the way he completely covered him, cornering him, Kaelix's height completely towering and trapping him against himself and the wall. He dropped his cigarette from the surprise.Big eyes looked at him, round, shaky, curious yet scared. Heart hammering against his ears.“Kaelix…”And Kaelix stared at him attentively, with care and devotion, tracing his features over and over with eyes that craved and yearned. Feeling all his attention with no filter was making Alban's head feel dizzy. Heat ran through him and he blushed deeply. “I'm not a kid, Alban, I am a man,” Kaelix said seriously. His blue eyes were focused on him, and him only.How long has it been since Alban felt like this? Nervous, ashamed, and completely excited at the idea of having someone so close to him.“I know you know now. But I'll say it: I like you, Alban.”All the walls were falling down.“I-”“I really like you, Alban.” He repeated again.Alban closed his eyes. It was too much.“From all our conversations together to the way you are shivering right now. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. Please… don't hate me.” The younger closed the space between their bodies and pressed against him.Hot and overwhelming, his silhouette covering the other completely. Alban was sure if it wasn't for the wall behind him, he would have already fallen from how weak his knees felt. If this kept going like this, he definitely wouldn't be able to hide his arousal. It was dangerous.“Kaelix, we should- we shouldn’t-” He said but his hands contradicted his words as they went from his chest to his neck, to wrap around him.Kaelix felt his brain frying, electricity running though him after hearing his crush's voice call for him in such an intimate and lovely way. Alban was holding him back, looking at him so temptingly, or maybe it was the alcohol that was lying to him, and he was reading what he wished, making him see things that didn't exist. But the nails he felt running from his nape into his scalp were real, Alban was seducing him, caving in, offering himself like Kaelix knew exactly what to do next.Was he dreaming?He leaned in closer and Alban closed his eyes, inviting him, but he approached his neck. Not to ravish, not to kiss, just to sense and feel the other’s heat radiating from his veins through the tip of his nose.A light perfume. And 2 racing hearts.“Alban.” He said and the other stilled at his name. “Alban, Alban, Alban.”Kaelix lost control of his hands that were now slowly wrapping around the brown haired man's waist. He prayed his name like a mantra, each movement of his lips grazing his skin lightly. Then, the same hands that seemed to grow a mind of their own, travelled slowly on his back, long fingers holding onto him like he would run away anytime.They didn’t even kiss but Alban was feeling some kind of ecstasy just from being held like this after so long, he didn't even realize how touch-deprived he had been. He wanted more. He needed more. Kaelix was stripping his mind with sweet words in his ear and attention, he was melting and basking in the other’s compliments.Kaelix felt his self-restraint slowly slipping away, he wouldn’t be able to hold back for long.But they got interrupted.“Alban, I was going to- Oh!” They looked at Uki, who had a hand covering their mouth. “I'm so sorry! I just wanted to tell you I was about to leave with Zeal! See you!”Uki gave them thumbs up and left as quickly as they appeared, not even giving them a moment to untangle themselves from each other. But the interruption was enough to break whatever kind of hypnotizing spell they had been under. Alban tried to push away Kaelix.“Kaelix, we'll talk later, this isn't okay, you are clearly drunk so-” he pushed and pushed but Kaelix had his whole weight against him.“No, Alban, don't push me away” He whined cutely, hoping he could get away with staying how they were.“Bad Kaelix! Bad!”“No, Alban, don't hate me” He whined again, louder and longer.Later, Alban appeared inside the restaurant with a 6 feet tall man wrapped around him from behind. The giant puppy was nuzzling his head and giggling happily. Seible and Freo opened their eyes in surprise. Alban just said: “I might need some help”. When Kaelix woke up, he screamed in horror. Freo immediately threw a pillow to him, harshly, with the intent of hurting, but Kaelix continued screaming. He kicked the sheets of his bed and jumped on his feet. Flashbacks of last night came to him in waves and every time he remembered how he literally groped and held Alban against him like a dog in heat, he screamed. There was a knock on the wall, probably from some very angry student next door who wasn't very fond of screaming so early, and Freo told him to shut up. Kaelix babbled something but didn't form any coherent sentence, his face was as red as a tomato.“Yesterday, me when I was with him but and what if he go and how? No way! Huh!?”Scrambled brain for breakfast.What was he thinking!? That wasn’t a confession! He went straight for it because he couldn't keep it in his pants! Disaster! Disaster!He blamed the alcohol for his misbehaviour. The ideal scenario was him approaching properly, explaining himself, respectfully, sharing his feelings and clearing things up. He wanted to tell the other about how it all started, how he noticed his presence through words first, then from a distance, appreciating how he accepted his gifts. He wanted to tell him he wanted to make him feel special and unique, show him how others looked up at him. Be a proper man and show him that he would work hard to be by his side, that he could be someone special.Instead, what happened, happened. To the trash with the good image he wanted to give, now he probably thinks he is a horny brat that has been creeping on him for a while. “I’m a pervert!” Kaelix screamed again and dropped to his knees dramatically.Freo passed by him to the kitchen. Kaelix followed him quickly, ready to shoot all his questions.“Was it too bad?”Freo remembered and sighed. His friend focused on preparing the beans of the day, one of the strongest blends he had. He made the other wait for his response, a bit of a payback for yesterday's embarrassing moment.“Freo, please.”“It took many tries to make you release Alban.”Kaelix facepalmed and pressed his eyes with his hands, hard, making his vision blurry. It was so over. “What did he say?”Freo poured the beans on the filter while the water was heating.“Freo, please, please answer, I’m sorry!”“He said to contact him when you woke up. Can I have my coffee in peace this morning, please?” He sounded polite but his eyes told him otherwise, Freo didn’t have morning classes that day and there was no reason for him to be up this early. It was his fault. If Freo had been in a better mood, he would probably have hit him with the “es culpa de Kaelix”.Kaelix respected his space and went back to the bedroom to get his phone. He could question his friend some other time, when he was in a better mood. He didn't feel good at all from making a scene and putting him through whatever he did last night.Also it wasn’t like he didn’t remember at all, the memory was there in his mind a bit blurry but he wouldn’t have been able to forget… that.Of course he wanted to hold the other, touch him and feel him but those were wishes he usually would ignore, too embarrassed to even entertain those thoughts. However, now after having experienced whatever yesterday was, he felt himself blushing. Even if the details were difficult to figure out, the overall feeling was present. The feeling of the other so close to him, his hands and his eyes. Alban was reciprocative, right? It wasn’t forced, he remembered his nails on his scalp and his stomach pressing against his. Frick.He screamed, this time without making any real noise, and jumped into his bed again and reached for his phone under his pillow. Firstly he scrolled through social media, ignoring any kind of notification. He told himself mentally to be realist, even if that had happened that didn’t mean anything. Kaelix didn’t want that, he wanted to properly ask him out. What if Alban just wanted that? What if he wanted his body only? He kya’ed. But no, no. That wasn’t what he wanted, he had to be clear and apologize for literally everything and start again.With trembling fingers he opened Discord. He saw the notification of a few direct messages from Seible. Once he opened the chat, he regretted it immediately. Seible had taken a series of embarrassing photos from last night. All of them blurry selfies of Seible hitting poses and different facial expressions while in the back Freo was holding him from an arm, who in turn was holding onto Alban. Last picture it was Seible doing a peace sign to the camera while on his side a teary eyed Kaelix was pouting and looking away, no sign of Alban or Freo.yesterday was so fun, let’s hang out again soon!It was the only thing Seible wrote, signing off with an emoji that stuck out its tongue.“Seible” Kaelix complained aloud as if his friend could hear him. He sent him a couple of hammer emojis as a reply.He was even more embarrassed now and took more time to consider texting Alban, entering their chat and staring at the empty space that was waiting for his message. He saw that their last chat through DMs had been before the presentation when everything was still okay and normal. He scrolled back a bit, reading with a smile their goofy interactions and conversations about everything and nothing at all. Once he was back to reality his smile dropped. How he wished to go back for a while and forget how things went, knowing that after this things would never be the same.What to say at this point?He had to be mature about it.hello Alban! first, I wanted to apologize for my behaviour yesterday, when I went out looking for you I really wanted us to have a proper conversation, can we meet soon?So lame.Alban replied instantly.Hello Kaelix, can you meet me today after work? I’ll send you the location. No comments on his apology.yes !! send it to me and I’ll be there at the time you tell meKaelix prepared himself to be rejected. Alban found Kaelix sitting on one of the park’s benches, his elbows on his knees, head hanging low. He was fiddling with his phone, tossing it from hand to hand non stop. Kaelix was wearing a tracksuit, something different from his usual stylish choices for university. After losing his necktie a little bit, he walked closer.“Kaelix?”He stood up immediately.“Alban! Hi! Oh, woah, you are- dresssed-” Kaelix stuttered, “Like, well dressed.”“Yeah, they make us go formal no matter our position. It's only so far you can climb the corporate ladder when you haven’t finished a degree.” Alban pointed to the building behind him. His expression, a sarcastic one. “Shall we walk?” Kaelix walked beside him.“About yesterday-”“I’m sorry, and I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I just wanted to say that first. I was acting weird and I shouldn’t have drank if I was planning to talk to you. That was… immature of me.”Alban raised his hand, stopping the younger from word vomiting. “Tell me what you were planning to say to me.”He looked for his stare, Kaelix's eyes were looking everywhere but him. Any of his confidence that he saw yesterday was nowhere to be seen. He felt the other’s shyness and Alban felt more and more unsure about it as time passed. Was this okay?“Alban,” Kaelix stopped walking and Alban imitated. “I know you probably think I’m immature, but I just want to be honest with you. Let me start from the beginning: before the notes started, I just heard about you from so many students.”Alban was surprised, people talked about him?“Everyone said you were so nice to talk to and always helped others, so I got curious to know who this guy was. I… observed for a while, and they were right, you are always helping others. And I wanted to cheer you up and show that your kindness doesn’t go unnoticed. That’s how the sticky notes started.”Alban bit his lip, nervous. Kaelix frowned his eyebrows, explaining with his heart.“It was to repay you, I never intended anything else. As long as you accepted them and found them a nice detail, I was happy to write you all these things. I would obviously have stopped if they were of annoyance to you. And then,” Kaelix catched his breath before continuing “We met each other and we started working on the project together. I would never have expected it. But the more we talked and got to know each other, I realized not only are you kind, but also interesting and funny, and we could talk for so long. Usually, I overwhelm others with my long talks but you listened to me and even had fun talking with me.”There they were: the bluest eyes looking at him so intensely. It was hard to maintain eye contact. Kaelix always showed his feelings on his face, he was like that: genuine, open. The total opposite of him. Alban looked away.“My feelings evolved and I got even more interested in you. I felt bad for hiding something from you so I thought of just telling you everything. But I panicked when I gave you my notes.” Alban remembered that moment. “I wanted it to be in a proper way, I should have told you, you shouldn't have realized on your own. I really look up to you and I respect you, Alban, but I feel like the only things I have done is disrespect you and act like a kid around you.”“Kaelix, no, it’s fine. I should be the one saying that to you.” Kaelix looked confused. “I’m- I-”C’mon Alban, be honest with yourself.Alban felt uncomfortable in his clothes.“I have been acting immature. I gave you a hard time these past days and I’ve been sulking. Acting a bit cold to you when you haven’t done anything wrong. Only because I couldn’t figure out what to do. Or what to feel… At my age, that’s embarrassing…”Kaelix opened his mouth a few times ready to retort and probably try to make him feel better. Alban started walking again, unlike the other he couldn't do this while standing and looking at him. They walked together for a bit in silence while he tried to gather his thoughts. The day was dying and a bright sunset tinted the park in oranges and pink lights, it was beautiful. And Alban couldn't help but take out his cellphone to take a picture of the sky. He was sure Kaelix was also nervous yet he was patiently waiting for him to continue the conversation and that alone made Alban's heart squeeze. He knew what he felt but didn’t know how to explain it nor what to do with it.He looked at his phone and the picture and wondered if it would become a nice memory of this day or the reminder of something that could have gone better.“When I first saw the sticky notes,” He started, still looking at his phone. “My first thought was that someone was pranking me. But then they kept coming, I tried to tell myself they didn’t matter but I saved each of them.”He made his phone face the other. On the screen, a picture of his now colorful fridge, half covered in notes of all colors. Even including the very last one, the one he got yesterday. Kaelix opened his eyes in surprise then his gaze softened, eyebrows furrowed. He might have called for him, Alban could tell from the way his lips moved, but he made no sound. If Kaelix started crying, he knew he would cry too. He put the phone back in his pocket.“Then I met you and I remembered myself, a few years ago, much more lively and sincere. But, I don’t know, time passed and I gave up on me. I have a lot of trouble understanding myself, and it gets worse when I’m alone.” Alban said painfully with a broken smile on his face. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head while continuing, “This is who I am Kaelix, I’m my worries and doubts. I’m not special. Just some tired guy hoping to find some direction after I graduate even if my peers have already started building their own lives."That was reality. Anything between them would not work. They were similar but different, they were close but not close enough, they had different paths and different plans for the future. That's what Alban told himself.He had to be mature and stop this. It was nice while it lasted. He started walking faster, ready to go, leaving the other alone. Make the tough decision himself for the both of them, he would do the other a favor by walking away. But even if he picked up the pace, Kaelix was still walking behind him, his long legs would probably always catch up to him with a few steps.Alban felt his eyes watering. He stopped on his heels and turned around. Agitated.“What do you want, Kaelix? What do you want from me? You aren’t playing with me, are you? Why can't you leave me alone?”“Is it that hard to believe me?” Kaelix said with a soft voice and Alban hated himself, he was overreacting.He took some moments to reply, because the temptation of hurting the other was there. He knew he could be meaner, he could say the worst, push him away completely, but that wasn't what he wanted.Alban started speaking with a trembling voice. Any kind of walls he had left crumbling, exposing him completely.“It’s not hard to believe in you. It’s hard to believe in anyone. Or in me. I just don’t see what you see in me. I think this is a crush you shouldn’t have entertained. You are the nicest guy I've met, Kaelix, you’ll find someone.”“No, Alban. Right now, I’m listening to my own feelings, and they tell me to reach out for you. No one else.”Alban started crying, Kaelix was alarmed and took a step closer to him. Alban took a step back. The other didn’t move, Alban looked like a hurt animal that would escape at any moment. “How are you like this? I’m- I wish I was as brave as you, as genuine as you. I don’t know what to think, I’m scared and I doubt myself a lot. You are younger than me but I feel that the one who really understands themselves is you. I ask you again, why me? When someone as bright as you could be with someone who doesn’t have this much baggage. I’m just trouble, Kaelix.”“Alban, please. Why do you keep trying to push me away? I know even right now you are being nice to me, you think that rejecting me is a way to help me but I want to be by your side. I'm aware this is crazy and I'm scared and I don't feel like I deserve it at all. Also I'm not perfect, you know? I have a lot to work on and I’ll try to not be a nuisance. I’m also spoiled and stubborn, but that is why I also want to try. Give me a chance…”“I will hurt you.”“I know. I might also hurt you at some point, it’s normal, it’s human.”“I’m scared.”“I’m also scared. Like, super mega turbo scared, I’m actually shaking.” Kaelix giggled and showed him his hands. He was trembling but his smile was radiant.That sight was enough to break his heart. Alban broke down in tears and the next second he was engulfed by warmth. Kaelix tried to not to, but when he heard the way the other was sobbing, he also allowed himself to cry. Warm tears ran down his cheeks as Alban was in his arms, small and fragile, another side he hadn't seen before. And probably one not many have seen of Alban.Alban was always ready, working, independent, alone. Kaelix just realized he just was very lonely, from having closed off himself to others, in another act of kindness, trying to not worry or bother others with his own troubles. Even now he had tried to push him away because he didn't feel deserving of his attention or affection, which was crazy to Kaelix who also felt not enough for someone as amazing as him. They had a lot to learn from each other. At some point Alban calmed down and accepted his hug, his hands wrapping around his waist as Kaelix held him around his shoulders, a bit hard but Alban didn't mind. There was a silence and Kaelix waited for the other while putting his chin over his head.Still it wasn't sure how this could end, so he enjoyed the embrace as much as he could. The physical touch already made his brain happy, specially seeing once again how good the other looked in his arms, like 2 puzzle pieces fitting just right. Kaelix thanked his mom's genes for making him tall enough to hold Alban like this.Alban finally relaxed, his shoulders going back to a normal position and pressed himself against the other, nuzzling himself into his chest. Kaelix's heart started hammering and told himself that he couldn’t accept a no, not when he wanted to stay like this forever.“This reminds me of yesterday, you wouldn't let go of me” Alban said, head still hidden and Kaelix barely caught it. He answered by squeezing him even harder.“I'm clingy.”“I noticed.” He sounded better. Kaelix's hopes went up. “I can't run away from you, can I?”“Nope.”Alban finally looked up, his eyes shining from crying and a bit pinkish on the corners. He looked ridiculously beautiful when he wasn’t putting on a front.Once again Kaelix hovered over him, his own silhouette casting a shadow over him. And in that tiny space between them, where only them existed, not their worries or the future, Kaelix asked softly:“Did I bag a baddie?”“Kaelix, what the hell?” Alban punched his chest playfully and laughed, long and loud, throwing his head back so hard he would have fallen if the other wasn't holding so hard onto him. Kaelix relished on the melodious sound. “A retired baddie I guess.”“Is that a yes?”“Do I need to spell it out for you?”“Yes,” Kaelix was serious.Alban blushed a bit. It would take a while to get used to this, to being direct and open like him.“Kaelix Debonair, I like you.”“Can I kiss you?”Again, direct and sincere. Alban blushed deeper.“Yes.”	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622781	{"authors": ["veintiseis"], "language": "English", "title": "Notice me, Senpai!"}
the good grace of that godlight There were three true constants in Shane Hollander’s life: his mother, his father, and his sport. (The fourth thing, important as it is, didn’t come until later.) Shane couldn’t even remember the beginnings of hockey. He’d seen the photos, seen his tiny first pair of skates that his mother had been holding onto for thirty years, but he had no independent recollection of any of it. Shane was an awkward child. Hell, he’s an awkward adult. As a kid, though, he had no idea what he was doing ninety percent of the time. He wasn’t funny. He wasn’t interesting. He wasn’t cool. That was fine. Shane didn’t mind not making friends or not talking to people. Social interaction was overwhelming, and besides, he had better things to do with his time. He wasn’t training to go pro, not really, not back then, but it didn’t change the fact that practicing was basically his favorite thing to do. (Looking back, Shane wonders if it was some sort of continuous feedback loop: he was horrible at making friends, so he had more free time, so he might as well practice, and then he’d get even better, enjoy the rush of improvement, and love the sport that much more, so might as well practice, and then he’d get better again—) Really, it didn’t matter. Shane loved hockey before hockey ever loved him back. Even if he’d never gotten good, he couldn’t imagine himself to ever stop trying. Then he got older, however, and he did get good. Very good. It surprised Shane, throughout his teenage years, how much people were willing to overlook. He hadn’t particularly improved at socializing—and any improvements he had made were more than matched by his peers, so the gap was roughly the same—but things that had once been off-putting or strange became quirky and fun. His obsessions, his routines, his unbreakable focus went from being boring to being cute. Shane himself hadn’t really changed. Not at the core. But he was headed to juniors, and then he was headed to the NHL, and everyone knew it. It was a level of social credit that Shane never could’ve bought or learned. He was five-eight, five-nine, five-ten. He’d put muscle on his frame. He’d apparently grown into a handsome face. When Shane looked at himself, he didn’t see it: he saw mottled, freckle-stained skin and worry-bitten lips. The girls in his life disagreed. He was attractive, now. No. Ask half his classmates, and they’d have said that Shane Hollander was hot. Shane had never had anything but the most perfunctory of interest in girls. He wanted to date and marry one eventually—obviously—but with his demanding schedule, he’d never had time to hound after them like most of his teammates. He'd never prioritized it, anyway. Unlike his friends, though, Shane didn’t have to chase. They came to him, and Shane let it happen. He still remembered Maya, his first girlfriend. He remembered her blonde hair, her sweet smile and long pink nails, the way it felt when she used them to scratch his scalp. He remembered her excitement to be wearing his jersey on game days; he remembered the way she’d scream when he won. Shane remembered the first time she asked him to fuck her, and he couldn’t get it up. He didn’t understand why. Not at the time, anyway. Over the terrifying years of adolescence, Shane learned how to play this game, too. The rules were obscure and complicated and not written down, but no one ever seemed to call Shane’s penalties. People were happy to just be in his orbit. He made friends and got invited places and snagged girls, and it didn’t really require any effort at all. It happened to him, not because of him. For the first time in his life, Shane fit in. In the colorful light of overwhelming house parties and the blue-black tones of conversations outside, Shane felt what it was to be liked. Maybe that was why Ilya had been so threatening from the start. Shane had one thing. One. Rozanov was charming and witty and confident and handsome, all the things that Shane had never seen in himself. If he lost hockey, he’d still be the kind of person artists made songs and poems and paintings about. Things were different for Shane. When hockey left him, he would have nothing left to give. He wasn’t sure when things shifted, when the thing he loved most became a gaping, unfillable maw inside him that craved more, more, more. When his team won games, he was no longer proud of himself for the victory; he was relieved he’d checked another box. Being the best was no longer the goal. It was the bare minimum. With Rozanov around, Shane couldn’t sit undisputed in his throne. Despite all of that, Shane didn’t hate Ilya. He should’ve, but he didn’t. (He couldn’t. Not with those hands, those lips, that hair, those eyes. A large palm flat on the center of Shane’s back, warm breath against the skin of his neck.) Hatred, no. Constant annoyance? Yes. Ilya made that easy. Competitive drive? Absolutely. And the public ate it up. The roles were settled before they even debuted: Rozanov	the good grace of that godlight There were three true constants in Shane Hollander’s life: his mother, his father, and his sport. (The fourth thing, important as it is, didn’t come until later.) Shane couldn’t even remember the beginnings of hockey. He’d seen the photos, seen his tiny first pair of skates that his mother had been holding onto for thirty years, but he had no independent recollection of any of it. Shane was an awkward child. Hell, he’s an awkward adult. As a kid, though, he had no idea what he was doing ninety percent of the time. He wasn’t funny. He wasn’t interesting. He wasn’t cool. That was fine. Shane didn’t mind not making friends or not talking to people. Social interaction was overwhelming, and besides, he had better things to do with his time. He wasn’t training to go pro, not really, not back then, but it didn’t change the fact that practicing was basically his favorite thing to do. (Looking back, Shane wonders if it was some sort of continuous feedback loop: he was horrible at making friends, so he had more free time, so he might as well practice, and then he’d get even better, enjoy the rush of improvement, and love the sport that much more, so might as well practice, and then he’d get better again—) Really, it didn’t matter. Shane loved hockey before hockey ever loved him back. Even if he’d never gotten good, he couldn’t imagine himself to ever stop trying. Then he got older, however, and he did get good. Very good. It surprised Shane, throughout his teenage years, how much people were willing to overlook. He hadn’t particularly improved at socializing—and any improvements he had made were more than matched by his peers, so the gap was roughly the same—but things that had once been off-putting or strange became quirky and fun. His obsessions, his routines, his unbreakable focus went from being boring to being cute. Shane himself hadn’t really changed. Not at the core. But he was headed to juniors, and then he was headed to the NHL, and everyone knew it. It was a level of social credit that Shane never could’ve bought or learned. He was five-eight, five-nine, five-ten. He’d put muscle on his frame. He’d apparently grown into a handsome face. When Shane looked at himself, he didn’t see it: he saw mottled, freckle-stained skin and worry-bitten lips. The girls in his life disagreed. He was attractive, now. No. Ask half his classmates, and they’d have said that Shane Hollander was hot. Shane had never had anything but the most perfunctory of interest in girls. He wanted to date and marry one eventually—obviously—but with his demanding schedule, he’d never had time to hound after them like most of his teammates. He'd never prioritized it, anyway. Unlike his friends, though, Shane didn’t have to chase. They came to him, and Shane let it happen. He still remembered Maya, his first girlfriend. He remembered her blonde hair, her sweet smile and long pink nails, the way it felt when she used them to scratch his scalp. He remembered her excitement to be wearing his jersey on game days; he remembered the way she’d scream when he won. Shane remembered the first time she asked him to fuck her, and he couldn’t get it up. He didn’t understand why. Not at the time, anyway. Over the terrifying years of adolescence, Shane learned how to play this game, too. The rules were obscure and complicated and not written down, but no one ever seemed to call Shane’s penalties. People were happy to just be in his orbit. He made friends and got invited places and snagged girls, and it didn’t really require any effort at all. It happened to him, not because of him. For the first time in his life, Shane fit in. In the colorful light of overwhelming house parties and the blue-black tones of conversations outside, Shane felt what it was to be liked. Maybe that was why Ilya had been so threatening from the start. Shane had one thing. One. Rozanov was charming and witty and confident and handsome, all the things that Shane had never seen in himself. If he lost hockey, he’d still be the kind of person artists made songs and poems and paintings about. Things were different for Shane. When hockey left him, he would have nothing left to give. He wasn’t sure when things shifted, when the thing he loved most became a gaping, unfillable maw inside him that craved more, more, more. When his team won games, he was no longer proud of himself for the victory; he was relieved he’d checked another box. Being the best was no longer the goal. It was the bare minimum. With Rozanov around, Shane couldn’t sit undisputed in his throne. Despite all of that, Shane didn’t hate Ilya. He should’ve, but he didn’t. (He couldn’t. Not with those hands, those lips, that hair, those eyes. A large palm flat on the center of Shane’s back, warm breath against the skin of his neck.) Hatred, no. Constant annoyance? Yes. Ilya made that easy. Competitive drive? Absolutely. And the public ate it up. The roles were settled before they even debuted: Rozanov was the rockstar, the bad boy, the one chasing after glory and fame and pissing people off as he did it, and Hollander was the kind, talented leader who was in it for the love of the game. It wasn’t wrong, per se. It just wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth, of course, was that Shane was just as egocentric as Ilya. That Shane craved success and adoration and applause and history just as much as Ilya did—if not more. There was precisely one difference between Ilya’s attitude and Shane’s: Ilya let his hunger show, and Shane did not. The first time Shane stepped onto NHL ice, he felt like the little boy he’d been a decade and a half prior, still learning to balance, still learning to skate. He’d looked up and saw thousands of spectators screaming things he couldn’t make out. He'd seen the jersey he'd dreamed of wearing since he was ten. He'd seen the one, single arena where he had something to give. This, Shane knew, was the light of his life. This was the thing he’d build himself around, the rock he’d stabilize himself against. Being good wasn’t enough. Being great wasn’t, either. Money couldn’t satisfy him. Neither could fame. There was one thing that would make Shane happy: the knowledge that anyone who tried to compete against him would flinch. The implicit understanding from everyone in this arena that he was the best. The singular, undisputed best. When that day came, Shane would be oh-so-humble, oh-so-kind. Of course. That went unsaid. The source of his humility would be politeness, however. Not a lack of justification. (Modesty isn’t really modesty if there’s no achievement being played down.) When things with Ilya changed (cottage loon bonfire sweetheart boyfriend I love you Ottawa), things with hockey didn’t. Sure, his most difficult competition was more or less neutered, but Shane still wasn’t done. He had at least ten more good years left in him, as long as he took care of himself. As long as he ate right. As long has he never took a break, and cut out flour and refined sugar and full-fat dairy, and started meditating, and skipped the champagne on New Year’s Eve, and— Years passed with Shane’s head down, focused on the ice. So focused that he didn’t see Ilya tearing at the seams. Ilya would be fine. They only had to hide a few more years, and they saw each other as much as they could, and who cared what people believed as long as they had each other behind closed doors? Besides, no matter what happened, Ilya wasn’t going to leave him. Hockey might. Then, one January, a plane flying from North Carolina to Florida nearly dropped out of the sky, and Shane was reminded that leaving might not be Ilya’s choice. Shane had chosen between Ilya and hockey dozens of times. When Ilya asked to fuck him the very first time, in that hotel crawling with their peers. When Ilya kissed him messily on a couch and begged him to stay. When Ilya looked him in the eye and asked him point-blank. For so long, Ilya had been secondary. Shane wanted him, but only insofar as it didn’t risk his career. Shane was so worried about fading away, he never noticed that he’d captured the sun in his hands. The slip had been gradual. So gradual, in fact, that Shane failed to realize it until mortality forced him to. Sometime between seventeen and twenty-nine, Ilya had usurped what Shane had always believed to be his other half. He’d burrowed in under Shane’s skin and made himself a home. The change was monumental, yet simple: Shane wanted his career, insofar as it didn’t interfere with Ilya. When the outing came, Shane was terrified, and embarrassed, and disgusted, but not as much as he should’ve been. Not as much as he’d always imagined (and he’d imagined this moment many, many times). Being confronted with the possibility of having the life he’d worked for taken away was scary, but it no longer felt like a death sentence. For the first time, Shane saw the joy in a life without hockey. Shane could only imagine the conversations that happened in every locker room across North America that day. Ilya was disliked, yes, but it didn’t remotely compare to the hate that half the league seemed to harbor for him during his last few years in Boston. He was irreverent, arrogant, dickish, and good. He was better than them, and he knew it, and he was despised for it. Moving to Ottawa had allowed the focus on him to fade, at least partially. Shane, though? Shane was at the inarguable peak of his career. Shane was everywhere people looked. Shane was practically the face of the NHL. (No one gets excited to watch bad things happen to failed people. It’s expected. Nobody circles around to see the mediocre stumble. When the mighty fall, the crowd roars.) Shane’s humiliation and misery was a source of entertainment that day. He knew it. He knew that there were many, many people in his life who were overjoyed to watch him finally crash. He knew that he’d gifted loyalty, dedication, and his best physical years to a team that ultimately failed to provide anything in return, and he knew that he’d given his soul to a sport that only loved the pieces of him it could stomach. The thing he’s had devoted his first thirty years to tried to wedge itself between Shane and the center of his next thirty. The NHL told Shane to bet on either his future or his past. When the entire world looked Shane in the eye, he refused to flinch. It didn’t go the way he thought it would, after that. He’d pictured blacklists and terminated contracts and discrimination lawsuits. He’d pictured some new phase of his life, involving wedding rings, a dog or four, and winters spent cuddling by the fireplace in the cottage. He certainly didn’t picture what he got: calling his husband captain, sharing a locker room and a home and a bed with him, a rejuvenated joy for something that hadn’t felt like it used to in years. Nowadays, it’s not that Shane doesn’t want to win. He wants to win more than ever, he wants to win for Ilya, and for his parents, and for the town that had made him the man he is. No. Shane still wants to win. The difference is that he doesn’t need to win. Maybe it’s because unlike before, Shane knows that hockey isn’t the only thing he has to give. Maybe it’s because he’s got nothing left to prove. Maybe it’s because for the first time in his life, he isn’t worried about what most people think of him. Regardless of reason, Shane knows this: when he leaves hockey, there will be an entirely new, unbelievably joyful life for him to settle into. The lights in the arena are bright, but they’re also cold. Distant. The flashes of paparazzi bulbs give Shane anxiety, and the key lights and reflectors at photoshoots make him feel like a specimen being pinned. There are better suns to chase. Deep orange hues from a dimmed bedside lamp, dappling two naked bodies like paint against canvas. Pink daylight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, the smell of breakfast drifting through the cottage. The white-hot glare off a golden crucifix, the man it belongs to beaming with his feet in the lake. Ilya Rozanov. The light of Shane’s life.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622791	{"authors": ["broccolicheddarchicken"], "language": "English", "title": "the good grace of that godlight"}
The God of So & So and Somewhere It’s 1719 by the time that the nameless man loops down towards lower New France. The frigid climates of la Haute-Louisiane were too reminiscent of Europe - cold, dreary, and for the most part miserable. This new land is plentiful with its varying climates, geography, and people; positively fascinating. The sticky heat of la Basse-Louisiane is much more intriguing, something to warm his eternally chilly bones. He wants to meander down what the Natives called the great Misi-ziibi, but what he and his kindred referred to as Messipi. He wouldn’t normally make the effort but, well, rumors have been spreading almost as fast as the subject they focus on: the Yellow Fever. According to the various settlers that he can actually understand, sickness has taken hold of anyone near the waters. If he wants to make his way towards warmer and hopefully more plentiful hunting grounds, he needs to continue south. It hasn’t been easy. Local tribes were much more observant to anything inhuman compared to the populations of Europeans invading their lands, and he’d nearly gotten an arrow to the skull from a particularly enthusiastic Choctaw man who hadn’t liked the look of him. The Drifter had counted himself lucky as he’d seen the bulky black powder musket slung across the hunter's back, ready to be used if bows didn’t cut it. He tried to not let it bother him. Things were different compared to France, people were more wary of a white man even if he did speak their tongue. There were too many unknown factions to not be paranoid. This was how he found himself in this brave new world: drifting around from place to place, taking shelter during the day in whatever cover that he could find while he roamed at night and sniffed out food. It wasn’t particularly difficult. People were so spread nowadays even though civilization was building itself up, and it was hardly surprising if a man and his wife went missing. Well, the man was already missing. His wife was…a work in progress. A work in progress that was currently sprinting through the forest like she could see in the dark, which the Drifter knew she couldn’t. She had long since stopped screaming, there wasn’t enough air in her lungs after the amount of running that she’d already done. Honestly, he was impressed that she hadn’t managed to twist her ankle yet. He didn’t mind, the hunting was something to savor. A real treat after a few days of going without food. As he loped along, footsteps near silent, the look of shock and terror on the farmer’s face floated in his mind’s eye. The couple had been so nice, so willing to help a complete stranger that he had almost felt guilty knowing what he was about to do to them. Almost. The husband had needed to go first, but only barely. It had been a tempting draw between the thick muscle fat that the two humans both sported and had come down to a coin flip. The Drifter couldn’t say he minded the result though, not when he’d gotten to bully the bigger man to the floor and his jaws sunk into hot flesh, healthy blood spurting into his mouth. The curves on him had been particularly appealing, nice to hold onto while the farmer struggled and cried out underneath him. If the wife hadn’t chosen to run, Drifter had thought he may have taken his time with him. She had shrieked like a banshee and absconded into the darkness though, nightgown whipping around her figure and giving him a flash of tan, strong legs. And, well, he couldn’t resist. He left the farmer choking on his last dregs of life and took off, silent as the grave. The only noise that he made was purposeful, just to let his prey know that she was still being followed and, just like a rabbit, she tried to pick up speed every time she heard him closing in. Time was up though. Humans could only go for so long. Drifter reckoned they’d been moving around for at least a half hour and by now he merely had to follow at a brisk walk, trotting after her shaking form dutifully. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, just cold enough to make the woman’s teeth chatter and for her nipples to harden to peaks underneath her dress. The farmer’s wife finally collapsed, back against a tree, and tearfully stared up at him. There was hate in her gaze alongside the fear, a delicious mix that her husband had fed to him as well. “Now, now, ma mie,” He crooned, accent thickly laid on the little English that he knew, “No scared. No cry.” He was aware of, at the very least, the basics. Things like “no”, “help”, and “devil”. The Drifter crouched down before her, taking a moment to run a finger along her cheek and pick up a few stray tears. He didn’t like when they cried, it always ended up ruining the flavor of the meat. The farmer’s wife sniffled, hiccuping with great sobbing breaths. She was exhausted, worn thin from their chase, he could tell. There was very little fight left in her. Normally this would turn him off of continuing things but he was still starving from	The God of So & So and Somewhere It’s 1719 by the time that the nameless man loops down towards lower New France. The frigid climates of la Haute-Louisiane were too reminiscent of Europe - cold, dreary, and for the most part miserable. This new land is plentiful with its varying climates, geography, and people; positively fascinating. The sticky heat of la Basse-Louisiane is much more intriguing, something to warm his eternally chilly bones. He wants to meander down what the Natives called the great Misi-ziibi, but what he and his kindred referred to as Messipi. He wouldn’t normally make the effort but, well, rumors have been spreading almost as fast as the subject they focus on: the Yellow Fever. According to the various settlers that he can actually understand, sickness has taken hold of anyone near the waters. If he wants to make his way towards warmer and hopefully more plentiful hunting grounds, he needs to continue south. It hasn’t been easy. Local tribes were much more observant to anything inhuman compared to the populations of Europeans invading their lands, and he’d nearly gotten an arrow to the skull from a particularly enthusiastic Choctaw man who hadn’t liked the look of him. The Drifter had counted himself lucky as he’d seen the bulky black powder musket slung across the hunter's back, ready to be used if bows didn’t cut it. He tried to not let it bother him. Things were different compared to France, people were more wary of a white man even if he did speak their tongue. There were too many unknown factions to not be paranoid. This was how he found himself in this brave new world: drifting around from place to place, taking shelter during the day in whatever cover that he could find while he roamed at night and sniffed out food. It wasn’t particularly difficult. People were so spread nowadays even though civilization was building itself up, and it was hardly surprising if a man and his wife went missing. Well, the man was already missing. His wife was…a work in progress. A work in progress that was currently sprinting through the forest like she could see in the dark, which the Drifter knew she couldn’t. She had long since stopped screaming, there wasn’t enough air in her lungs after the amount of running that she’d already done. Honestly, he was impressed that she hadn’t managed to twist her ankle yet. He didn’t mind, the hunting was something to savor. A real treat after a few days of going without food. As he loped along, footsteps near silent, the look of shock and terror on the farmer’s face floated in his mind’s eye. The couple had been so nice, so willing to help a complete stranger that he had almost felt guilty knowing what he was about to do to them. Almost. The husband had needed to go first, but only barely. It had been a tempting draw between the thick muscle fat that the two humans both sported and had come down to a coin flip. The Drifter couldn’t say he minded the result though, not when he’d gotten to bully the bigger man to the floor and his jaws sunk into hot flesh, healthy blood spurting into his mouth. The curves on him had been particularly appealing, nice to hold onto while the farmer struggled and cried out underneath him. If the wife hadn’t chosen to run, Drifter had thought he may have taken his time with him. She had shrieked like a banshee and absconded into the darkness though, nightgown whipping around her figure and giving him a flash of tan, strong legs. And, well, he couldn’t resist. He left the farmer choking on his last dregs of life and took off, silent as the grave. The only noise that he made was purposeful, just to let his prey know that she was still being followed and, just like a rabbit, she tried to pick up speed every time she heard him closing in. Time was up though. Humans could only go for so long. Drifter reckoned they’d been moving around for at least a half hour and by now he merely had to follow at a brisk walk, trotting after her shaking form dutifully. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, just cold enough to make the woman’s teeth chatter and for her nipples to harden to peaks underneath her dress. The farmer’s wife finally collapsed, back against a tree, and tearfully stared up at him. There was hate in her gaze alongside the fear, a delicious mix that her husband had fed to him as well. “Now, now, ma mie,” He crooned, accent thickly laid on the little English that he knew, “No scared. No cry.” He was aware of, at the very least, the basics. Things like “no”, “help”, and “devil”. The Drifter crouched down before her, taking a moment to run a finger along her cheek and pick up a few stray tears. He didn’t like when they cried, it always ended up ruining the flavor of the meat. The farmer’s wife sniffled, hiccuping with great sobbing breaths. She was exhausted, worn thin from their chase, he could tell. There was very little fight left in her. Normally this would turn him off of continuing things but he was still starving from having to abandon her husband. So, instead of snapping her neck like he was tempted to do, he instead leaned forwards and snuffled at her throat. Little hitched sobs escaped her as he did - he imagined he was not the prettiest sight. It wasn’t like he’d had time to clean himself up of her husband’s blood before hunting her down. “Please.” She begged, a garble of words following the first. His brows furrowed, head tilting to the side to peer at her from the corners of his eyes. She seemed to think he could understand her and kept talking but the most he could pick out was “please” and “help”. The Drifter nodded, humming a little to himself, and then turned his attention back to her neck. With little warning he opened his maw and then clamped down on her throat. She emitted something high pitched, animal-like in her terror. It was souring her taste enough that he rolled his eyes, annoyed. Some of the other vampires would call him crude, but the Drifter thought they were the real barbarians. They liked to wrap up their malice with silks and fine clothing, he was at least honest with what he was going to do to someone. Besides, the blood loss and vampiric venom working through her bloodstream made her relax. Her terror was slowly seeping out of her and in its place was contentment, even a smidgen of pleasure. That was something he couldn’t help even though he tried to keep sex and food separated. The last thing he wanted to do was fuck the meal he was planning on eating, he didn’t need traces of ambiguous juices clinging to them while he ate his fill. Worryingly, it looked like she wanted to reach for his pants if she’d had the ability to do so, hazy as she was. He was glad she couldn’t. His cock was very much dangling limply between his legs and he didn’t want his mood ruined by her groping fingers. It was as her whimpering began to peter off, eyes slowly unfocusing and body growing lax, that it occurred to the Drifter that he saw everything what she was doing very well. Too well. Something was lighting them up and he’d been so focused on his meal that it had taken minutes to notice. Reluctantly, he pulled himself off of her and wiped at his dripping mouth, though all it did was smear blood across his jaw towards his cheekbone. After a moment of indecision he lapped at his arm like a cat cleaning itself, keen on not wasting a drop. There was a door. To his right there was a closed door in the middle of the woods, edges gleaming with light. Seconds crawled past as he stared at the offending object with unconcealed befuddlement. His confusion was palpable as he eventually looked around, attempting to locate anything else out of place but no, it was just the door. Unease flitted up his spine and he fought to shake it off, climbing to his legs clumsily. Feeding always made a mess of him much to his chagrin and left his legs shaking a little as he warily closed the gap between himself and the door. Nothing happened when he reached it. Further inspection revealed that there was nothing behind it either. It was simply a red door placed into the middle of the snowy woods that maybe hadn’t been there moments before. The Drifter huffed to himself, looping around to the front and gave the offending slab of wood a once over. Had he simply missed it when he’d been following the girl? Had someone started to build a house here and had…what, started with the door but never gotten anything else done? He may not have a place to call home but he wasn’t stupid. Houses needed foundations before anything. No, this was something else. Behind him the farmer’s wife’s breath was rattling something fierce and if he turned to look at her he was sure her lips would be a shade of blue. He was missing out on the last bits of his meal, something that irked him. It was just a door, why did dread caution him against turning his back on it? Mind made up, he grabbed ahold of the knob and turned it, ready to stare at the forest beyond. Only, it wouldn’t open. A frown worked its way onto his face as he jiggled the knob, perplexed at the door not only standing upright in the middle of the woods, but being locked as well. Something wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have touched whatever this was, for all he knew it was cursed. Biting back some choice words he made to let go, but froze once he realized that he couldn’t. There was something holding him in place, forcing his fingers to remain wrapped around the doorknob. Again he tried to release it but only managed to jiggle the piece of metal around. He noticed, not without some trepidation, that the doorknob was heating up in his grasp to unhealthy temperatures. Alarm bells began ringing in his head and he braced a foot on the door, pulling against his own arm with all his might. All he succeeded in doing was wrenching his arm nearly out of its socket as his palm began to burn, sizzling from its contact with the metal. The Drifter yowled in pain, boots slipping and sliding in the powdery snow that surrounded him. It was a trap, it had to be! Was he going to catch fire and be left a burned husk in these woods? Fuck, he should’ve just made for New Orleans and not gotten side tracked, but he had been so hungry! The door, quite suddenly, flew open. Whatever had held him in place released him and he went careening backwards, toppling onto his ass and cradling his injured hand to his chest. The light was blinding now, like someone had turned daytime on but only emitted it through the doorway. The Drifter hissed, shielding his eyes with his uninjured limb as he dug his heels into the forest floor and scooted backwards as best as he could. Eventually he bumped into the nearly dead form of the farmer’s wife and this absurdly triggered an instinct within him to protect his food. After all, why else would a door be in the woods except to try to steal his meal? It made sense in the way that the rest of this situation did, which was not at all. Beyond the gaps in his fingers he could almost make out a form. It was…loud; there was no other way to describe how the figure was lit up. There were too many eyes, too many faces, buzzing and vibrating like a swarm of insects attempting to shrink a massive shape into a smaller bipedal form. There were bits and pieces of what looked like strings of flesh roping around sinew and unnatural cartilage, squishing and squelching terribly. There was the sound of too many bones popping and crackling, snapping cleanly before being rammed back together. The form looked like one thing, then another, then another, each one less recognizable than the last. The Drifter half expected himself to lose his damn mind, brain unable to comprehend what he was witnessing. The edges of his vision darkened, body threatening to shut down, and he finally forced himself to look away with a pained snarl. The humming in the air, nauseatingly loud and making his head pound, suddenly cut off at the same time that the light was turned off. In the quiet of the air that was left, the Drifter could only hear his own ragged breaths and the way that his heart pounded in his ears. He was curled into himself on the ground, a sort of fetal position primarily protecting his head and soft underbelly. Gingerly, he lowered his hand from his eyes, opening them with trepidation. The door was closed but there was a man standing before it. Or was it a man? It looked…off. Its skin stretched unnaturally, a person suit fitted over something that was decidedly not person-shaped, and its smile was far too wide for its narrow face. Hell, all of its facial features were a few degrees too off, just enough to loop into the uncanny. Whatever it was, it appeared far too pleased and far too naked. Involuntarily Drifter’s eyes wavered downwards, taking in the sight of a thick cock. He immediately looked away. If anything, the stranger’s smug, unnatural smile grew. The other…man took a single step towards him and this jolted the Drifter into action. He scrambled to his feet with a muted curse, crouching protectively over his meal. At the sight the redhead cocked its head, perplexed looking with some undertone of bemusement. The way that that thing was staring at him was strange - like a scientist observing an experiment or a person regarding a naughty pet. It - he - whatever the hell it was, was curious though and clearly did not care about boundaries. “Reculez!” Drifter spat, “Foutez pas les boules - c'est le mien!” His warning did not stop the stranger, instead the other man proceeded to stride over with heavy footsteps into his personal space at an alarming speed. The Drifter bared his fangs and swung at him the moment that he was within range, fingers tensed to shred him with his claws. He rarely gave warnings and the fact that this thing ignored them set his temper off like a gunshot. Before his hand could make contact with the other though, another door appeared. It was small, only large enough for an arm to go through, and through it Drifter’s arm did, passing into a space that instantly made his skin crawl. Whatever was on the other side was cold and moist, unpleasantly resembling the texture of an oyster that was bizarrely without physical form. Just…a weight, almost. Pressing in from all sides on his captured limb. He inhaled sharply and tried to pull his arm back, but it was as though something was holding it in place. Panic began to genuinely seep into his core and without thinking he tried to swing with his injured hand. This one was caught by the man himself, wrist cradled firmly in a grasp that looked like it shouldn’t be able to win in a contest of strength. “Lâcher!” He yowled, yanking against the other man’s grip for all the good that it did. A bestial growl rumbled deep within his chest and he snapped his head forwards, fangs bared. The stranger’s other hand snapped up and caught his jaw, unyielding in the way that stone was. The force of fingers closing tightly onto his face clamped his mouth shut against his will, slamming it with an audible click. The being before him had him well and truly trapped and it knew it. Confident, smug, arrogant fucking prick! The redhead peered over the Drifter’s shoulder, lazily taking in the body slowly cooling behind him, and then cocked an eyebrow at him. Facial expressions looked odd on its face, out of place like its muscles didn’t know what they were doing, and for a moment the Drifter could swear that several pairs of eyes blinked back at him. That was when it opened its mouth and — And — And —…. “Putain!” The Drifter gasped as he came to. What had just happened? He could’ve sworn that the stranger had opened its mouth to speak, but then it had…there had been a horrible noise. A sound that he knew he would never be able to replicate, something that was using sub vocals and harmonization that mortals were not meant to hear. He was gasping wetly - had he begun crying while he was passed out? Impossible, his eyes were too dry. No, the reason his face was wet was because his ears and nose were bleeding profusely, leaking blood like a faucet down his face. The most surprising part was that he had not been let go, he was in the exact same position that he had been in before losing consciousness. Apparently his weight didn’t matter to whatever this thing was. The other man didn’t look concerned with his blood, merely puzzled by his reaction. Put out, perhaps. Its eyes — gods, they were bright, glowing things that hurt to look at for too long, like gazing into the sun — rolled skywards for only a moment before an idea seemed to occur to it. It yanked the Drifter forwards and before he quite knew what was happening unnaturally smooth lips landed on his own. Upon contact static buzzed through his mouth, strange feeling and confusing. The Drifter tried to jerk his head away but he couldn’t, nor could he stop needle-like teeth snaring on his lower lip and causing him to gasp. With his lips parted the other man plunged deeper, wrenching him closer and forcefully shoving a tongue into his mouth. It felt too long, too hot, and the static that was in his mouth seeped further into him. The buzzing, for that was what it was, expanded into his veins and then the horrible shaking entered his bones. He felt like he was going to vibrate apart, body nearly bursting at the seams. For a horrible few seconds he truly thought he may explode and the only thing he could focus on was the distinct sensation of a thick, snake-like appendage sliding down his throat and into his guts, rummaging around in his intestines whilst his mind simultaneously felt like an ice pick was being taken to it. And then it was over. The feeling cut off and the stranger pulled back, satisfied. There were a handful of tense seconds where its tongue followed, sliding in reverse out of the Drifter’s gaping mouth, before ultimately popping free with an obscenely wet sound that made him feel weak at the knees. The Drifter coughed harshly, spit drooling down his chin and joining the blood. “Ahem.” The stranger cleared it - his throat like an engine restarting, thoughtfully twisting his head this way and that before his lips split into a smile that showed a hint of teeth. It was perhaps the most threatening thing that the Drifter had seen in his life, though he would never admit it. “Well, I’ve always wanted to learn French. Never had the chance or inclination before now though.” “What?” The Drifter dumbly replied, slow to catch onto the fact that he could understand what was being said to him. It was only seconds later that it occurred to him that he was now communicating with this thing - somehow this was worse than the terrible buzzing that had invaded his core. “Oh, yes, thank you.” Now the redhead was positively beaming at him. His teeth…when he had set them upon him the Drifter could have sworn that they were sharp, but the ones that he displayed were neat, white gravestones. Perfect, even if there were too many to make him feel comfortable. “I’d been meaning to take a peek around once your people and the English decided to do a little warring, but heaven knows I would have gotten myself caught up in all the fighting. It seems even now I cannot resist a good bloodbath.” ‘A little warring’ - that was what he had called it? He spoke of the tensions between two countries like he was talking about the weather over a cup of tea. “Y’mean t’ Hundred Year War…?” The Drifter hollowly asked, beyond confused. “Not very good at naming things, are you?” The stranger haughtily replied, “Bit on the nose, wouldn’t you say?” “I didn’t name it!” It felt outrageous to react in such a way, but he was spluttering defensively before he could stop himself. “An’ that war’s been over fo’ two centuries!” “Two hundred years, really?” The stranger sounded surprised, before promptly shrugging off his mask of concern with a flippant hand wave, “Well, time flies when one is observing the comings and goings of humanity. Take yourself for example, why I don’t believe I’ve seen a vampire like you since the first of your kind started polluting the lands.” The smile on the stranger’s face had a mean, sharp edge to it now. The Drifter struggled to comprehend if he was being insulted, mocked, or if the ginger really was interested. Either way he didn’t like his response and so he bared his teeth at him. This only served to make the gaze directed his way more intrigued. The stranger stepped closer, close enough that he could see that the flesh suit he was donning had no pores and the irises laser focused on him amorphously changed shape like a bubble in the water. “There it is, that precious attitude of yours. I had thought to myself, ‘every mortal has lost their mind once they see you, this one will be no different’, but I held onto hope! And look at you, flashing your fangs at a god. I must say, this is one of the few times that I am glad to be proven wrong.” Both of the stranger’s hands had come up to delicately cup his jaw, a thumb stroking his face. “I was right to choose you to expand my knowledge. And you even have the added luxury of having a longer lifespan!” God? God?! The Drifter’s expression must have conveyed his incredulity sufficiently enough because the hands on his face tightened. Apparently the stranger did not like being questioned about his supposed deity-ness in any way whatsoever. But if this guy thought that he was going to accost him in the middle of the woods, tongue fuck his esophagus, and then get away with the Drifter not bringing an attitude to the table he was sorely mistaken. After all, this was the second meal that had been interrupted tonight and he had little to no patience left for the insanity playing out before him. Despite the hardening grip on his jaw he abruptly jerked his head free and then snapped his jaw shut on the closest hand like a bear trap. Fangs sunk through flesh too quickly, rapidly enough that it felt like he was taking a bite out of soft clay rather than meat. Where he expected to taste warmth he was shocked into realization that the stranger’s body was quite chilly. Not in the way of a cadaver, but more so mud left out in the cold. It was disgusting and instantly he gagged and tried to unhinge his mouth, only to be stopped by the stranger’s other hand slamming down onto the back of his head. His ragged hair was wrapped up and grasped meanly by too-strong fingers, and this grip forced him to remain in place. His worn boots scuffed frantically in the snow covered forest floor, nearly slipping from the accumulation of moisture and ice. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t wrench his head loose and the longer that his mouth stayed clamped onto the not-flesh that covered this beast the more that the pit of his belly filled with dread. He wasn’t meant to try to drink from something like this, he was sure of it now. The stranger hummed to himself, jaunty and out of place in the silence of the woods alongside the muffled gurgles of panic emitting from the vampire he was terrorizing. “Whatever is the matter?” The redhead silkily asked, “You wanted to bite me so badly, mutt, surely you wouldn’t back out now.” Helplessly the Drifter gave his weakest snarl yet. It was difficult to incite intimidation with the way that his head was being held in place. The cool temperatures of the creature he had sunk his maw into began to seep up into his fangs, making him feel numb in a way that hurt. Then, without warning, blistering heat followed. Something akin to blood was pouring into his mouth, incredibly delayed and thicker than normal. The Drifter was so surprised that he didn’t quite manage to clamp his lips around the wound well enough, causing viscous liquid to spurt free from the corners of his mouth and dribble downwards, sloppily coating his chest. The blood was too hot, hot enough that it felt like it was burning him up from the inside out. He groaned in pain, tried to close his mouth fully instead, but found that for whatever reason he couldn’t. His teeth were stuck, jaws eternally held open for whatever was pouring into his body without consent. From the floor, the farmer’s wife’s dead eyes stared up at him accusingly. He shuddered and averted his gaze, refusing to accept his momentary shock of guilt. The longer that this liquid filled his belly, the heavier he felt. His movements grew sluggish, mind blearily struggling to make sense of the things that were happening. It was as though he had been drugged and left vulnerable to the whims of the creature cooing at him like he was an amusing pet. It didn’t take long for him to feel too full, too stuffed with whatever this monster was giving him. The image of a tick being popped flashed into his head and he gave one last pathetic attempt at struggle. “Ah, how adorable.” The murmur was directly in his ear, an edge of humming insects coiled alongside it. “There’s a dear. Can’t have myself losing track of you, this should help with that.” Finally, finally, his head was released. Instantly his mouth flew open and he collapsed to shaking knees. His arm slid loose from the door, tingling like the nerves were all waking up. The hand that he had bitten gently grasped his jaw, turning his face upwards to stare at the monster looming over him. It still wore a smile on its face. “All better?” It asked. The Drifter spluttered out a scoff and then jerked his head away. It sent him flat on his rear but it was better than being cradled by whatever this thing was. “It will take a few days for everything to cycle through you, but rest assured the stomach ache will not be permanent.” “Wha’ y’mean, losin’ track a’me?” He finally managed to spit out. Piecing words together was difficult but damn if he would lose any more dignity. “What did you do?!” “Oh, do calm down.” The response he was given was put upon, a parent not willing to indulge a toddler’s temper tantrum, “I merely…put a mark on you so that I will know where you are when I must find you once more.” “You branded me?!” “I branded the inside of your stomach. Surely a creature of your nature can find the humor in that, hm?” The stranger was brushing himself off now, the wound on his hand gone in an instant. “So food-driven, so hungry all the time. It’s a wonder that you get anything done with those feeble mortal constraints of yours.” The Drifter couldn’t help it, he flopped backwards until he was laying on the ground, a bark of incredulous laughter escaping him. The movement from the other ceased completely and it held itself unnaturally still. One of the Drifter’s hands came up to paw at his face, wiping at his mouth and chin messily. It didn’t do much outside of smear everything even worse but he didn’t care, allowing his arm to flop down next him. He felt hysterical, unhinged emotionally in a way that was not normal for his temperament. This entire situation was bizarre, uncomfortable, complete and utter insanity. He was left with the quiet of the woods. Peaceful, if it weren’t for the unwelcome guest still hovering over him. He allowed the silence to continue, perfectly content to wait the moment out for as long as it took. What felt like minutes crawled past until finally the other, sounding quite reluctant and annoyed that he was being forced to initiate the conversation, gritted out in a pleasant tone, “Whatever is so funny?” “You.” Drifter instantly shot back. ”Me?” The stranger’s nose wrinkled in confusion, an oddly human gesture. “And what about me made you laugh?” The Drifter savored its confusion, a smile playing at his lips. It seemed to annoy the creature further. The stars were abruptly blocked out by the redhead leaned over him, staring down at him like he meant to bore a hole into him with his eyes alone. “Yer jus’ as hungry.” He airily stated, “Only the t’ings you’re hungry for are broader. Wantin’ to understand the way mortals tick, huh? Wantin’ t’learn new languages n’ watch what the mortals do? Not so excluded from feeble constraints, are you? Why else would you do all’a this?” Time crawled past, bright eyes continued to gaze down at him. The Drifter idly wondered if he was about to be unmade and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He had made his point just as he had always done with beings who thought themselves better than him just because they had a bit of power. He expected any second now for the stranger to lash out at him for daring to speak in such a way, but instead he found himself watching a matching, toothy smile slice across the stranger’s face. “Why, I don’t believe anyone has ever made such an accurate assessment about me before. You really do have a functioning brain underneath that rat’s nest.” The stranger slowly, ever so slowly, crouched down to bring their faces closer together. “I think we’re going to have a wonderful eternity together, mutt.” This caused whatever peace that he had been feeling to be thrown out of the proverbial window and he flinched away, scooting himself out from underneath the other. He didn’t like the way that he — it was talking. Like it had plans and ideas, concepts that the Drifter had never agreed to. The stranger’s gaze never left him, following his movements calmly. “T’fuck you mean eternity together?” He rumbled, “I don’t know you an’ I don’t plan on knowin’ you. You got what you came for, now leave.” “Surely you didn’t think that I would let you run off and die in some grubby corner of the world? Not when you’ve proven to be so interesting.” The stranger’s smile widened, “I think you’ll find that I don’t enjoy sharing my things, and I certainly don’t let my things go either.” “I ain’t a thing!” Drifter snarled, attempting to pull himself to his knees. The movement jostled his stomach against his thighs and nausea swirled through him, making him groan in discomfort. Something gleamed in the pit of the stranger’s eyes - interest in the sound he had made. A shiver slunk up his spine and the hair on the back of his neck rose. He swallowed heavily and pretended he didn’t notice the stranger’s eyes tracking the movement of his throat. What followed was a tense handful of seconds that had him frozen in place, uncertain where things were about to go until the redhead stood, brushing his legs off. “I believe all points have been made and my time here must be cut short.” He boldly stated, “You made it clear that you aren’t a thing and I made it clear that I will find you anytime and anyplace, whenever I wish to indulge in my ‘feeble constraints’. My, look at us, already bonding, hm?” “You - what,” The Drifter helplessly stuttered out, scowling up at the other. He wasn’t positive about what he even wanted to argue about first and so what came out was the most useless statement that he could have chosen. “I don’ even know your name!” “Oh…yes. You mortals do love your titles.” The stranger mused, tapping at his chin thoughtfully, “I suppose that you may call me the Doorman.” He must have made a disbelieving expression at this, but the Doorman merely shot him a bemused smile and took measured steps back towards his door. He grasped the knob and paused, peering off into the distance before glancing back down at him. “Better run, Drifter. I hear hunters on the way.” With a jolt the Drifter realized too late that he could also hear the distant sound of humans crashing through the brush, talking frantically amongst themselves about the dead farmer, dried leaves and sticks snapping underneath their boots. With a tremendous amount of effort he heaved himself to his feet, off balance but willing himself to move. He caught one last look at the Doorman and the wink sent his way before the ginger slipped through the door and it shut, blinking out of existence and leaving him alone with the corpse at his feet and danger on the horizon. The Drifter snarled to himself, infuriated, but forced himself to move. There was no time to ruminate on everything that had just happened, not with how slowly he was moving. Dawn would soon break and he needed to find a safe place to hide away. He didn’t want to digest whatever was inside him but he had no chance to vomit it up and it was this that angered him further. Later, once he was huddled in an abandoned bear den, it would occur to him that he had never introduced himself to the Doorman. ___________________________ 1755 Years pass. Many, many years. Time continued to tick onward even as his body remained unchanged. Perhaps the only thing about him that ever looked different were the clothes on his person and the amount of body fat that he had. Well, that and his hair. He had failed to cut it in a while and what was already a mess hung almost past his shoulders, poking out from under the cap that he had snagged off of a clothesline in greasy clumps. It had been a harsh winter, but spring had finally unveiled itself and he was ready to get some meat on his bones. There was a gauntness to his face and in his knobby spine that he hated - it made him feel weak, mortal. Human. It didn’t help that the clothes he had been dragging through the winter months were a size too large, slipped off of the body of a particularly well fed man. They hung off of him limply, hiding how skinny his waist had become. That was why he was venturing from Baton Rouge to New Orleans once more, keen on filling his belly. The vampire trotted along Lake Pontchartrain at a measured pace, looking out at the still waters. He could hear movement in the lake, things that weren’t just fish or gators. It had been some time since he had seen merpeople lurking about given that they tended to stay in the depths of the oceans, but it seemed that a pod had migrated into the more populated New World. He couldn’t blame them, he had had the same idea far too long ago. “Pretty, pretty! Come closer!” One of them cooed, perched up on a large rock. It had the vaguest similarities to a woman, but there were too many scales and blank, shark-like eyes to deceive him. He was intrigued if only because he was hungry enough to even eat this pitiful creature trying to make a meal out of him as well. “Y’sure bout dat?” The Drifter drawled, pausing his walk. The merperson appeared taken aback by his words, but it must have had particularly useless instincts as it failed to realize the danger it was in. While its brethren watched him with a wary eye, it drew closer, dragging its body further onto the rock. Behind its upper half its tail slapped wetly onto the stone, agitated like a cat. “Yesssss…?” It hissed out cautiously. People normally didn’t ask these creatures questions, mostly they just choked as they were strangled to death beneath the waves. The Drifter imagined the creature had little to no conversational skills, which was no bother to him. His stomach growled, reminding him of how dire things had truly become. There was a gnawing pain in the pit of his belly that had him salivating the longer he took to make a move and so he circled closer, trotting to the edge of the rock. It was high enough to allow them to see eye to eye despite the merperson laying flat on its belly and he gave it a friendly, closed mouth smile. It imitated the gesture back, flashing yellow, jagged teeth. “Well aintchu a sight for sore eyes.” The Drifter drawled, laying a hand delicately on the rock and tapping a finger against it. “Why don’ you flash me those pretty scales a’yours, huh?” The merperson preened under his attention, puffing up at the compliments. It rolled sideways, enough to flick its tail into the air so that the moonlight shone off of its silvery body. The Drifter ooh’d and aah’d appropriately, inching ever so closer. Once the merperson was done showing itself off he gestured for it to lean in, as though he meant to tell it a secret. Whatever hesitation that it had felt previously was gone now, soothed by simple compliments, and it leaned in. Almost instantly the Drifter’s maw unhinged and he clamped down onto the hapless merperson’s neck like a spring trap, teeth sinking past flesh buttery smooth. The merperson shrieked and flailed in desperation, its claws shredding at his arm and chest. He grunted but didn’t let go, sinking his teeth further and further into its neck until he had a good enough grip to wrench at its vulnerable throat. Around him he could hear other merpeople emitting sounds of dismay, but they all fled at the sight. Their world was simple, more accurate to the animal kingdom. A member of the pod had strayed too far and what was happening was simply the circle of life - it was something that the Drifter could appreciate. He managed to get ahold of the merperson’s shoulders and jerked his head at a particular angle, pleased once he heard fragile bones snap in the creature’s spine. It wasn’t enough to kill it, but it did paralyze it. He liked a good fight as much as the next vampire but he was starving and had little patience for the antics of a brainless beast. What followed was a hazy blur, the euphoria of finally eating clouding his mind from everything else around him. Not even the disgusting fishy flavor of the merperson’s blood could ruin the moment. The Drifter drank and drank until at last he finally felt full, mouth releasing its hold on his prey. The merperson’s body flopped limply against the rock, a lifeless husk. After a moment the Drifter sighed to himself and shoved the corpse into the water, dispassionately watching it sink beneath the surface into the dark depths. It’s pod would take care of body disposal - it seemed that any flavor of supernatural creature had enough awareness to attempt to hide their presence from the humans. Task completed, he sat back on his haunches with a pleased sigh. There was a warmth in his belly now, a fullness that was much preferable compared to the nauseating, gnawing hunger that had plagued him for weeks. It couldn’t be helped, he decided. With such a harsh winter humans had been dying left and right which had left him with few options in terms of his own survival. Even a merperson was preferable to chasing down the scarce deer of the lands with only his claws and teeth. The warm feeling in the pit of his stomach was only growing, he realized. A sign. A sign that he had failed to notice thanks to his food-induced daze. The Drifter cursed and stood up properly, looking around in paranoia. He wasn’t sure if he had been imagining things and for a moment he almost managed to convince himself that he was wrong. But then he saw it: a door in the distance. Just as red and just as out of place as the many other instances that he had encountered it. Biting back a curse, he immediately turned on heel and stalked away from it. Though his ears were pricked to catch any sign of being followed, silence weighed on him. He was alone. For now. The door had appeared numerous times since his encounter with the Doorman. Always when he least expected it and always just out of the corner of his eye. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was being stalked. But that seemed so preposterous - what reason would that creature like that have to follow his movements, except to mock him or torment him? After all, the other man hadn’t ever stepped out through those doors again, leaving the Drifter to scurry away every time with his tail between his legs. Surely it had better things to do than follow him around if the talk about being a deity was true. It pissed him off something fierce, but he could still clearly recall how powerless he had felt in the other's presence as though it had happened days ago instead of decades. And so he continued onward, a lonely figure making his way through the wilderness that seemed to shrink with every year that passed. Humans were working hard to ‘civilize’ the lands, which apparently meant destroying anything green. It was with these heavy thoughts that he meandered along at a measured pace, hardly aware of the time that passed outside of needing to slink into the shadows when daylight broke through the tree line. Twice more he thought he spotted a glimpse of red along his journey, but each time that he turned to look there was nothing there. Finally, after an indeterminable amount of days later, he could hear the distant toll of New Orleans. There were voices, the sound of construction, hooting and hollering, and the smell of food being made around the clock. It was as close to a home as he was willing to label it, especially given that settling down anywhere always set his teeth on edge. So far as he was concerned, he would always be transient and there was nothing that could truly collar him. Uneasy, he scratched at his belly as he finally entered into the heart of New Orleans. What followed was his usual M.O. He found a corner of the city to settle in, high enough in an old building for others to not notice. There was a supernatural presence in every large community, but it was especially prevalent in a land like New Orleans. There was a mish-mash of cultures here that came from Europeans mixing with Natives mixing with the Spanish mixing with galley slaves who had been torn from their homelands - a distasteful business that the Drifter had hoped would die down soon. All of these people conglomerating in one area meant that there were more things that went bump in the night, as well as the daytime, compared to other smaller communities. There was an understanding that unexplainable events were bound to happen when staying in New Orleans and no matter how much Governor Kerlerec bitched and moaned about the rowdy crowds, people weren’t likely to change. The folks who stayed in this area knew they were a distasteful sort and they liked it to stay that way. Drifter enjoyed most of it. He liked the diverse crowd of exported French Acadians, the trappers, the gold hunters, the criminals, the bits and pieces that found themselves wandering into the area one way or another. It made for a colorful bunch and it also made blending in quite easy. He had a few spots in the city that he prowled more, places where jills hung around every corner and drunkards put down tankards in the early morning. They were comforting in an odd way, the damp roads and claustrophobic alleyways familiar to him. He huddled up in a nearly abandoned church steeple, pleased to find his old stash untouched. There were only a few meager belongings that he’d left behind - a crumpled ball of old clothes, a well worn pack of cards, a small dented flask that he’d liked the look of, and the thick, warm, blanket that they were wrapped in. He wasn’t the sentimental sort, not really, but he liked having little things. Items that had survived the decades. Proof that he had existed all those years ago. Foolish, really. He shuffled his cards with a well practiced hand as he peered over the side of the tower. The vantage point was his favorite, it let him survey the masses below as evening poured in. Lanterns were lit up to combat the darkness, but it still hung heavy over the swampy lands. It was nearly time for him to make his way down and pick his meal, but for a little while he let himself find a soothing calm through the repetitive motion of flipping cards through his fingers after he changed his ragged shirt. Maybe he’d swipe some tobacco while he was slinking around. It wasn’t his favorite habit, but it wasn’t like it was going to ruin his lungs to engage in. He deserved it after the winter he had been through, he decided. Mind made up, he slipped the cards back in their pack and pocketed them, trotting down the steps until he exited rickety front doors once he was certain the coast was clear. He ambled along, whistling softly to himself as he made his way through familiar streets. It had been half a year since he was in New Orleans last, but the city never changed. Not really. Not in a way that truly mattered. Predictably, a girl called out to him once he drew close enough to various establishments. He shot the poor thing a wink but wisely steered clear. The women who worked for the brothels were worse than sharks, once they smelled blood in the water they knew how to wring every cent out of an unsuspecting visitor. Besides, there was no better way of paying for information than asking a well informed whore. Men loved to talk about all their problems like the women weren’t there, like they didn’t have perfectly functioning ears that could earn them a bit of side cash. It wouldn’t do to accidentally eat a potential informant, not yet at least. Familiar shops passed him by. Family owned businesses, homes, stalls. He was tempted to poke his head into one such place but decided against it. He would need to scrounge up some money first and to do that he needed to find a Good Samaritan to donate their pocket change and their neck. What he wouldn’t give for a jacket without holes in it, he wistfully thought to himself. There was always the possibility of stealing one, but most clothes hung out to dry were usually already well worn and falling apart, not worth the venture. A new jacket? Hell, some new boots? That would be a good gift to himself. He contemplated this idea as he peered in through a window, tempted by a handsome pair of leather work boots. His own were held together by tooth and nail at this point, falling apart. There were too many eyes around, too many humans who would be able to take notice if someone attempted to break in. Another time, perhaps. The Drifter ventured onward as night fell more heavily, the rowdy voices of drunkards roared into the sky, guiding him. He wasn’t in any hurry and it was entertaining enough to skulk around in the shadows and watch humanity in its rawest form. Despite the chill of the air, the people inhabiting New Orleans brought a warmth that was difficult to find elsewhere. The debauchery, drunken antics, and criminal activity simply helped power it. He decided to settle himself at a bar that was more towards the outskirts, a less inhabited part of town. As much as he would’ve preferred to stay within the central hub of activity, it would be much more difficult to snag someone without another person noticing. The last thing he needed was to be chased out of town - he had been there and done that a few times too many in other places. This bar was smaller, but had enough occupants to mask sounds outside which suited him well enough and he sat down heavily beside it, choosing the wall with the least amount of light. He could hear someone exit, drunkenly shambling about out the door but made no move yet. Patience was one of the few virtues that he had and grabbing the first unlucky man who left the establishment was a sure fire way to get himself caught. There was still an uneasy feeling within him, some instinct telling him that he was being watched. Try as he might, his keen eyes had been unable to pick anything up outside of the occasional glance on the street. Perhaps it was one like him, an old blood with a bone to pick with the way he did things. The Drifter knew there were quite a few vampires who disliked him, hell, he’d even had a few try to kill him. These days he felt like he’d proven his point about what would happen if someone tried to start something with him - decapitation really did wonders for underlining his threats - but there was always a chance of some upstarter trying to make a name for themself. His breath fogged before him as he idly picked at his nails - it was an odd habit to break, breathing. He didn’t necessarily need to and yet his lungs still decided to operate like his heart was beating, especially when he was around other humans. Most wouldn’t take note, but some particularly observant bystanders noticed when one’s chest didn’t move. It was best to maintain security and so…breathing. Breathing and whistling a low tune, quietly but still audible enough. He hadn't expected this level of peacefulness nor the ability to hear his own tune. The Drifter froze. Indeed, the bar wasn’t making noise anymore and oddly, the square of light emitting from the open door to the street had never went away. The door was still open. Come to think of it, had he heard that drunkard actually walk off? Adrenaline jolted through the Drifter’s system and he sprang to his feet, boots skidding on the damp dirt road. His stomach - his stomach was burning, making him hunch in on himself as he wildly looked around. When the Doorman finally grabbed him it was by the back of the neck, fingers clamping down onto his nape like a vice before manhandling him into the cold brick wall that he stood next to, face first. He hit it with a grunt, furious. ”You’ve been avoiding me.” The Doorman stated, amused sounding, “Quite impolite of you.” The Drifter snarled in response and swung out at where he guessed the other’s torso would be. There was a tearing sound, a mix of cloth, meat, and something unnatural, before the hand on his neck released him. He immediately whirled, teeth bared and claws at the ready, only to find the Doorman merely adjusting his cuffs and affixing him with an unimpressed raise of his brow. There was no sign of damage on him, as though the wound that he had felt had never existed at all. Bastard. Even worse, the Doorman showed no sign of having changed at all since they had last met except for looking a little more believably human. Gone was the jittery buzz barely held together by a skin suit and in its place stood a put together gentleman, well dressed and bright eyed. The Doorman held the aura of a high status, well mannered governor, someone who had an estate large enough to be a castle and the kind of staff attendance that lasted for generations. The Drifter realized that it was absolutely possible to dislike him more. “Now, now, let us leave the dramatics for another time, hm?” The other man demurely waved his hand through the air and gestured for the Drifter to follow. “I would hate for our chat to be cut short because you cannot control that temper of yours.” “N’ who says I’m gonna ‘chat’ wit’ you?” The Drifter scoffed, crossing his arms in a way that he convinced himself wasn’t childlike. It didn’t appear that the Doorman shared his sentiment with the way that his gaze flitted down and up again, the smile on his face widening. Instead of words, the other man merely began walking off and, when the Drifter continued to stand in place he glanced back with an expectant stare and curled a single finger towards himself. There was a tugging in the pit of the Drifter’s guts, warmth building inside him once more. Appalled, the vampire defensively cradled his stomach with his arms but after a moment of stubborn indecision, mutinously stalked after the redhead. Once the distance closed, the odd pulling sensation eased like it had not been there at all. “Good boy.” The Doorman cooed, shooting him a mocking smile as they began to make their way through the city. It took Drifter everything he had to not take another swipe and he only held back due to people appearing as they wandered into more populated grounds. Curiously, crowds seemed to part before the Doorman, like an unseen presence was guiding them to make space for the otherworldly being amongst them. The Drifter didn’t like it, nor did he like the way that women and men glanced towards the redhead with lust and envy when he passed. Clearly, human standards had dropped in the last several decades if the insufferable prick beside him was making people wet between the legs. As they walked along the Drifter allowed himself to fall back, just enough so that he could observe the Doorman and take in what exactly he was looking at. If the other man noticed or cared, he didn’t show it, his pace never faltering. The fabric that the other was wearing looked expensive, fine in the way that the Drifter had come to expect from someone of high status. He had a spotless coat, breeches, and boots, and layered over his torso was a tailored, carefully embroidered waistcoat, buttoned and pressed to perfection. Everything about his clothes was eerily perfect and they were unbothered by the muddy, damp streets of New Orleans. It was as though the dirt and grime refused to stick to him and the only one who seemed to notice was himself. The Drifter chanced a glance down at himself, some odd pang of self consciousness briefly flitting through his mind. It wasn’t as though he normally cared how he looked - he usually adorned clothes that he stole off of victims or from their abodes - but it was difficult to stand next to someone so spotless without drawing comparisons. His ratty, old boots splashed up damp ground, speckling the worn leather. Again he pictured the shop he had passed by and the new pair within. He grimaced, sucking on his sharp teeth and forcing himself to move on. "Whatever is going through that head of yours?” The Doorman’s voice cut through his introspection and he jerked up, hoping that the other hadn’t noticed anything amiss. It was a good thing that he did because he nearly ran into him, chest to chest. Despite the Doorman’s figure appearing slighter and being an inch or two shorter, the Drifter felt smaller than the redhead. It was like the other’s presence loomed over him even if his vessel didn’t. He realized too late that he had been quiet for too long and a thin, judgemental eyebrow was cocked in his direction. The grimace on his face deepened and, oddly enough, an entirely unexpected wave of embarrassment washed over him. It made him feel prickly, ragged and worlds apart from someone like the Doorman. He was not emotionally equipped to handle whatever was going on inside him, normally he fought bastards like the one next to him tooth and nail. He didn’t know how to coexist with a well dressed gentleman for longer than thirty seconds at the most. “Should I simply start guessing?” The Doorman asked, amusement coloring his tone. It seemed that the Drifter’s silence didn’t bother him, instead it drew him in even closer until they were nearly nose to nose. It was too intimate of a position for two men of such different classes to be seen, in the middle of the road no less. But the Doorman didn’t appear to be worried by the perception of the humans around them and he reached out to snag the hem of the Drifter’s shirt. “You seem…unbalanced. Where’s that fiery attitude of yours, hm? Cat got your tongue?” “Paws off.” The Drifter growled, backhanding the Doorman’s own hand away as subtly as possible. There were enough people watching them in the streets to make his skin crawl - large crowds and the vampire didn’t mix well. He preferred one on one time compared to the rowdy nightlife around them. The Doorman let his hand slip free only to grasp at the Drifter’s wrist next. His fingers flexed, experimentally tightening on the vampire’s limb, tightly enough to make his bones creak. “Feeling self conscious, dear?” The Doorman feigned care, a subtle layer of self satisfaction beneath. “If you wanted new clothes, all you needed to do was ask.” ”I don’-!” The words exploded out of him louder than he meant them to, enough to draw some curious glances from onlookers. He lowered his volume begrudgingly, futilely attempting to tug his wrist free. “I ain’t some charity case. I don’ need anythin’ from you. ‘Sides, last I saw you, you was as stark naked as the day you was born. You tryna tell me you jus’ happened to find some spare change?” “Indeed.” The Doorman crisply replied, refusing to release the vampire’s arm, “Money is not an issue for someone like me. All this stalling - I think you’re just scared to let someone indulge a little in you, hm? Too frightened to withstand some pampering?” He was picking a fight. The Drifter knew he was just saying things to rile him up. The problem was that even knowing this, he still felt himself responding. Being called a coward in any way set his teeth on edge, even for something as silly and mundane as clothes. He hesitated, torn between saving some dignity or tucking his tail between his legs and escaping the predicament he found himself in. In the end, pride won out, and made himself straighten and cooled his expression. “I ain’t frightened of nothin’. Lead the way, Doorman.” The smile directed his way was anything but comforting and the vampire could tell he had given the redhead exactly what he wanted. The Drifter sneered back at him, swearing under his breath once he was jerked forwards by the hold on his wrist. It was like being dragged by a train, limb fully under the other’s control and body unable to do anything but follow. He managed to gather his balance and prevent an even more humiliating show, but with the way that the Doorman led him he couldn’t help but feel like a child being reprimanded by a stern parent. The audacity of the other man made his blood lust spike hard enough that his mouth began to salivate from the desire to sink his teeth into flesh and rend it asunder. As they marched along, he was given enough time to mentally catch up to the situation. He didn’t stop trying to slip his arm free, but the Doorman’s fingers were like a bear trap and he had no doubt that dark bruises would adorn his pale skin once he was released. A put out puff of air escaped him, and he finally grit, “Where are we goin’, exactly?” ”Patience. We’re almost there.” The non-answer would’ve normally had him hissing and spitting. Instead he was relegated to grinding his teeth hard enough to feel the vibration up through his molars and into his skull. His captured hand flexed his fingers tersely, forming into a fist, then a tense claw, then back again. The Drifter so desperately wanted to sink his nails into the Doorman’s back, tear strips down through muscle, carve him up a few new holes to breathe through. He wondered if the other would even bleed and this thought conjured up the memory of thick unknown liquid burrowing deep into his guts and the weeks of vomiting attempts that followed. He shuddered, looked up, and caught the tail end of a bright eye peering at him over a well dressed shoulder. “You do that quite often, don’t you?” The Doorman slowed to a halt. “Do what?” The Drifter snapped, patience wearing thin. “Go where I cannot follow.” His wrist was released and the hand that had been previously holding it in place reached up to poke a slender index finger into his forehead. It felt a bit like a hammer being taken to his skull as gently as possible. He rocked with the feeling before rubbing at his skin, unhappily gazing down at the other. “Well, no matter. We have arrived.” The building that they were standing before was familiar, a store with a very specific pair of boots displayed in the front window. Dread made his stomach flip and he whirled on the other, hands balled into fists. “Were you followin’ me?” The Drifter demanded. The look he received in response was bland, unimpressed. “Do you really want me to answer such an obvious question?” The lack of remorse in the Doorman’s tone was infuriating, but he appeared unbothered by the irate expression on the vampire’s face. He walked around the side of the store and the Drifter couldn’t help but follow, curious despite himself. “Tell me, is anyone watching?” Far be it from the Drifter to critique the other if he was about to commit some sort of crime. He rolled his eyes and chanced a glance behind them, finding no others close enough to witness whatever was about to happen. “No.” “Wonderful!” The Doorman beamed (and really, he hadn’t yet mastered the art of smiling like a normal person. For all that his skin suit looked more believable, his smiles always held a predatory, unnatural edge to them - similar to the Drifter’s own, he wagered.) and snapped his fingers. Instantly a large, red door appeared before them both, embedded in the wall of the store. The redhead was humming to himself as he opened it to display the darkened interior of the building and, against his will, the Drifter felt the slightest bit impressed by how easily the other could get in and out. A power like that would make following victims easy, he enviously mused, he would be able to gorge himself on whoever he damn well pleased without having to follow them around until they were secluded elsewhere. The Doorman shot a glance behind him and winked at the Drifter, as though he could read his mind. In response the vampire bristled, looking not unlike a threatened street cat, wary of the positive attention that he was receiving. It only took a few steps for the Doorman to waltz into the shop, snag the shoes, and then exit. Another snap of his fingers and the door was gone like it had never been there, though the boots remained in his grasp and were, in fact, presented to the Drifter. He looked between them and the Doorman, suspicion clear as day on his face. Though his fingers itched to take them, he was seasoned enough to know that accepting any gift was a guaranteed way to fall under another’s debt. And if there was one thing he did not want, it was to owe the redhead anything. “Well?” The Doorman lightly shook the shoes in the air when the vampire made no move to take them. “Don’t tell me you want to keep wearing that pair? How many holes are in the soles, hm? How close are they to falling apart? Are you really too scared to accept help of any kind?” “N’ what happens when I take em’, huh?” The Drifter shot back, unwilling to fall for the same taunt twice. “What’re you gon’ want in return?” “You really think so little of me?” The Doorman asked, exasperated. The Drifter shot him his own unimpressed look and like magic, the frown on the redhead’s face slid into a sly smile, coy and knowing. He wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he had been caught out in a scheme, only exuding an aura of a satisfied cat pleased with the funny little trick his mouse just did. “What are you willing to give?” “S’not how it works. What’re you expectin’ as payment?” The Drifter had dealt with enough wily fae to learn that throwing out ideas for payment was always a bad response. Better to make the dealer suggest payment and then haggle it down from there. “Oh my, you have really put me on the spot.” The Doorman pouted, exaggerated enough to clue the vampire in on him being mocked. “But I suppose your company will do.” “My…company?” The Drifter slowly repeated, incredulous. “You are a difficult man to follow, Drifter. Sometimes it feels like you have a radar for my presence with the way that you skulk about in the shadows.” The Doorman demurely pulled the boots back towards himself, examining them with a critical eye. Something must not have been up to his standards because with a put upon sigh he tugged a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and began scrubbing at the stiff leather. “Not that it makes things impossible but, well, I doubt you want me seriously hunting you down.” The Doorman’s words made the hair on the back of the Drifter’s neck stand up. Seriously hunt him down? So he hadn’t been trying so far? And what did the seriousness imply? Against his will a shiver zinged up his spine, making him stand straighter. The Doorman lazily focused a knowing stare at his person, head tilted down so that he peered up at him through his lashes. There was a lump in the back of the Drifter’s throat the longer that the other man watched him, one that didn’t go away no matter how much he swallowed - and this too was an action he wanted to avoid, especially with the way that something akin to hunger crawled along the Doorman’s posture and in the dark pits of his eyes. He needed to end this moment before things got out of hand. Before - before they obviously started lunging for each other's throats and caused a bloodbath in the middle of downtown New Orleans. What else was he expecting? Nothing, nothing, nothing. “So, you wan’ me t’what…? Let’chu manhandle me n’ more alleyways?” The Drifter incredulously asked, minutely surprised by how steady his voice was. The Doorman continued to gaze at him, silent, unmoving, a veritable statue that made the air around him feel heavier each second that ticked past. It was unnerving in the way that the Drifter imagined most humans felt when they looked behind them and saw his own red eyes staring back at them, a whistle in the night air. He didn’t like the feeling. The mark inside his stomach felt like it was burning up and he had the oddest urge to squirm in place. He didn’t, of course, he was much too old to display nervous tics. “Manhandling, hm…no, I suppose that isn’t on the table quite yet.” The Doorman finally spoke and the Drifter’s expression scrunched into one of confusion. He talked like he was expecting them to fight each other in the future which, admittedly, was a nice thought. What he wouldn’t give to take a chunk out of the redhead’s throat, freakish biology be damned. “So I suppose simply answering my call will have to do.” “Y’mean t’doors? You wan’ me t’stop n’ chit-chat wit’ you whenever you get bored?” The Drifter drawled, not bothering to hide how disdainful his tone was. “You t’ink dat’s how I wanna spend my life, prioritizin’ your needs?” The Doorman evenly stared at him, quiet in the way that a snake was before striking. A smile slithered across his maw, a warning sign. “You will answer eighty percent of the time.” “Forty.” The Drifter snorted, astonished that he was even debating this. “Seventy.” “T’irty.” “My dear I am trying to be patient with you, but bartering simply doesn’t work like this.” The Doorman’s smile grew some teeth. “Sixty.” With a put upon sigh, the Drifter responded, “Fifty.” “Fifty five, final offer.” The pair of boots was held up before the vampire and the Drifter realized with absolute clarity that they weren’t haggling over the price of some shoes. No, this was a test to see how far the so-called deity could push him before he lost his temper and snapped at him, how long it would take before potential discipline would be required. “Take it or leave it.” A hand in his hair, fingers tangled down to the roots. A hot tongue plunging deeper and deeper, carving a path into a part of him that no one had ever reached before. Thick, cloying liquid gushing into the pit of his belly, staining him permanently. Strong arms holding him up effortlessly, blinding light burning him alive. The Drifter’s teeth itched to bite into something. “…Deal.” He grit out. “Perfect! See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The Doorman brightly replied, practically shoving the boots into the Drifter’s chest. They hit his sternum firmly enough to knock the air out of him, making him lean over slightly as he scrambled to keep them from falling to the floor. A hand lightly cupped his cheek as he began to straighten and he froze, eyes flicking up. The expression on the Doorman’s face was one he could guess but didn’t want to. Not now, not here. Not with memories freshly romping through his mind’s eye. He squeezed the boots tighter to his chest before snapping at the other’s limb without warning, barely missing. His teeth closed on air as the Doorman maneuvered his hand away in a split second and the redhead let out a delighted sounding chuckle.The Drifter’s body language must have been screaming how worn thin he was feeling by the interaction though because the Doorman, surprisingly, took pity on him. He clicked his tongue like a disappointed school marm and straightened his cuffs authoritatively as another door appeared next to him, this one on the opposite building. “I believe our time is up. As much as I’d love to continue this conversation of ours, there is simply too much to do.” He reached out, opening the door a crack. “Remember, fifty five percent.” “Go’on, git.” The Drifter retorted, lips pressed into a thin, unamused line. The last thing he heard was tinkling laughter that turned heavier, deeper, haunting as the Doorman stepped through his doorway, shutting it behind him. A blip later and it was gone, a smooth, dirty wall in its place. The relief that followed was palpable and the Drifter sagged against this wall, panting into the night sky. It was like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, like something large had finally stopped pressing down on him to hold him in place. He wiped at his brow angrily, mopping up trails of sweat that had trickled down the sides of his face and the back of his neck. A part of him wanted to rip the boots to shreds, to toss them down the alleyway and never look back. Unfortunately, the Drifter was a practical man, and after a moment of hesitation he bit back a curse and yanked one of his ratty shoes off, grumpily tugging a new one on. His frustration only grew as he stomped the shoe into place, testing its give and how firm the sole was. “Goddammit.” He snarled to himself, and this time he did throw his run down shoe to the floor, kicking it into the wall. The boot fit perfectly.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75627026/chapters/197773711	{"authors": ["impassiveimp"], "language": "English", "title": "The God of So & So and Somewhere"}
"don't ever leave me" bakugo katsuki x reader/fem! Training was supposed to be simple. A controlled rescue simulation.A fake villain.Nothing real. Nothing dangerous.At least, that’s what Aizawa had said. But halfway through the exercise, something malfunctioned in the system. The “controlled” explosions became real ones. The building models weren’t supposed to collapse — but the structure groaned, cracked, and suddenly everything was dust and chaos. You had been paired with Kirishima and Bakugo, working through the south wing. Bakugo was yelling orders — as usual — but this time, you could hear the edge in his voice. The kind that only came when things were actually going wrong. “Stay behind me,” he said, blasting debris out of the way. “If anything drops, you dodge. Got it?”You rolled your eyes. “I’m not helpless, Katsuki.”“Yeah? Well I’m not carrying your crispy body out, so LISTEN.”You were about to argue when the ceiling above you groaned — loud, wrong, dangerous.“Katsuki—!” The floor shook beneath your feet. Kirishima shouted, “MOVE!”Bakugo grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the exit. You ran, heart pounding — but the hallway gave one final, violent shudder, and the entire upper level caved in. You felt yourself shoved hard. Bakugo’s voice echoed:“GET OUT OF THE WAY Y/N—!”Then everything went dark.Concrete slammed beside you. Dust filled your lungs. You tried to call out — but the world was muffled like you were underwater. And then it hit you.You were pinned.You were alone.You spluttered up blood and groaned, what the fuck was Aizawa thinking?And you didn’t know if katsuki was okay.You grunt as you slowly wiggled through the debris, grunting and whining as cement scraped you Smoke hung thick in the air, stinging your eyes, making every breath burn. You were stuck beneath a collapsed section of wall — not crushed, but trapped, bleeding, exhausted.then you heard it.You heard footsteps pounding over the broken concrete. “KATSUKI?” you croaked.No response.Your heart twisted painfully and your gut wrenched.was he dead?Then— “Y/N!”Bakugo’s voice. Raw. Jagged with panic. He sprinted into view, eyes wide with something you’d never seen on him: Terror.“Why the hell didn’t you answer me sooner?!” he barked, dropping to his knees, hands trembling as he grabbed at the rubble. “I—I tried,” you whispered. “You didn’t hear.” “Of course I didn’t!” he snapped, voice cracking. “Everything exploded— I thought—”He cut himself off, jaw clenched. He looked furious. But not at you. At himself. “Katsuki, I’m okay—” “NO. You’re not.”His voice broke. “You’re bleeding. You’re stuck. And I— I couldn’t find you.” He ripped a slab of concrete away with a blast, panting hard. “Katsuki… you’re shaking.” “No I’m not.” He was. You reached up and touched his wrist. “Hey. I’m right here.”Bakugo froze, staring at your hand like it was the only thing in the world keeping him grounded. “…Don’t scare me like that again,” he whispered. “I thought you were— I thought I lost you.” He cleared the last rubble and pulled you into his arms, lifting you carefully — way more gently than he ever acted.You winced and grabbed his shirt. “You better not,” he whispered. “because id kill you myself" he grunts.	"don't ever leave me" bakugo katsuki x reader/fem! Training was supposed to be simple. A controlled rescue simulation.A fake villain.Nothing real. Nothing dangerous.At least, that’s what Aizawa had said. But halfway through the exercise, something malfunctioned in the system. The “controlled” explosions became real ones. The building models weren’t supposed to collapse — but the structure groaned, cracked, and suddenly everything was dust and chaos. You had been paired with Kirishima and Bakugo, working through the south wing. Bakugo was yelling orders — as usual — but this time, you could hear the edge in his voice. The kind that only came when things were actually going wrong. “Stay behind me,” he said, blasting debris out of the way. “If anything drops, you dodge. Got it?”You rolled your eyes. “I’m not helpless, Katsuki.”“Yeah? Well I’m not carrying your crispy body out, so LISTEN.”You were about to argue when the ceiling above you groaned — loud, wrong, dangerous.“Katsuki—!” The floor shook beneath your feet. Kirishima shouted, “MOVE!”Bakugo grabbed your arm, pulling you toward the exit. You ran, heart pounding — but the hallway gave one final, violent shudder, and the entire upper level caved in. You felt yourself shoved hard. Bakugo’s voice echoed:“GET OUT OF THE WAY Y/N—!”Then everything went dark.Concrete slammed beside you. Dust filled your lungs. You tried to call out — but the world was muffled like you were underwater. And then it hit you.You were pinned.You were alone.You spluttered up blood and groaned, what the fuck was Aizawa thinking?And you didn’t know if katsuki was okay.You grunt as you slowly wiggled through the debris, grunting and whining as cement scraped you Smoke hung thick in the air, stinging your eyes, making every breath burn. You were stuck beneath a collapsed section of wall — not crushed, but trapped, bleeding, exhausted.then you heard it.You heard footsteps pounding over the broken concrete. “KATSUKI?” you croaked.No response.Your heart twisted painfully and your gut wrenched.was he dead?Then— “Y/N!”Bakugo’s voice. Raw. Jagged with panic. He sprinted into view, eyes wide with something you’d never seen on him: Terror.“Why the hell didn’t you answer me sooner?!” he barked, dropping to his knees, hands trembling as he grabbed at the rubble. “I—I tried,” you whispered. “You didn’t hear.” “Of course I didn’t!” he snapped, voice cracking. “Everything exploded— I thought—”He cut himself off, jaw clenched. He looked furious. But not at you. At himself. “Katsuki, I’m okay—” “NO. You’re not.”His voice broke. “You’re bleeding. You’re stuck. And I— I couldn’t find you.” He ripped a slab of concrete away with a blast, panting hard. “Katsuki… you’re shaking.” “No I’m not.” He was. You reached up and touched his wrist. “Hey. I’m right here.”Bakugo froze, staring at your hand like it was the only thing in the world keeping him grounded. “…Don’t scare me like that again,” he whispered. “I thought you were— I thought I lost you.” He cleared the last rubble and pulled you into his arms, lifting you carefully — way more gently than he ever acted.You winced and grabbed his shirt. “You better not,” he whispered. “because id kill you myself" he grunts.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622841?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Fleaivy"], "language": "English", "title": "\"don't ever leave me\" bakugo katsuki x reader/fem!"}
Who’s There? Maria and Angela, inseparable twins, both share an aversion to people, preferring the peace and quiet of their own company. Maria, with her love for hiking and exploring the outdoors, has always dreamed of spending time alone in the remote Appalachian mountains. Angela, on the other hand, is drawn to the supernatural. In particular, the strange and eerie stories she’s heard about the hills, tales of hauntings, and mysterious people who disappear without a trace. For Angela, the trip is a way to satisfy her curiosity about the legends she's always wanted to investigate. Even though she’s a bit superstitious, she reluctantly agrees to join Maria on the two-day journey into the wilderness. As they drive deeper into the mountains, the mood in the car shifts from the mundane chatter of city life to a discussion about the myths and supernatural phenomena said to haunt these hills. Angela is full of stories: tales of ghostly apparitions, strange lights in the trees, and isolated hermits who speak of "things" that roam the forests at night. As Maria listens to Angela, she’s half-amused and half-unsettled, but brushes it off as mere superstition. After all, she’s here for the hike, not ghost stories. When they finally arrive at the cabin, the sun has long set, and the landscape around them is cloaked in darkness. The old, dirty cabin looks eerie in the fading light. Its wooden walls seem to creak and groan with age, and the faint smell of old people fills the air. Quickly, they unload the car, eager to get inside and out of the chilling mountain air. As they make their way toward the door, Maria hears something rustling in the trees nearby—a faint whispering sound, like footsteps. She dismisses it as wind or animals, but Angela’s eyes narrow with interest. Once inside, the sense of isolation grows, and the cabin’s silence feels unnervingly loud. They begin to unpack, Maria excited to hit the trails the next day, while Angela nervously checks the corners of the room, her imagination already running wild. The night feels strangely alive, as though the cabin is watching them. As they finish setting up, a thudding noise emerges from outside—slow, deliberate thumps, like something heavy dragging itself along the ground. Both women freeze. Angela is the first to act, grabbing Maria’s arm and whispering, “Did you hear that?” Maria, already on edge, nods. The noise moves around the cabin, and they realize that the front door has been left unlocked. Panic sets in as they scramble to lock the door, their hands trembling. The door handle jiggles violently just as they manage to secure it, the unmistakable sound of something trying to force its way in. They rush to check all the windows, locking them shut, and pulling the curtains closed, but the unsettling feeling of being watched lingers. As they huddle in the dimly lit living room, unable to sleep, the night stretches on, each minute feeling like an eternity. By morning, their nerves are frayed, exhausted but determined to push through, they set out for the hike. The forest is dense, the air thick with the scent of the trees and earth. Despite the beauty around them, an unsettling feeling gnaws at their stomachs. They can’t shake the sensation that someone—or something—is watching them. The trees seem to move in strange ways, and they catch glimpses of figures darting behind the foliage. Each time they turn their heads to get a better look, the figures vanish. As dusk begins to settle in, they realize it’s time to head back. The hike has taken longer than they thought, and the mountain trails are growing dark. As they return to the cabin, feeling the oppressive weight of the forest close in around them. As they pull into the driveway, they hear more noises coming from the woods, the unsettling thumps and distant whispers growing louder. Maria hesitates, her instincts telling her to turn back, but Angela insists they get inside before it gets too dark out. Just as they reach the door, something emerges from the forest. A towering figure, unnervingly white, stands at the edge of the tree line. Its suit is pristine, its tall, slender frame impossibly perfect. Behind it, black tentacles move in the air like serpents, twisting and floating as if alive. Maria freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She feels as if the world has stopped around her. Angela, gripped by terror but acting fast, pulls Maria inside and slams the door shut. They retreat to the bedroom, shaking with fear. Angela’s laughter breaks the tension, though it’s more out of nervousness than humor. “We’re probably going to die out here, you know?” she laughs out, though the fear in her voice is unmistakable. Maria joins in, her forced laughter hiding her terror. But the sound of the door splintering against something heavy silences them both. The footsteps—slow and deliberate—return, only now there is something else: the sound of rapid, light footsteps, like a shadow chasing after the heavy ones.	Who’s There? Maria and Angela, inseparable twins, both share an aversion to people, preferring the peace and quiet of their own company. Maria, with her love for hiking and exploring the outdoors, has always dreamed of spending time alone in the remote Appalachian mountains. Angela, on the other hand, is drawn to the supernatural. In particular, the strange and eerie stories she’s heard about the hills, tales of hauntings, and mysterious people who disappear without a trace. For Angela, the trip is a way to satisfy her curiosity about the legends she's always wanted to investigate. Even though she’s a bit superstitious, she reluctantly agrees to join Maria on the two-day journey into the wilderness. As they drive deeper into the mountains, the mood in the car shifts from the mundane chatter of city life to a discussion about the myths and supernatural phenomena said to haunt these hills. Angela is full of stories: tales of ghostly apparitions, strange lights in the trees, and isolated hermits who speak of "things" that roam the forests at night. As Maria listens to Angela, she’s half-amused and half-unsettled, but brushes it off as mere superstition. After all, she’s here for the hike, not ghost stories. When they finally arrive at the cabin, the sun has long set, and the landscape around them is cloaked in darkness. The old, dirty cabin looks eerie in the fading light. Its wooden walls seem to creak and groan with age, and the faint smell of old people fills the air. Quickly, they unload the car, eager to get inside and out of the chilling mountain air. As they make their way toward the door, Maria hears something rustling in the trees nearby—a faint whispering sound, like footsteps. She dismisses it as wind or animals, but Angela’s eyes narrow with interest. Once inside, the sense of isolation grows, and the cabin’s silence feels unnervingly loud. They begin to unpack, Maria excited to hit the trails the next day, while Angela nervously checks the corners of the room, her imagination already running wild. The night feels strangely alive, as though the cabin is watching them. As they finish setting up, a thudding noise emerges from outside—slow, deliberate thumps, like something heavy dragging itself along the ground. Both women freeze. Angela is the first to act, grabbing Maria’s arm and whispering, “Did you hear that?” Maria, already on edge, nods. The noise moves around the cabin, and they realize that the front door has been left unlocked. Panic sets in as they scramble to lock the door, their hands trembling. The door handle jiggles violently just as they manage to secure it, the unmistakable sound of something trying to force its way in. They rush to check all the windows, locking them shut, and pulling the curtains closed, but the unsettling feeling of being watched lingers. As they huddle in the dimly lit living room, unable to sleep, the night stretches on, each minute feeling like an eternity. By morning, their nerves are frayed, exhausted but determined to push through, they set out for the hike. The forest is dense, the air thick with the scent of the trees and earth. Despite the beauty around them, an unsettling feeling gnaws at their stomachs. They can’t shake the sensation that someone—or something—is watching them. The trees seem to move in strange ways, and they catch glimpses of figures darting behind the foliage. Each time they turn their heads to get a better look, the figures vanish. As dusk begins to settle in, they realize it’s time to head back. The hike has taken longer than they thought, and the mountain trails are growing dark. As they return to the cabin, feeling the oppressive weight of the forest close in around them. As they pull into the driveway, they hear more noises coming from the woods, the unsettling thumps and distant whispers growing louder. Maria hesitates, her instincts telling her to turn back, but Angela insists they get inside before it gets too dark out. Just as they reach the door, something emerges from the forest. A towering figure, unnervingly white, stands at the edge of the tree line. Its suit is pristine, its tall, slender frame impossibly perfect. Behind it, black tentacles move in the air like serpents, twisting and floating as if alive. Maria freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She feels as if the world has stopped around her. Angela, gripped by terror but acting fast, pulls Maria inside and slams the door shut. They retreat to the bedroom, shaking with fear. Angela’s laughter breaks the tension, though it’s more out of nervousness than humor. “We’re probably going to die out here, you know?” she laughs out, though the fear in her voice is unmistakable. Maria joins in, her forced laughter hiding her terror. But the sound of the door splintering against something heavy silences them both. The footsteps—slow and deliberate—return, only now there is something else: the sound of rapid, light footsteps, like a shadow chasing after the heavy ones. The tension in the room thickens as the sisters crawl into the closet, trying to control their breathing. Through the cracks in the closet door, they see the door creak open. A little girl enters the cabin, her hair matted with blood, a pink nightgown torn and stained. She clutches a stuffed bear to her chest, her vacant eyes staring forward, not at them, but into some void beyond. The girl doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, she just stands there. Time feels like it stretches and bends, each second dragging on into infinity. The sisters remain motionless, watching, waiting for something—anything—to happen. But nothing does. For what feels like hours, but is only a few minutes, the girl stands in the doorway, unmoving, as the house groans and shifts around them. Angela whispers that they need to leave, that they can’t stay here any longer. They slowly open the closet and get out but before they can move further, the girl turns her head slowly, her eyes locking onto theirs. A creepy smile curls on her lips. “Do you want to play with me?” she asks, her voice soft and sing-song. Before they can respond, the sound of something slicing through the air fills the room, and Maria’s head is gone from her body in one swift, brutal motion. Angela screams in horror, the sound echoing through the cabin, but she doesn’t have time to process what’s happening before another hatchet, thrown with uncanny precision, embeds itself into her skull. She stumbles forward, collapsing onto the floor, her final breath rasping through her throat as she dies. The forest falls silent. The creatures, the figures, everything that haunted them leaves. The little girl giggles as the one holding the hatchet’s walks out. The tall figure leads them out of the cabin and they go back into the forest to play with the others.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622846	{"authors": ["hackedthisperon"], "language": "English", "title": "Who’s There?"}
Some Jazz and a Couple Fingers of Rye Lucifer ran his fingers through messy hair, trying and failing to scrape it back into some sort of acceptable style. Evidently, his hair wasn’t going to get the memo, so he simply snapped it into rollers and exited his room with a bounce in his step. The path he walked was like second nature to him now. Since the whole being-kidnapped-by-the-same-insane-overlord situation a couple of months ago, the angel had found himself growing strangely close to the infuriating and fascinating radio demon; and after a week of awkward living room conversations, Alastor had started inviting Lucifer to his room for a glass of rye and conversation… which, he could admit, mostly consisted of lighthearted bickering and bitching about various sinners. But after a while, he’d found himself opening up, and to his utter shock, Alastor had started to do the same. Only glimmers of insight here are there, but still. They got on rather well when they weren’t at each other’s throats, and it had become a pleasant nightly routine that the two of them settled into quickly. So the path to Alastor’s room was drilled into the fallen angel now, and he couldn’t help the fizzle of excitement in his gut as he fiddled with the soft sleeves of his oversized jumper. The invite had come quite a lot later than usual (their activities were usually early evening into the night, but from the way the moon shone in the crimson sky it must’ve been at least midnight), but Lucifer supposed Alastor must have been off doing… well, whatever cannibalistic overlords did when duty called. All that aside, he was simply happy the invite had come at all. Only because he enjoyed their petty squabbling. For no other reason. None at all. Lucifer knocked softly on the door and waited. He didn’t wait long before it slid open with a creak, but instead of being met with the grinning demon, he was met with what looked like an empty room. Some old jazz was playing from the radio on the mantle, as it always was, but Alastor was nowhere to be see- “Ah, there you are, friend! Come in.” An unusually unfiltered voice came from inside, and Lucifer stepped forward to see the sinner lounging on his sofa, which he’d moved further into the bayou that covered most of his room. A glass of rye swung loosely from his grasp, and his head was tilted back towards the ceiling. “Don’t mind if I do,” Lucifer retorted, shutting the door behind him and snapping a glass of apple liquor into his own hand, crossing the landing and settling himself into the opposite corner of the sofa. “I don’t know how you drink that vile concoction,” Alastor drawled, and Lucifer noted with a raised eyebrow that his movements were a lot clumsier than usual. “You should sample some real quality alcohol, dear. It’d do you some good to drink something other than apple-flavoured nonsense.” He held out his glass, and Lucifer wrinkled his nose. “Nothing wrong with having a signature flavour!” He took the glass anyway, taking a small sip and immediately coughing. “Al, buddy, what the fuck is that. Why is it spicy?” Alastor laughed loudly, and Lucifer barely hid the blush on his rosy cheeks - it was a real belly laugh, and he couldn’t help but join in. “That, my dear fellow, is what a spirit should taste like.” “Sure. Whatever you say, bambi. I just tend to prefer booze that isn’t gonna burn me from the inside out.” He handed the glass back. Alastor took it with trembling hands. Trembling? “Apologies for my lateness this evening, Majesty, I know it’s quite unbecoming to make a monarch such as yourself wait.” The sinner finished the glass in a single swig and immediately refilled it, turning his body towards the angel and tucking his legs beneath him. “Nah, don’t apologise. Not like I have much else to attend to.” Alastor smiled. Lucifer smiled back, but he was hit with an overwhelming sense of wrongness. Alastor’s hands were still shaking minutely where he held onto his drink, and he was far more casually dressed than he preferred to be for their conversations, ditching the usual pinup suit for a comfortable looking shirt and pyjama-style bottoms in his preferred red. Aside from his ever-present grin, his eyes looked clouded, and even the lack of radio filter shrouding his voice set off alarm bells. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to solve a rather difficult puzzle, Lucifer. What is it?” Alastor dipped closer to look the angel in the eyes, and as he spoke, Lucifer caught the smell of- Yeah, that was booze. And not just one-glass-booze. That was an afternoon-of-heavy-drinking kind of smell. He wasn’t… he couldn’t be… right? “Alastor…” “Yes?” Alastor’s demeanour suddenly took a turn for the anxious, and one hand lifted from his glass to run down his forearm. A nervous tell. “I don’t wanna piss you off here, but… are you drunk?” “Oh, you noticed! Observant tonight, aren’t we?” His mocking tone lacked its recognisable bite. “I would say so.” That frightened Lucifer even more.	Some Jazz and a Couple Fingers of Rye Lucifer ran his fingers through messy hair, trying and failing to scrape it back into some sort of acceptable style. Evidently, his hair wasn’t going to get the memo, so he simply snapped it into rollers and exited his room with a bounce in his step. The path he walked was like second nature to him now. Since the whole being-kidnapped-by-the-same-insane-overlord situation a couple of months ago, the angel had found himself growing strangely close to the infuriating and fascinating radio demon; and after a week of awkward living room conversations, Alastor had started inviting Lucifer to his room for a glass of rye and conversation… which, he could admit, mostly consisted of lighthearted bickering and bitching about various sinners. But after a while, he’d found himself opening up, and to his utter shock, Alastor had started to do the same. Only glimmers of insight here are there, but still. They got on rather well when they weren’t at each other’s throats, and it had become a pleasant nightly routine that the two of them settled into quickly. So the path to Alastor’s room was drilled into the fallen angel now, and he couldn’t help the fizzle of excitement in his gut as he fiddled with the soft sleeves of his oversized jumper. The invite had come quite a lot later than usual (their activities were usually early evening into the night, but from the way the moon shone in the crimson sky it must’ve been at least midnight), but Lucifer supposed Alastor must have been off doing… well, whatever cannibalistic overlords did when duty called. All that aside, he was simply happy the invite had come at all. Only because he enjoyed their petty squabbling. For no other reason. None at all. Lucifer knocked softly on the door and waited. He didn’t wait long before it slid open with a creak, but instead of being met with the grinning demon, he was met with what looked like an empty room. Some old jazz was playing from the radio on the mantle, as it always was, but Alastor was nowhere to be see- “Ah, there you are, friend! Come in.” An unusually unfiltered voice came from inside, and Lucifer stepped forward to see the sinner lounging on his sofa, which he’d moved further into the bayou that covered most of his room. A glass of rye swung loosely from his grasp, and his head was tilted back towards the ceiling. “Don’t mind if I do,” Lucifer retorted, shutting the door behind him and snapping a glass of apple liquor into his own hand, crossing the landing and settling himself into the opposite corner of the sofa. “I don’t know how you drink that vile concoction,” Alastor drawled, and Lucifer noted with a raised eyebrow that his movements were a lot clumsier than usual. “You should sample some real quality alcohol, dear. It’d do you some good to drink something other than apple-flavoured nonsense.” He held out his glass, and Lucifer wrinkled his nose. “Nothing wrong with having a signature flavour!” He took the glass anyway, taking a small sip and immediately coughing. “Al, buddy, what the fuck is that. Why is it spicy?” Alastor laughed loudly, and Lucifer barely hid the blush on his rosy cheeks - it was a real belly laugh, and he couldn’t help but join in. “That, my dear fellow, is what a spirit should taste like.” “Sure. Whatever you say, bambi. I just tend to prefer booze that isn’t gonna burn me from the inside out.” He handed the glass back. Alastor took it with trembling hands. Trembling? “Apologies for my lateness this evening, Majesty, I know it’s quite unbecoming to make a monarch such as yourself wait.” The sinner finished the glass in a single swig and immediately refilled it, turning his body towards the angel and tucking his legs beneath him. “Nah, don’t apologise. Not like I have much else to attend to.” Alastor smiled. Lucifer smiled back, but he was hit with an overwhelming sense of wrongness. Alastor’s hands were still shaking minutely where he held onto his drink, and he was far more casually dressed than he preferred to be for their conversations, ditching the usual pinup suit for a comfortable looking shirt and pyjama-style bottoms in his preferred red. Aside from his ever-present grin, his eyes looked clouded, and even the lack of radio filter shrouding his voice set off alarm bells. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to solve a rather difficult puzzle, Lucifer. What is it?” Alastor dipped closer to look the angel in the eyes, and as he spoke, Lucifer caught the smell of- Yeah, that was booze. And not just one-glass-booze. That was an afternoon-of-heavy-drinking kind of smell. He wasn’t… he couldn’t be… right? “Alastor…” “Yes?” Alastor’s demeanour suddenly took a turn for the anxious, and one hand lifted from his glass to run down his forearm. A nervous tell. “I don’t wanna piss you off here, but… are you drunk?” “Oh, you noticed! Observant tonight, aren’t we?” His mocking tone lacked its recognisable bite. “I would say so.” That frightened Lucifer even more. Alastor, openly admitting weakness, admitting he was inebriated? Something was wrong. But if he’d been drinking long enough to be this drunk, then he couldn’t have left his room for a good while, meaning nothing could’ve upset him or pissed him off today, at least. But that didn’t negate the nausea that churned in Lucifer’s guy at the sight of the demon coming apart quietly. He watched as Alastor drained another glass, but caught his wrist before he could refill it again. And then Alastor let out an almighty screech of radio static. Lucifer whipped his hand away like he’d been burned. “Shit, Al, I’m sorry- I forgot the whole no touching thing, I’m sorry,” he apologised, moving his hands to his lap. Alastor shook his head at that, frantically. “No, it’s not… I mean to say, I have no- I don’t mean… Fuck!” A split second, and his glass was shattered against the wall, thrown with such force that Lucifer nearly jumped out of his skin. Liquid dripped sluggishly down the wall, and Alastor’s face fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- That was brutish of me, I apologise, dear, there was no need…” His voice had taken on a staticky whine, and Lucifer watched, devastated, as the sinner panicked. “Don’t go. Don’t leave.” “Alastor,” Lucifer soothed, holding out a hand but not touching. “Buddy. I’m not going anywhere. You’re gonna have to throw something a lot heavier than a glass of whiskey if you want me gone, trust me.” That seemed to calm the radio demon down a little, but he was still shivering all over. Lucifer was at a loss. Normally, if this was anyone but Alastor, he’d go into full on ‘dad comfort’ mode. But this was Alastor, and prior to tonight, Lucifer genuinely believed Alastor would disembowel him with a freaky tentacle if he ever tried to provide some sort of comfort. And yet, here he was, drunk and clearly scared and asking Lucifer not to go. Asking him to stay. Alastor heaved an unsteady breath, and Lucifer waited. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed,” he began, voice quiet and still stripped bare of static, “I forwent sending your usual evening invite because I was… well, I was drunk, and rather ashamed. I hadn’t planned to see you at all tonight, if I’m honest.” The angel nodded. That made sense; Alastor was incredibly private, and even though he knew the sinner better than any other at the hotel, he was still in the dark around eighty percent of the time when it came to Alastor. But then why invite him now? “But I- I found I missed you. I wanted… I needed to see you.” Alastor scrubbed angry fists over his eyes, and for once, Lucifer saw the smile falter slightly. He looked exhausted. “Bambi, talk to me,” he begged. “I’m here now, aren’t I? You’re seeing me, clear as day. Talk to me.” The deer nodded. “I fear I’ve left myself no other choice, by bringing you here and acting in such an inexcusable manner. But I warn you, if this conversation leaves these walls…” “Don’t insult me by thinking you have to threaten me to keep this quiet,” Lucifer retorted immediately, his tone serious. “We know each other better than that. You know me better than that.” “…Quite right,” Alastor hummed, and the corner of his mouth quirked up a little. He shuffled in his seat, fiddling with the seam of his shirt. “So…” “We’ve spoken at length about our respective time spent under the custody of that boorish television screen, yes?” This was about Vox? “Yeah, we have. Prick deserves the iPad life he’s gonna live out. Fuck that guy.” Alastor chuckled. “Quite. You know I was his willing captive for almost a week, and you know the creature has had an unrequited obsession with me since I rejected him some decades ago.” Lucifer nodded - he knew that too. That had been one of the first things they’d discussed when they started bonding over their shared hatred for Vox, and Alastor had delighted in retelling the story and revelling in remembering the television’s devastation and embarrassment. Alastor paused. He bit down on his lip, and jolted up, summoning his staff to hold as he paced. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid- I need something to occupy my hands.” “Don’t apologise, it’s all coolio by me,” Lucifer reassured. “Thank you, dear. See, Vox kept me at his side, every second on every hour. And Vox, he… well, he has a certain proclivity for…” Alastor shot a desperate look at the angel, and Lucifer knew what he was asking for. He flicked a finger, and a filled tumbler of rye appeared in Alastor’s hand. “You get one more. I’m not playing daddy if you end up vomiting it all up later.” It was gone in a single swig, and the demon barely winced as it went down. He looked like he was trying to steel himself for something, trying to either talk himself into it or out of it. He spoke. “Vox has a tendency to… touch.” And suddenly, everything fell into place. Alastor’s insistence that they always sat on opposite sides of furniture. His reluctance to speak about the reality of his captivity beyond goading the overlord and claiming complete intellectual superiority. His desperation for and utter fear of any sort of contact. Lucifer wanted to burn Vox, scorching hellfire and heavenly wrath, just to raise him up and burn him down again. But it would never be enough. It wouldn’t fix… this. “You needn’t look so angry, Majesty, my virtue is still intact,” Alastor laughed mirthlessly, and Lucifer did not join him. “There was no indecency. But I find myself- I can still-” Alastor grit his teeth and growled in frustration. His teeth gnashed as he tried to find the right words, and he could’ve worn a hole through the floor with how quickly he was pacing. “Alastor, I-” “I can still feel him.” Oh god. Oh fuck. “I can still feel him, Lucifer, and it’s all… It’s all I can feel. His hands, his claws, like- like I never left, like he’s still here, still on me, and I can’t- I can’t stand it any longer!” He whipped around to face Lucifer, who was now stood too, his heart fit to shatter in his chest. His hands tugged at frizzing hair. To think the demon had been living like this for months. No one to turn to, no one to confide in - until now. “Alastor…” “I don’t know what to do, dear, I can’t- It doesn’t go away. And I needed you here, needed you despite being so dreadfully embarrassed, because it doesn’t go away. Not ever. Not ever, ever!” Alastor stumbled, fell to his knees, the booze and the panic creating a deadly cocktail of instability. Lucifer fell with him, joining him out the ground, aching to heal the wound he couldn’t see but needed to soothe. “Tell me what you need, bambi. Anything. Anything at all.” Hands shot out to grab his own, and Lucifer squeezed back just as tightly. “I don’t know how to- All I know is his hands. I want you to fix it. I want you to touch me. I don’t… I don’t want to feel his touch anymore, I can’t, so just- give me yours. I trust you. You won’t… Please. Make me feel your hands instead.” Alastor shook. “Fix it. Fix me. Please.” And how could Lucifer refuse? He gathered the trembling sinner into his arms, and the reaction was instantaneous. Alastor bucked, whining, all at once pulling away and pushing closer into the touch. Little bleating sounds came from deep within his throat, and Lucifer bit back his tears. He kept a tight hold, running his hands over Alastor’s back, his neck, his arms, his chest. Wary of sensitive spots, staying strictly above the waist, but touching. Just touching. “That’s it. You can feel me, Alastor, just me. Do you feel that?” Alastor sobbed out a breath, nuzzling into the fallen angel’s neck like a baby deer. “Yes,” he barked out in a wheezing cry. “Yes, please, more-” “Shhh, I know, it’s okay,” Lucifer soothed. A snap of his fingers and the pair of them were on Alastor’s bed. Alastor wasted no time in bundling himself against the king. They were a mess of shaking limbs, but Lucifer managed to arrange them so he was leaning against the headboard and Alastor was leaning on top of him. “More, right? Tell me what you need, sweetheart, show me more.” It was a testament to how distressed he was that Alastor followed the orders without another thought. He tugged at Lucifer’s shirt, and then his own- And then the pair were shirtless. Lucifer doubted that Alastor had even consciously intended to disappear both of their shirts using his magic, but it was abundantly clear that this was what he meant by more. It made perfect sense. Skin to skin contact. Wash away the hands that were unwanted. Smother them with hands that were. His hands raked over every inch of Alastor’s back, his arms, focusing on the areas that were drawing the most response from the sinner in his arms. There was still such a panicked feeling to his movements, but at least they’d found a solution - and as Alastor clawed at Lucifer hard enough to draw golden ichor from underneath his skin, he couldn’t find it in him to feel even slightly unsure about what was happening between the pair of them. He loved Alastor. Plain and simple. “You’re doing so good, Al, so good,” he hummed. “Where do you need me? I’m here, I won’t go. Where?” Alastor pressed one of Lucifer’s hands against his waist, and brought the other with great difficulty to his hair. He nearly shot through the roof at the feel of Lucifer’s claws in his scalp, but the immediate after-reaction showed the angel that he needed that most of all. He tilted his head up into the touch and keened. “There? Is that it, sweetheart, is that what you need?” Alastor nodded, tilting his head further and further into Lucifer’s hand until he hit… “Your ears,” Lucifer gasped. “He- Alastor, he didn’t-” His sentence was cut off with a shock of radio static and he quickly got the message, stroking over delicate fur and leaving no inch untouched. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk, it’s alright. I’ve got you - yeah, that’s right, I’ve got you. My hands, Alastor. Just mine.” “Yours.” Came the trembling reply. Unsure. “Mine,” Lucifer repeated. “Just my hands, bambi. You move me if you need to, okay? You’re in control.” Alastor nodded. “Don’t stop.” “Not until you ask. Never, unless you ask.” They might’ve been sitting there for an eternity before Alastor’s movements lost their frantic edge and took on a calmer feel. Lucifer’s hands were still wandering, and he muttered soothing nonsense every now and again, to keep the sinner present and out of his head. He’d come to rest with his head tucked under Lucifer’s chin, rising and falling with his every breath, grounding himself with the sensation. There wasn’t quite peace between them, but the king had to admit, Alastor seemed far calmer than he had during their earlier conversation. Alastor chirped quietly, and Lucifer was alert, hands picking up their pace once more. “I’m still here, duckling, you’re still with me. How are you feeling?” “I feel- I feel you.” Lucifer smiled at that, thumbing the base of Alastor’s ears. “That’s good. That’s all there is. Just you and me.” A moment of silence, and then a quiet voice. “I apologise, this was rather inappropriate of me to bring you here for this without even asking-” “None of that. You have nothing to apologise for, do you understand? I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to be.” He traced silly patterns over Alastor’s fur and watches as he shivered. “Are you feeling any better?” “Somewhat,” came the small reply. “Sobriety has returned to me, unfortunately. And he’s… he’s gone, for now, at least.” He shrugged in Lucifer’s hold. “This helps. More than I thought it would.” “I’m glad.” Lucifer tried to ignore the way his heart sang at the stuttered confession. “Can I ask… what made you think of me? When you- when you realised this was what you needed.” Silence passed between them, and Lucifer wondered briefly if he’d fucked up; if Alastor was going to be brought back from this dreamy non-reality they’d slipped into by the question, if he would order him away with a stern tone and pretend like none of this ever happened. It was likely. Alastor was not one for entanglement, not when he was paranoid of it being used against him. But maybe tonight was different. “I can’t explain. Not- not tonight,” Alastor admitted. “It’s too much. But I…” And before he could consider Alastor’s words, Lucifer felt the gentlest press of lips against his own. Close-lipped and almost childish, but love flooded through the angel’s veins as he allowed himself to kiss back, softly, carefully. A galaxy of stars burst behind his eyes, and all at once he remembered exactly felt to carve the stars with his own hands and hang them in the sky. Creation and devotion - two sides of the same coin. And he’d be damned if he was anything but devoted to Alastor. Alastor looked up at him, longing him to accept the kiss as a makeshift explanation, and Lucifer couldn’t help but smile. “We have a lifetime to talk,” Lucifer murmured. “But you have to know, Alastor- me too. Of course, me too.” He leaned forward to press his lips against Alastor’s once more, still gentle, still innocent. “I’m with you.” Hell was a relatively unchanging place; Lucifer had ruled over it more millennia now, and it remained the same. But that night, the moon shone a little brighter, the wind blew a little gentler, and two broken souls found solace in each other - and that was enough change to let cracks of hope run across the devil’s battered heart. I’m with you.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622861	{"authors": ["theslightlyobsessedwriter"], "language": "English", "title": "Some Jazz and a Couple Fingers of Rye"}
Soulmates in different timelines It’s cold. The Nest’s bath room was soaked with a bucket left on the floor, pouring out the rest of water left there. Jean’s clothes are wet, but not as wet as Nathaniel’s. Jean spent some minutes staring at Nathaniel’s unconscious body. His hands are trembling and he could feel a freezing sensation going up his spine, but Jean needed to take care of him, because if he doesn’t, nobody would. Nathaniel was his partner. He makes an effort to stand up, his knees shaking like he was giving his first steps. Approaching Nathaniel, his fingers touches the cold body. Jean pushes him to lie on his back, searching for his pulse and checking his breathing. He sighs, relieved. At least he is still breathing. He’s probably fine. Jean holds him in his shaky arms and take Nathaniel to one of the benches. He lie his body carefully on the black seat and starts to open each door of the public closet until he finds a towel. Going back to the bench, he dries Nathaniel’s hair, now auburn instead of black. A stomachache emerges when he remembers Riko painting his hair and tattoed his face. So, Jean dries his face. With Nathaniel unconscious, Moreau can look at him with attention, without feeling the urge to grab him by the throat for being so dumb and impulsive. There is cuts and scratches in his face and, of course, that number. Number four. Its’s him. It really is him, one way or another. Jean’s misplaced forever partner, the unfulfilled promised Jean had stopped believing in years ago. He is here now with him, sharing the torturing feeling of being a Raven and, at the same time, being nothing. The feeling of having to endure one day after another, because that’s what they were born to do. Jean exhales the breath he didn’t even notice he had been holding. Looking at Nathaniel’s wet clothes, Jean realizes he’ll need to take them off to dry his body. He swallows hard and feel his stomach aching again. He brings his hand close to the hem of his black shirt, but feels the bail going up at the back of his throat and walks away immediately. He would have to wait for Nathaniel to wake up so Jean could help him. His agonized sigh echoes through the whole bathroom and he remembers that he would probably have to clean it. His hair stand to the end as his eyes analyses how much water was spilled across the bathroom, specially the water still dripping from the bucket that Riko used. He looks back to Nathaniel, but it wasn’t any sign that he was going to wake up. Jean gets up and walks to the bucket to pick it up. He can see his reflection in the remaining water. His eyes tremble and his jaw clenches. For a moment, he could feel Riko’s hand around his neck and the water dipping on his face. He feels the sensation of drowing, of feeling the water going into his cavities and suffocating him, while he struggles searching for a rescue that wouldn’t come. Jean hears a movement. When he looks back, he sees Nathaniel opening his eyes and getting his torso up. Even before Jean reaches him, he coughs and vomits all the water he swallowed. Jean remains still, without knowing what to do now that he’s awake. Nathaniel takes the towel on the bench and dries all his face again, groaning in pain after bumping into the open cuts. Jean leaves the bucket on the floor and get closer to him, pulling the towel of his hands as Nathaniel responds with a sour face. Moreau doesn’t really care and helps him to dry his face and neck, even though it was already dry. He knows what Nathaniel was feeling, he had gone through the same. The feeling that you’re still drowning even though you’re not anymore. So he keeps helping Nathaniel until he says it’s enough. “I’ll bring you some other clothes”, Jean says. Nathaniel answers with a minimum head agreement, but it’s already enough. Jean goes to the room that Kevin used to live and take some clothes they left ready for Nathaniel. His eyes catches the few belongings Kevin left behind. In the beginning of this mess, everyone believed he would come back, but while time was passing by, they were slowly losing hope. And realizing that everyone were accepting that Kevin ran away from the Nest and chose to be in such a lower team as the Foxes made Riko mad. And who paid for his crimes was Jean. Scattering from these thoughts, Jean goes to his own bedroom and changes clothes fast. He feels a little better now that he couldn’t feel the clothes sticking to his body and there wasn’t any drop of water dripping and running down his skin. Jean goes back to the court bathroom to realize that the bucket is empty, left in some corner, and Weninski looked pissed off. He could tell by the furrowed brows and by the benches out of the place. His blue eyes look at him in anger as Jean walks through the door. Jean doesn’t care that much. He just walks at nd walk away. HNathaniel’s direction and gives him new and clean black clothes. For a second, Nathaniel snorts and gives the bench a little punch. After that, he	Soulmates in different timelines It’s cold. The Nest’s bath room was soaked with a bucket left on the floor, pouring out the rest of water left there. Jean’s clothes are wet, but not as wet as Nathaniel’s. Jean spent some minutes staring at Nathaniel’s unconscious body. His hands are trembling and he could feel a freezing sensation going up his spine, but Jean needed to take care of him, because if he doesn’t, nobody would. Nathaniel was his partner. He makes an effort to stand up, his knees shaking like he was giving his first steps. Approaching Nathaniel, his fingers touches the cold body. Jean pushes him to lie on his back, searching for his pulse and checking his breathing. He sighs, relieved. At least he is still breathing. He’s probably fine. Jean holds him in his shaky arms and take Nathaniel to one of the benches. He lie his body carefully on the black seat and starts to open each door of the public closet until he finds a towel. Going back to the bench, he dries Nathaniel’s hair, now auburn instead of black. A stomachache emerges when he remembers Riko painting his hair and tattoed his face. So, Jean dries his face. With Nathaniel unconscious, Moreau can look at him with attention, without feeling the urge to grab him by the throat for being so dumb and impulsive. There is cuts and scratches in his face and, of course, that number. Number four. Its’s him. It really is him, one way or another. Jean’s misplaced forever partner, the unfulfilled promised Jean had stopped believing in years ago. He is here now with him, sharing the torturing feeling of being a Raven and, at the same time, being nothing. The feeling of having to endure one day after another, because that’s what they were born to do. Jean exhales the breath he didn’t even notice he had been holding. Looking at Nathaniel’s wet clothes, Jean realizes he’ll need to take them off to dry his body. He swallows hard and feel his stomach aching again. He brings his hand close to the hem of his black shirt, but feels the bail going up at the back of his throat and walks away immediately. He would have to wait for Nathaniel to wake up so Jean could help him. His agonized sigh echoes through the whole bathroom and he remembers that he would probably have to clean it. His hair stand to the end as his eyes analyses how much water was spilled across the bathroom, specially the water still dripping from the bucket that Riko used. He looks back to Nathaniel, but it wasn’t any sign that he was going to wake up. Jean gets up and walks to the bucket to pick it up. He can see his reflection in the remaining water. His eyes tremble and his jaw clenches. For a moment, he could feel Riko’s hand around his neck and the water dipping on his face. He feels the sensation of drowing, of feeling the water going into his cavities and suffocating him, while he struggles searching for a rescue that wouldn’t come. Jean hears a movement. When he looks back, he sees Nathaniel opening his eyes and getting his torso up. Even before Jean reaches him, he coughs and vomits all the water he swallowed. Jean remains still, without knowing what to do now that he’s awake. Nathaniel takes the towel on the bench and dries all his face again, groaning in pain after bumping into the open cuts. Jean leaves the bucket on the floor and get closer to him, pulling the towel of his hands as Nathaniel responds with a sour face. Moreau doesn’t really care and helps him to dry his face and neck, even though it was already dry. He knows what Nathaniel was feeling, he had gone through the same. The feeling that you’re still drowning even though you’re not anymore. So he keeps helping Nathaniel until he says it’s enough. “I’ll bring you some other clothes”, Jean says. Nathaniel answers with a minimum head agreement, but it’s already enough. Jean goes to the room that Kevin used to live and take some clothes they left ready for Nathaniel. His eyes catches the few belongings Kevin left behind. In the beginning of this mess, everyone believed he would come back, but while time was passing by, they were slowly losing hope. And realizing that everyone were accepting that Kevin ran away from the Nest and chose to be in such a lower team as the Foxes made Riko mad. And who paid for his crimes was Jean. Scattering from these thoughts, Jean goes to his own bedroom and changes clothes fast. He feels a little better now that he couldn’t feel the clothes sticking to his body and there wasn’t any drop of water dripping and running down his skin. Jean goes back to the court bathroom to realize that the bucket is empty, left in some corner, and Weninski looked pissed off. He could tell by the furrowed brows and by the benches out of the place. His blue eyes look at him in anger as Jean walks through the door. Jean doesn’t care that much. He just walks at nd walk away. HNathaniel’s direction and gives him new and clean black clothes. For a second, Nathaniel snorts and gives the bench a little punch. After that, he grabs those clothes ae takes long seconds to take the wet shirt off with some difficulty. It wasn’t the first time Jean saw Nathaniel’s body, but it’s always an awkward feeling. Awkward, but comforting. There were several scars all over his chest, with various shapes and sizes. The one that caught more attention was one that looked like a burn from an iron, on his shoulder. Besides, there were a lot of open cuts and some poorly sewn, as well as small burns that would become water blisters. Despite that, Nathaniel has a handsome body. He would be recognized for sure as an attractive and handsome-looking man if he didn’t have this thick layer of sadism all over his body. Realizing he distracted himself in his thoughts, Jean looks back for Nathaniel who is facing him with a sassy smile. Jean lowers his head in embarassment and stays like that until Nathaniel warns him that he’s ready. “Whore”, echoes in his head. The memory of five team players chosen by Riko makes an even louder sound. His neck stings and Jean uses his nails to scratch it. Preventing him from drawing blood, Weninski’s irritating voice saves him from a collapse. Nathaniel is limping, so Jean have to walk slow. He remembers that the only time he got like that was because of Riko and Master when Kevin left away. Riko already had make him pay for teaching Kevin french, the biggest mistake Jean could have made. Because of that, it was impossible that they weren’t doubt that Jean was involved in Kevin’s escape. While he was spanked like never before, he asked himself why Kevin left without him. While he was being burnt, he asked himself why he tricked him. While he was being drowned, he remembered the stupid promise he made with Kevin. Nathaniel enters in his bedroom and closes the door shut. Jean faces the door for a second, wondering how things could be different if Nathaniel accepted his place as Moriyama’s property just like he does. So he goes back to his bedroom. The bedroom he shares with Zane, the one who, for a little while, was the one person he could trust. Not anymore. Zane is already lying on his bed, using his cellphone. He gives Jean a small look and turns back to whatever he was doing before. Jean lies on his bed and stares the black ceiling. December is coming to an end, just like Nathaniel’s stay. His lost partner would try to go away just like Kevin did. And if he succeed, he would be the second bird to fly away from the cage. Why did Jean, unlike them, have to remain imprisoned? But… if he left, where would he go? A bird that has only known a cage it’s entire life, cannot fly when it’s released. Jean closes his eyes and hopes to be strong to live the next day.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622886	{"authors": ["moreausletter (wuxianboob)"], "language": "English", "title": "Soulmates in different timelines"}
What if it didn't happen the way it did? Here's the thing. I love both Wrecker and Echo. So I wanted to create a storyline in a what-if situation. Here is a quick overview of The work entitledWrecker And Kyra NurseKyra is the author, so there is no conflict of interest. ~~~~~~~~ Ready? ~~~~~~~~ Kyra saw Wrecker on Kamino while she was training to be a Combat Medic. She fell in love. Time passed. Wrecker was wounded, and Kyra was his Medic. He saw her and fell in love. They were separated by war, time, and space. Finally, they met again! They lived, loved, faced challenges, married, faced challenges, Dun Dun Dunnn!!!!!! Separated, faced challenges, married again, had kids, more challenges. Worked together to work it out. and Had a long, loving life together. The End BUT What If? Kyra never saw Wrecker training? and Kyra wasn't in the Medic on Duty when Wrecker was wounded. so They never met! In previous works by NurseKyra. It was established that Echo and Kyra have been best friends since they met on Kamino. and Echo was in love with her. but He was reluctant to do anything about it. until He took a chance and kissed her. Nuts! Both parties agreed. It was YUCK. BUT What if there was a second kiss? and IT WAS WOW! Here is what might have happened.	What if it didn't happen the way it did? Here's the thing. I love both Wrecker and Echo. So I wanted to create a storyline in a what-if situation. Here is a quick overview of The work entitledWrecker And Kyra NurseKyra is the author, so there is no conflict of interest. ~~~~~~~~ Ready? ~~~~~~~~ Kyra saw Wrecker on Kamino while she was training to be a Combat Medic. She fell in love. Time passed. Wrecker was wounded, and Kyra was his Medic. He saw her and fell in love. They were separated by war, time, and space. Finally, they met again! They lived, loved, faced challenges, married, faced challenges, Dun Dun Dunnn!!!!!! Separated, faced challenges, married again, had kids, more challenges. Worked together to work it out. and Had a long, loving life together. The End BUT What If? Kyra never saw Wrecker training? and Kyra wasn't in the Medic on Duty when Wrecker was wounded. so They never met! In previous works by NurseKyra. It was established that Echo and Kyra have been best friends since they met on Kamino. and Echo was in love with her. but He was reluctant to do anything about it. until He took a chance and kissed her. Nuts! Both parties agreed. It was YUCK. BUT What if there was a second kiss? and IT WAS WOW! Here is what might have happened.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622891	{"authors": ["NurseKyra"], "language": "English", "title": "What if it didn't happen the way it did?"}
Leech, Queen of Genosha! He remembers it like it was yesterday... Maybe because it was. He was caught and brought down to his knees. Hidden in the dark tunnels of the underground sewer among his friends, Leech could smell the stench of shit and piss all around. It was an awful scent, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the scent of despair around him. The humans were mad, said they hated 'muties', but all Leech wanted was a happy life, to live freely with friends- oh, he didn't want this... "You think normal people can sleep peacefully knowing you demons are lurking underground?" The human officer spat as she raised up her plasma ultra hating mutant blast gun. "Please, don't hurt Leech!" Leech cried out as he bowed his head, he didn't want to face the deadly blow. But then the gas of the sewer pipes broke, sending the smell of farts and pneumonia into the dense space as everyone began to cough, feeling their lungs fill up from the inside as they drowned on the thicc ass smell. Metal pipes then warpped into bands and they slammed the human officers against the shit stained walls of the sewers. The metal clang reverberated loudly as it sent rats and roaches scattering out their hiddy holes and all over the attackers. "The depths you human go..." A low sexy voice sounded over the gurgled screams of the officers. Rats had began to tear at their clothes and bury themselves deep inside the warm, dark intestines of their abdomen. It was just like their hiddy holes as the rats began to tunnel through organs and skin. They needed protection too. "Even denying these outcasts, the indignity of your waste." Leech found the waste to be more tasteful than the sight of roaches scrabbling into every orifice on the human body. It was not a pretty sight to see a roach scatter over the woman's eye, playing with it as if the ocular nerve was a jump rope. It made Leech shiver... But not as much as that voice did. The master of magnesium and magnetism. The one who's thighs and ass were straining against his tight dark purple pants as his eggplant struggled to grow against the fabric. Electricity and Magnetism were definitely intimately acquainted as Magneto's suit caught in his ass crack and defined his ass evermore. The shackles and bands that once held Leech's throat and wrists were snapped opened by an invisible force. Trying to take a breath of fresh shit air, Leech coughed as he stared up amazed at the sight before him. "You're him... you're-" Leech choked out with tears in his eyes- it was his savior- his knight in shining armor... "Magneto." Magneto's white locks blew in the wind along with his cape. He floated down from the air, like an angel descending from heaven to personally help mutantkind. "And I promise you, child, you shall never be afraid again." Magneto's hand had raised up Leech's chin, staring into his eyes to let him know his promise was real. That he would do everything in his power to keep it. His hand caressed Leech's rough skin for just a moment longer before finally pulling away. Leech had never known love before, not as a mutant, but in that moment, he knew he had found it. --- As Spotify once said "Age is just a number." That was something Magnus personally believed in. Especially with his past. Rogue was probably only sixteen when Erik first met her. He was older, wiser, meant to be a teacher to her. But when he found out his magnetism created a safe barrier against young Rogue's powers...Well, touch became the newest lesson. Magneto didn't know it during his times of nightmares of regret, but Rogue knew his choice haunted him. Or so he thought, because he never once stopped, even now, he still finds himself craving her. --- Genosha. A place turned into a mutant homeland, a place where one can really feel free to live as themselves. Leech was wearing his best for tonight, for it was a very special occasion. Leech was sneaking in through Magneto's palace earlier and overheard him talking to another woman- Rogue. He overheard words that made his heart stop and skip a beat. Magento wanted a queen for Genosha. Someone regal and qualified, beauty and strong- Leech could feel his face warm as he turned away from the door to collect himself. Magneto was going to ask Leech to be Queen of Genosha! "Leech, Queen of Genosha..." Leech found himself giggling under his breath. He made sure to look good tonight, it was Magneto afterall, he couldn't just show up looking like he still lived in the sewers even if he still smelled like it. Leech was looking forward to it, he truly was... But somehow, when Magneto came to the dance floor, he danced with Rogue- not Leech. Leech's heartbroke as he watched his lover dance with another- and then he kisses her! In front of all! He welcomes her as Queen and not Leech! Leech ran out with tears in his eyes. He couldn't bare the sight. ...But was the sight of Magneto kissing another, better than the sight of a Sentinel looming over the dance hall? It was a question Leech still didn't	Leech, Queen of Genosha! He remembers it like it was yesterday... Maybe because it was. He was caught and brought down to his knees. Hidden in the dark tunnels of the underground sewer among his friends, Leech could smell the stench of shit and piss all around. It was an awful scent, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the scent of despair around him. The humans were mad, said they hated 'muties', but all Leech wanted was a happy life, to live freely with friends- oh, he didn't want this... "You think normal people can sleep peacefully knowing you demons are lurking underground?" The human officer spat as she raised up her plasma ultra hating mutant blast gun. "Please, don't hurt Leech!" Leech cried out as he bowed his head, he didn't want to face the deadly blow. But then the gas of the sewer pipes broke, sending the smell of farts and pneumonia into the dense space as everyone began to cough, feeling their lungs fill up from the inside as they drowned on the thicc ass smell. Metal pipes then warpped into bands and they slammed the human officers against the shit stained walls of the sewers. The metal clang reverberated loudly as it sent rats and roaches scattering out their hiddy holes and all over the attackers. "The depths you human go..." A low sexy voice sounded over the gurgled screams of the officers. Rats had began to tear at their clothes and bury themselves deep inside the warm, dark intestines of their abdomen. It was just like their hiddy holes as the rats began to tunnel through organs and skin. They needed protection too. "Even denying these outcasts, the indignity of your waste." Leech found the waste to be more tasteful than the sight of roaches scrabbling into every orifice on the human body. It was not a pretty sight to see a roach scatter over the woman's eye, playing with it as if the ocular nerve was a jump rope. It made Leech shiver... But not as much as that voice did. The master of magnesium and magnetism. The one who's thighs and ass were straining against his tight dark purple pants as his eggplant struggled to grow against the fabric. Electricity and Magnetism were definitely intimately acquainted as Magneto's suit caught in his ass crack and defined his ass evermore. The shackles and bands that once held Leech's throat and wrists were snapped opened by an invisible force. Trying to take a breath of fresh shit air, Leech coughed as he stared up amazed at the sight before him. "You're him... you're-" Leech choked out with tears in his eyes- it was his savior- his knight in shining armor... "Magneto." Magneto's white locks blew in the wind along with his cape. He floated down from the air, like an angel descending from heaven to personally help mutantkind. "And I promise you, child, you shall never be afraid again." Magneto's hand had raised up Leech's chin, staring into his eyes to let him know his promise was real. That he would do everything in his power to keep it. His hand caressed Leech's rough skin for just a moment longer before finally pulling away. Leech had never known love before, not as a mutant, but in that moment, he knew he had found it. --- As Spotify once said "Age is just a number." That was something Magnus personally believed in. Especially with his past. Rogue was probably only sixteen when Erik first met her. He was older, wiser, meant to be a teacher to her. But when he found out his magnetism created a safe barrier against young Rogue's powers...Well, touch became the newest lesson. Magneto didn't know it during his times of nightmares of regret, but Rogue knew his choice haunted him. Or so he thought, because he never once stopped, even now, he still finds himself craving her. --- Genosha. A place turned into a mutant homeland, a place where one can really feel free to live as themselves. Leech was wearing his best for tonight, for it was a very special occasion. Leech was sneaking in through Magneto's palace earlier and overheard him talking to another woman- Rogue. He overheard words that made his heart stop and skip a beat. Magento wanted a queen for Genosha. Someone regal and qualified, beauty and strong- Leech could feel his face warm as he turned away from the door to collect himself. Magneto was going to ask Leech to be Queen of Genosha! "Leech, Queen of Genosha..." Leech found himself giggling under his breath. He made sure to look good tonight, it was Magneto afterall, he couldn't just show up looking like he still lived in the sewers even if he still smelled like it. Leech was looking forward to it, he truly was... But somehow, when Magneto came to the dance floor, he danced with Rogue- not Leech. Leech's heartbroke as he watched his lover dance with another- and then he kisses her! In front of all! He welcomes her as Queen and not Leech! Leech ran out with tears in his eyes. He couldn't bare the sight. ...But was the sight of Magneto kissing another, better than the sight of a Sentinel looming over the dance hall? It was a question Leech still didn't have an answer to. The Sentinel rained down on the mutants as Genosha began to fall. Everything mutants have worked for, the mutants that had fought for better lives- it was all gone in a blink. Leech was trembling in fear as rubble began to head his way. He cowered, holding his hands above his head. "Please, don't hurt Leech!" He cried out with tears streaming down his face. But then, Magneto was grabbing him, using his powers to protect him from the fallen rubble. "Omega x Alpha threat level detected." The Sentinel's voice rang out like a gong over the screams and sounds of explosions. The Sentinel was pointing right at Magneto! Leech clung onto Magneto's sexy unbuttoned shirt. The red one where you can see like a sliver of his chest, yeah. It was sexy with his white tousled hair, the way his arms strained with power to keep away the Sentinel's blast- Leech looked up to Magneto's eyes, knowing he was safe, that his man had come to his rightful Queen afterall- but Leech saw a flicker of something he never wanted to see in the old groomers eyes- he saw fear. Magneto tried so hard to protect everyone. He tried to protect Rogue, Remy, Mutants, Himself... Glancing one last time towards her, his forbidden fruit, Magneto knew this was his last lesson. That not all promises can be kept. Magnus looked down at Leech clinging to his chest like a leech. He knew he had failed, Leech was looking up to him, scared and in need of protection, but he couldn't give it. Magneto couldn't save them. "Hab keine Angst." Do not be afraid. Leech didn't understand what Magneto meant by that, he didn't speak Spanish, but as he read the subtitles, he wondered, what was there to be afraid of when he was Queen of Genosha? The blast was deadly as the aftershocks sent buildings crashing down. The explosion was felt in the air, a harsh gust of heat and death that lingered like a leech on bleeding meat. "Omega level threat fucking eliminated." The Sentinel's voice rang out as it's multiheaded cock pointed in another direction. Rogue couldn't believe it. Magnus was dead, her Magneto, her sugar bear honey bunches of peaches plums sweeter than- Her suga was dead. --- Magneto was saved, chained up and in a thong that showed off the numbers on his ass. He remembered the blast, the feeling of Leech being vaporized against him. All Magneto could do in that moment, was watch the eyes in Leech's skull melt like an ice cream on a hot summer day. Another broken promise. Another dream failed. Another life lost. Magneto did not speak during his capture. What was there to say? Genosha was lost. Everything he worked towards- believing in Xavier's dream- got him no where. Magnus shut his blue eyes as he was trapped with his thoughts. He remembered hearing a faint murmur leave Leech's lips as he disintegrated, something about the Queen of Genosha... Magneto could only hope, somewhere out there, his Rogue was okay. The End.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618566	{"authors": ["Chalice_of_Cum"], "language": "English", "title": "Leech, Queen of Genosha!"}
A Feeling That I Can't Housebreak “How do you know?” Pete can feel when Mikey looks at him, feel his stare focus on the top of Pete’s head, but Pete doesn’t budge. His eyes stay fixed on the small box in Mikey’s hand, the diamond resting on the little velvet cushion sparkling as it reflects the sun coming in through the window. “The ghost of Christmas past visited me in a dream,” Mikey jokes with an eye roll and an easy smile. Pete blinks up at him, pulling his attention away from the pretty piece of jewelry that he has the overwhelming urge to chuck out the window. Pete doesn’t smile and Mikey swallows, closing the box and shoving it back into his pocket. “Gee, Pete, I dunno,” Mikey says. He gestures loosely towards Pete. “How did you know with Meagan?” “We’re not married.” Pete replies, and he knows how stupid he sounds but he keeps his face flat and blinks again at Mikey. Mikey sighs, pulling his hat off and running his calloused fingers through his hair, leaning back on the couch in Pete’s living room. Pete feels the emotion that usually accompanies hanging out with Mikey distantly bubbling in his stomach. It’s this familiar aching, an anger reserved only for Mikey when Pete is feeling particularly nostalgic. It feels like going down waterslides in 86 degree weather, feels like nerves before going onstage because Mikey’s standing in the wings. “What’s wrong?” Mikey nudges his foot into Pete’s, trying to get his attention. Pete frowns, shakes his head and pulls out his phone. He knows Mikey’s frowning at him and makes it almost a full minute before looking up at him through his eyelashes. Pete was right, Mikey’s frowning in a way that makes him look like a stupid kicked puppy. “Nothing’s wrong, man,” he says. Then, for good measure says, “I’m happy for you.” He wouldn’t buy it if he were Mikey, but Mikey smiles at him, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Thank you, Pete. That really means a lot,” Mikey crosses one leg over the other and leans back on the couch again, stretching his arms up above his head. His shirt rides up a little bit and Pete makes a point not to look. “We’re going to Disneyland tomorrow, and I’m thinking of doing it in front of the carousel.” Mikey continues. Pete hums, staring at his Twitter feed, pretending to process whatever post he’s reading. “That’s where we had one of our first dates, so it’ll be like a full circle moment, y’know?” Pete’s neck is heating up. This is stupid. This feeling is familiar – like staring at his laptop in some greenroom in Australia reading the TMZ article that Mikey got married while Patrick tries to comfort him. He thinks about texting Patrick, getting him to call with some fake emergency so Pete can get out of dinner tonight. No, that’s dumb. He’s not jealous. He has no reason to be. Pete has his life and Mikey has his own and they’re not intertwined. So what? Being upset about this is so 2006. Get with the fucking times, Peter. “Pete, I’m not stupid. What’s up?” Mikey says it so sincerely and something in Pete breaks. The last little bit of self-control or self-respect or whatever else, he doesn’t know. But he’s slamming his phone down onto the cushion beside him and laughing maliciously. “I already said nothing, Mikey. Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Pete knows he should regret it as soon as he snaps, but he doesn’t. Not really. Not even when Mikey straightens up and his eyebrows pull together and the corners of his mouth pull down into the little frown that Pete used to kiss for good luck a decade ago now. It feels good, rejuvenating. “You’re upset at me?” Mikey asks, and Pete rolls his eyes. Great job Captain Obvious, you caught up with the rest of us. “You got married first, Pete,” Mikey says it with an exhale that just barely sounds like a laugh. “We aren’t married, I already said that,” Pete replies bitterly. “And if you’re talking about Ashlee, you actually beat me there too.” Pete points his finger at Mikey and purses his lips in a cocky ‘I win’ sort of way. Something changes in Mikey too now. His face sets in a blank expression Pete’s come to know means that he’s angry. Good. Pete wants him to be angry. Pete wants him to yell at him that he’s selfish and he’s acting childish. “Okay, Pete.” Is all he says instead. “What?” “I said ‘okay’. I’m not gonna do this.” Mikey pulls out his phone now. “You can tell me if you want, but I’m not going to fight you.” “I’m not trying to fight you,” Pete says defensively. “Fine, Pete.” Mikey responds so pointedly it shuts Pete up for a second. Pete feels his anger already bubbling away. He tries half-heartedly to hang onto it. He thinks of the ring, thinks about Disneyland. He tries to think about that summer and missed calls and ignored texts. Nothing sticks though, instead he just sort of feels…well, nothing. He knows if he’d have done that to anyone else they would’ve taken the bait, would’ve argued, probably even cancelled dinner. Not Mikey. Pete doesn’t even really know why he tried. Mikey’s the same	A Feeling That I Can't Housebreak “How do you know?” Pete can feel when Mikey looks at him, feel his stare focus on the top of Pete’s head, but Pete doesn’t budge. His eyes stay fixed on the small box in Mikey’s hand, the diamond resting on the little velvet cushion sparkling as it reflects the sun coming in through the window. “The ghost of Christmas past visited me in a dream,” Mikey jokes with an eye roll and an easy smile. Pete blinks up at him, pulling his attention away from the pretty piece of jewelry that he has the overwhelming urge to chuck out the window. Pete doesn’t smile and Mikey swallows, closing the box and shoving it back into his pocket. “Gee, Pete, I dunno,” Mikey says. He gestures loosely towards Pete. “How did you know with Meagan?” “We’re not married.” Pete replies, and he knows how stupid he sounds but he keeps his face flat and blinks again at Mikey. Mikey sighs, pulling his hat off and running his calloused fingers through his hair, leaning back on the couch in Pete’s living room. Pete feels the emotion that usually accompanies hanging out with Mikey distantly bubbling in his stomach. It’s this familiar aching, an anger reserved only for Mikey when Pete is feeling particularly nostalgic. It feels like going down waterslides in 86 degree weather, feels like nerves before going onstage because Mikey’s standing in the wings. “What’s wrong?” Mikey nudges his foot into Pete’s, trying to get his attention. Pete frowns, shakes his head and pulls out his phone. He knows Mikey’s frowning at him and makes it almost a full minute before looking up at him through his eyelashes. Pete was right, Mikey’s frowning in a way that makes him look like a stupid kicked puppy. “Nothing’s wrong, man,” he says. Then, for good measure says, “I’m happy for you.” He wouldn’t buy it if he were Mikey, but Mikey smiles at him, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Thank you, Pete. That really means a lot,” Mikey crosses one leg over the other and leans back on the couch again, stretching his arms up above his head. His shirt rides up a little bit and Pete makes a point not to look. “We’re going to Disneyland tomorrow, and I’m thinking of doing it in front of the carousel.” Mikey continues. Pete hums, staring at his Twitter feed, pretending to process whatever post he’s reading. “That’s where we had one of our first dates, so it’ll be like a full circle moment, y’know?” Pete’s neck is heating up. This is stupid. This feeling is familiar – like staring at his laptop in some greenroom in Australia reading the TMZ article that Mikey got married while Patrick tries to comfort him. He thinks about texting Patrick, getting him to call with some fake emergency so Pete can get out of dinner tonight. No, that’s dumb. He’s not jealous. He has no reason to be. Pete has his life and Mikey has his own and they’re not intertwined. So what? Being upset about this is so 2006. Get with the fucking times, Peter. “Pete, I’m not stupid. What’s up?” Mikey says it so sincerely and something in Pete breaks. The last little bit of self-control or self-respect or whatever else, he doesn’t know. But he’s slamming his phone down onto the cushion beside him and laughing maliciously. “I already said nothing, Mikey. Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Pete knows he should regret it as soon as he snaps, but he doesn’t. Not really. Not even when Mikey straightens up and his eyebrows pull together and the corners of his mouth pull down into the little frown that Pete used to kiss for good luck a decade ago now. It feels good, rejuvenating. “You’re upset at me?” Mikey asks, and Pete rolls his eyes. Great job Captain Obvious, you caught up with the rest of us. “You got married first, Pete,” Mikey says it with an exhale that just barely sounds like a laugh. “We aren’t married, I already said that,” Pete replies bitterly. “And if you’re talking about Ashlee, you actually beat me there too.” Pete points his finger at Mikey and purses his lips in a cocky ‘I win’ sort of way. Something changes in Mikey too now. His face sets in a blank expression Pete’s come to know means that he’s angry. Good. Pete wants him to be angry. Pete wants him to yell at him that he’s selfish and he’s acting childish. “Okay, Pete.” Is all he says instead. “What?” “I said ‘okay’. I’m not gonna do this.” Mikey pulls out his phone now. “You can tell me if you want, but I’m not going to fight you.” “I’m not trying to fight you,” Pete says defensively. “Fine, Pete.” Mikey responds so pointedly it shuts Pete up for a second. Pete feels his anger already bubbling away. He tries half-heartedly to hang onto it. He thinks of the ring, thinks about Disneyland. He tries to think about that summer and missed calls and ignored texts. Nothing sticks though, instead he just sort of feels…well, nothing. He knows if he’d have done that to anyone else they would’ve taken the bait, would’ve argued, probably even cancelled dinner. Not Mikey. Pete doesn’t even really know why he tried. Mikey’s the same way he is, knows how his head works. Of course he wasn’t going to fight him. Pete’s left feeling embarrassed, picking at his fingernails while Mikey clicks away on his phone. It’s quiet for a while. Pete feels like a kid on timeout, sitting in the corner and thinking about what he did. “Sorry.” Pete eventually mumbles. Mikey looks at him over the top of his phone and raises his eyebrows. “I said sorry.” Pete says again, clearer and with as little embarrassment as he can manage. “That was stupid. I’m just tired.” He lies. Mikey nods. “It’s cool, I get it.” Mikey clicks his phone off and slides into the pocket of his hoodie. “Kristin said they’re almost done and that they’ll meet us at the restaurant.” Pete nods, scratches the back of his neck. “I seriously am sorry.” “Yeah, I know.” Mikey smiles and nudges his foot into Pete’s again. Pete smiles back, genuinely for the first time since Mikey told him what he was planning. “Maybe I could get an invite this time?” He jokes. Mikey laughs, head thrown back and eyes closed. Pete can see where the crows feet Mikey’s been starting to develop comes from. He starts to laugh too. It feels good. “Yeah,” Mikey says. “Maybe."	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618571	{"authors": ["ki3ran"], "language": "English", "title": "A Feeling That I Can't Housebreak"}
Sora.. are you jealous? Regular day at Yusho Highschool, or was it? The hall was filled with red hearts, glitter, pink and red every corner. It wasn’t that Yuya didn’t know, every few steps, a classmate would shyly approach him with a box of chocolate and a sweet heart shaped note. He smiled politely and shook his head before continuing to his next class. “Another rejection,” Sora muttered with a mouthful of chocolate, the desk scattered in wrapped candy and notes that he didn’t seem to bother reading. “Yuya, you’re killing me here.” Yuya blinked at him. “I’m not killing anyone, Sora. I just.. don’t want to lead anyone on.” “At least you should’ve taken the chocolate.’ Sora groaned dramatically. “This is your moment, Yuya! Valentine’s Day! Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on Zuzu or something since kindergarten.” “No, not her. I mean it’s not like that anymore, we’re just friends and she’s way happier with Selena, so I’m super happy for her. I like that.. someone that’s special, the right somebody.” “Alright,” Sora chimed in, suddenly energized. “If you won’t go for the obvious options, I’ll help you. I’ll be your.. Valentine’s wingman, a little cupid himself.” He made fluttering motions with his hands, grinning as he pretended to aim a bow at him. Yuya blinked, “I… don’t need–” “Trust me,” the shorter interrupted, shoving into Yuya’s chair, both of them hanging on the edges. “You’re too oblivious. You need guidance. Leave it to me, first date, first victory!” And so it began. Mika, a duelist a year younger than him, approached first in the school’s courtyard. “Yuya, I really liked your performance last week. The Pendulum summoning was amazing, you should do it again with me some time.” Sora watched on a nearby bench, trying to stay hidden behind a comically large newspaper. Yuya brightened. “Thanks! It was thanks to Sora who told me to try a new spin on the old choreo–” But right when Mika was about to put her hand on his, Sora slid between them, almost pushing Yuya off the bench. “Yes, yes, Yuya’s amazing.” Sora said quickly. Mika blinked, her lashes fluttered in surprise. “..Right” Yuya frowned at him. “Sora, what are you–” “Helping,” Sora whispered, his hand landing on top of his. “Continue as if I was never here.” By the time they finished chatting, with Sora sitting between them, the trio ended in giggles, Mika smiling as she looked at the pair, getting the hint. The second attempt didn’t seem any better. There was Hana from the music club who had sung together with Yuya previously, and had written a shy note in thanks. “Hi Yuya, I know we haven’t spoken since choir practice but, how have you been?” Yuya smiled as he gave her a light hug, Sora watching this time from even further away, binoculars in hand, and a lollipop he just cracked between his teeth. “I’ve been swell. Sora’s trying to help set me up with this whole "meet someone special thing.” Hana laughed lightly, giving his arm a squeeze. “That sounds super fun.” “So, Yuya, do you like girls who duel aggressively?” she asked, leaning in. Yuya stopped to think for a moment. “Uhmm.. I like dueling, in all styles and such? Just not a big fan of getting anyone injured or anything.” “That’s what I expected, I’ll just stick to singing then.” “Well it’s not that, Hana you’ve got this amazing voi–” “Say! Hana, I think Yuya needs some time to think. But I’m sure you’ll get to speak to him again at your next choir practice. Or maybe not, who knows?” Sora chimed in, his arm snaking around Yuya’s. “Oh, I see. Let’s meet again sometime Yuya.” Hana smiled as she watched Sora pull the tomato head away, Yuya giving her a weak smile in defeat. Zuzu who was watching this from the window of her class couldn’t help the giggle that left her, squinting at the scene that played out in the courtyard. Third time’s the charm? So Yuya this time decided to invite Rin, a shy girl from his poetry class to join him and a few friends at the carnival. Rin shyly approached Yuya with two foam cups filled with cream soda. “I.. got one for you too.” Yuya smiled warmly, taking the cup in his hand. “Thanks, Sora’s a big fan of this cream soda stuff.” They both stood in line quietly as they were waiting for the balloon popping game. “Rin, I know we don’t talk much in class, but I really like your poems, they are so beautiful. Where do you get your inspiration?” At the mention of her works, she lightened up, moving her ita bag covered in glossy chrome pins of a few idols and anime characters. “I’m actually trying to create my own manga series… poetry helps me express myself.” “Most of my inspiration comes from my favorite manga.” She softly smiled as she reached into her bag, showing him a manga with two dudes who seemed locked in a heated embrace. “O-Ohh.. Why that looks… quite interesting. What is the manga about? Sports perhaps?” Yuya stuttered, surprised written on his face as he tried to take in the image in front of him. “Yes, its a yaoi manga about two childhood friends who	Sora.. are you jealous? Regular day at Yusho Highschool, or was it? The hall was filled with red hearts, glitter, pink and red every corner. It wasn’t that Yuya didn’t know, every few steps, a classmate would shyly approach him with a box of chocolate and a sweet heart shaped note. He smiled politely and shook his head before continuing to his next class. “Another rejection,” Sora muttered with a mouthful of chocolate, the desk scattered in wrapped candy and notes that he didn’t seem to bother reading. “Yuya, you’re killing me here.” Yuya blinked at him. “I’m not killing anyone, Sora. I just.. don’t want to lead anyone on.” “At least you should’ve taken the chocolate.’ Sora groaned dramatically. “This is your moment, Yuya! Valentine’s Day! Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on Zuzu or something since kindergarten.” “No, not her. I mean it’s not like that anymore, we’re just friends and she’s way happier with Selena, so I’m super happy for her. I like that.. someone that’s special, the right somebody.” “Alright,” Sora chimed in, suddenly energized. “If you won’t go for the obvious options, I’ll help you. I’ll be your.. Valentine’s wingman, a little cupid himself.” He made fluttering motions with his hands, grinning as he pretended to aim a bow at him. Yuya blinked, “I… don’t need–” “Trust me,” the shorter interrupted, shoving into Yuya’s chair, both of them hanging on the edges. “You’re too oblivious. You need guidance. Leave it to me, first date, first victory!” And so it began. Mika, a duelist a year younger than him, approached first in the school’s courtyard. “Yuya, I really liked your performance last week. The Pendulum summoning was amazing, you should do it again with me some time.” Sora watched on a nearby bench, trying to stay hidden behind a comically large newspaper. Yuya brightened. “Thanks! It was thanks to Sora who told me to try a new spin on the old choreo–” But right when Mika was about to put her hand on his, Sora slid between them, almost pushing Yuya off the bench. “Yes, yes, Yuya’s amazing.” Sora said quickly. Mika blinked, her lashes fluttered in surprise. “..Right” Yuya frowned at him. “Sora, what are you–” “Helping,” Sora whispered, his hand landing on top of his. “Continue as if I was never here.” By the time they finished chatting, with Sora sitting between them, the trio ended in giggles, Mika smiling as she looked at the pair, getting the hint. The second attempt didn’t seem any better. There was Hana from the music club who had sung together with Yuya previously, and had written a shy note in thanks. “Hi Yuya, I know we haven’t spoken since choir practice but, how have you been?” Yuya smiled as he gave her a light hug, Sora watching this time from even further away, binoculars in hand, and a lollipop he just cracked between his teeth. “I’ve been swell. Sora’s trying to help set me up with this whole "meet someone special thing.” Hana laughed lightly, giving his arm a squeeze. “That sounds super fun.” “So, Yuya, do you like girls who duel aggressively?” she asked, leaning in. Yuya stopped to think for a moment. “Uhmm.. I like dueling, in all styles and such? Just not a big fan of getting anyone injured or anything.” “That’s what I expected, I’ll just stick to singing then.” “Well it’s not that, Hana you’ve got this amazing voi–” “Say! Hana, I think Yuya needs some time to think. But I’m sure you’ll get to speak to him again at your next choir practice. Or maybe not, who knows?” Sora chimed in, his arm snaking around Yuya’s. “Oh, I see. Let’s meet again sometime Yuya.” Hana smiled as she watched Sora pull the tomato head away, Yuya giving her a weak smile in defeat. Zuzu who was watching this from the window of her class couldn’t help the giggle that left her, squinting at the scene that played out in the courtyard. Third time’s the charm? So Yuya this time decided to invite Rin, a shy girl from his poetry class to join him and a few friends at the carnival. Rin shyly approached Yuya with two foam cups filled with cream soda. “I.. got one for you too.” Yuya smiled warmly, taking the cup in his hand. “Thanks, Sora’s a big fan of this cream soda stuff.” They both stood in line quietly as they were waiting for the balloon popping game. “Rin, I know we don’t talk much in class, but I really like your poems, they are so beautiful. Where do you get your inspiration?” At the mention of her works, she lightened up, moving her ita bag covered in glossy chrome pins of a few idols and anime characters. “I’m actually trying to create my own manga series… poetry helps me express myself.” “Most of my inspiration comes from my favorite manga.” She softly smiled as she reached into her bag, showing him a manga with two dudes who seemed locked in a heated embrace. “O-Ohh.. Why that looks… quite interesting. What is the manga about? Sports perhaps?” Yuya stuttered, surprised written on his face as he tried to take in the image in front of him. “Yes, its a yaoi manga about two childhood friends who are on the same sport team and they both totally don’t know they have a crush on each other. But then, at some point the seme gets jealous of the uke talking to other girls and they both are locked in the locker room together and then the seme is pressing closer to the uke and they both kiss and touch each others–” Yuya starts spacing out as he listens to her rant, sipping on his soda and nodding politely. They soon reach the front of the line, Sora a stand away, aiming at a target with a water gun, eyes watching them as he accidentally sprayed the worker. As Yuya and Rin were both handed the darts to shoot at the balloons, Sora rushed over to their line, handing the person behind them a teddy bear prize as he cutted between them. “Yuya’s sense of aim is terrible and I’m sure he’d actually accidentally poke someone with his darts.” Sora declared as he took the darts out of Yuya’s hands, exchanging them with bags of cotton candy, popcorn and prizes. “But I will show you how it’s done.” Yuya’s jaw dropped. “SORA!” Rin looked thrilled as she looked between them, blushing happily as she competed with Sora. When the game finished, Yuya felt guilty, bowing in apology as Rin picked her prize from Sora’s goodie pile. “No, it’s all right Yuya. I had tons of fun! Ever since I started talking to you I think I am going to start a manga club! You can always feel free to join, and bring Sora with you if you’d like.” Sora gave her a sweet smile, handing her a handful of balloons as she floated away to the next game. Gon and the others, including the previous girls, met up with the pair, Zuzu besides him. “Is Sora… competing with the girls?” Gon whispered. Yuya finally managed to corner Sora near the claw machines. “Sora, what are you doing? You’re being… really strange.” Sora looked back at him, genuinely offended. “I’m helping! Those girls like you!” Yuya flushed. “That’s the problem!’ Sora frowned. “Why is that a problem?” Yuya opened his mouth, then shut it. He absolutely could not say, “Because I only like you.” “Yuya?” Sora asked softly. “Tell me.” “I can’t… at least not yet.. it doesn’t feel right yet.” “Why?” Sora frown deepened, the couple looking at each other in awkward silence. “I-I.. let’s just head back.” When they returned to the friend group at the food court, they could totally sense something was off. Sora was in one corner putting loads of relish on his hotdog and Yuya accidentally ordered fifteen funnel cakes, both avoiding each other at the table. Eventually, the girls pull Yuya aside. Mika speaks for all of them. “Yuya… it’s sweet that you came out today. But we can tell you’re interested in someone else.” Yuya's face lightens for a moment before burning bright red. “W-wait-! I’m not— I don’t mean to–!” Rin smiles shyly. “It’s okay, we’re not upset. I’m actually thrilled and might make a manga based off you guys where..” Rin begins going on a rant as the girls giggle. Hana nudges him playfully. “Go chase him, dummy.” Yuya gave her a blank stare, confused. “...Chase.. Who?” The girls exchange a collective deadpan state. “SORA,” they say in unison. Yuya sputters and nearly chokes on air. Sora sits along at a nearby bench, knees bouncing. “That’s it… Yuya’s avoiding me.. He likes one of them… and he’s hiding it from me..?” A shadow falls over him. Zuzu. “Sora, you are a colorful disaster.” Sora jumps. “W-wat?!” “You sabotaged every girl because you’re jealous.” “I was helping!” She crosses her arms. “Sora. He wasn’t interested in them. Heck he even turned out to no longer be into me in middle school when I asked him out. I wonder who caused that.” Sora’s eyes squinted in confusion as Zuzu rolled her eyes amusingly. The girls return Yuya to Sora when they were lining up for the ferris wheel, both standing there staring at each other awkwardly. Sora starts instantly. “Yuya! Are you okay? Did they pressure you? Did they–” “Sora,” Mika interrupts, “he wasn’t interested in us.” Sora freezes. “...He wasn’t?’ Hana speaks. “He spent the whole day trying to find a chance to speak to you when you set him up on these silly dates.” Rin adds, “He keeps mentioning a certain special somebody even when we tried to talk to him.” Yuya’s face blushes redder than even his hair. Sora turns to him, eyes narrowed in thought. The girls push them into the Ferris wheel, leaving the couple on their own as they waved to them as the ride rose. “So… is there someone you had in mind all this time?” Sora starts, hands fidgeting in his lap. Yuya sat across from him, leaning to the window as he watched the lights outside. “Sora… I… I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” Yuya shifted, gaze steady on his, mustering up his courage. “I… like you, Sora it was you. I’ve liked you for a long time.” Sora didn’t speak, but his eyes couldn’t hide the excitement, a nervous smile creeping on his lips. “You.. liked me? From the beginning? Like since Valentine’s day?” Yuya nods, blushing almost shyly. Sora bursts out: “I DID ALL THAT FOR NOTHING?!” Yuya looked up, surprise and amusement in his eyes. “Sora–” “So.. all this time I was trying to get you a date– when you wanted ME?!” Yuya who was now red to his ears, equally embarrassed, voice rose. “I didn’t want to make things awkward–!” “We WASTED WEEKS–” “I KNOW–!” They both stared at each other in silence and awe, then a giggle, and a chuckle and they both exhaled in laughs. Sora leans closer, “So.. I don’t have competition?” Yuya smiles nervously, as he watches the blush creep on Sora’s face. “Not even close.” The Ferris wheel was getting close to slowly rotating to the top, Yuya slowly getting up and moving to sit beside Sora, his fingers brushing his softly. “So.. are you having fun?” Sora grinned as he looked out the window and back at him. “It’s the best date I’ve been on in these past weeks.” Sora snorted. “It’s your first official date.” Yuya smiled softly, Sora’s fingers wrapping around his. “It’s still the best.” “We’re at the top, let's hope we don’t get stuck.” Sora chuckled as Yuya took a look at the sight with a tilt of his head. “I just.. Still can’t believe it was me out of anybody.” Yuya leaned closer, head almost resting on his shoulder. “I didn’t pick you today,” he said quietly. “I’ve liked you for a while. Maybe a super long while actually.” Sora’s breath caught. “You’re such a fool.” Sora chuckled, earning a giggle from the other. “So are you and your whole setting me up with a date that you basically self destructed.” “Don’t remind me! It was for your own good.” Now it was Sora’s turn to bury his face in his sweater. “I-really appreciated it nonetheless.” “I can’t believe I was jealous because I liked you this whole time.” Sora groaned in his neck. “...Do you still? Like me I mean?” Yuya whispered. “Are you silly? Even more now!” Sora popped his head out of his shoulder and stared at him dumbfoundedly. Yuya continued to chuckle, softly leaning their foreheads until they touched. “Can I…?” Sora didn’t let him finish. He leaned in with a bump of their noses, and a quick and shy press of their lips into a kiss. They pulled away after a moment, glancing at each other’s lips before Sora with a flushed grin, grabbed Yuya’s jacket and held him closer, going for a second kiss, deepening it a little more this time. Yuya, who was flustered all over reciprocated, pulled on Sora’s collar a bit as he kissed back, fingers grabbing his shoulders. When they finally pulled apart, both were as red as Christmas ornaments. Sora whispered, “We totally need to do that more often.” “Do what more often?” came a voice as the pair looked up, wrapped around each other, the door to the ride opened as they didn’t notice the Ferris wheel had reached the end. “Seems you guys kissed.” Zuzu smirked. “Finally!” Hana beamed, the others girls clapping their hands and cheering. “Beautiful. Say would you guys like to be the models of this new manga I’m drawing–” Rin smirked as Mika shook her head with a laugh. Gon smiled while taking out a camera, “A harmonious development.” Sora looked at them all sharply, the pair furiously blushing as they both gathered their things and scrambled out, their friends following. “YUYA RUN!!” Sora yelled as he grabbed his hand, laughing as the two took off through the carnival, fingers intertwined.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618601	{"authors": ["salted_oceanfoam"], "language": "English", "title": "Sora.. are you jealous?"}
The Sweetest Things Robby and Jack have officially been dating for a few weeks and tonight they will be going out on a date to a new Italian restaurant that Jack has been dying to try. They both had the day off, so naturally Robby spent it pacing around his apartment and trying on at least 70 different outfits. Everything seemed not nice enough or way too tight on his body and he wanted tonight to be perfect, he and Jack hadn’t had a chance to go out together in weeks between the administrative bullshit Gloria has been making him do and their opposite schedules, the longest period of time they have gotten to talk face-to-face was for 5 minutes during sign-out 2 days ago, which was abruptly ended when Robby was pulled into a potential OD rolling in by ambo. He settled on an olive green button up and a pair of black pants. While driving to Jack’s he made a quick pitstop at a florist. He is the romantic in the relationship. Always doing small gestures for Jack to show his love. He brings Jack coffee, he orders food to be delivered to him when he on shift and when he is at home, and he leaves little notes in Jack’s locker for him to find. ————————————————————— Robby’s hands were behind his back when Jack opened his apartment door. Robby was starstruck by the sight on the other side of the door frame. Jack was in a tight black polo, that showed off every muscle of his chest and arms. Robby was staring with his jaw open. Jack smirked to himself. Mission accomplished: look so good that Robby is at a loss for words. He notices Robby’s arms are behind his back and nods to them. “What do you have there?” Robby is still not fully present in the conversation, so Jack pokes him in the shoulder. Robby shakes his head, settling his eyes back on Jack’s face, which has a little bit of stubble, which he knows Robby loves. “Sorry, you look really good. Did you ask me a question?” Jack smirks again. “Well, thank you, but I look good everyday.” Robby rolls his eyes, Jack’s ego is another thing that Robby loves. He HATED it at first, all those years ago when Adamson introduced him as the new attending, but Robby has realized that Jack is just confident in himself both as a person and a doctor. Which honestly, is amazing. He wishes he could feel half as self-assured as Jack does. “I asked what you have behind your back?” “Oh yeah” Robby pulls his arms out from behind his back and holds out the bouquet of flowers to Jack. “These are for you” Robby says with a bright smile on his face. Jack freezes with his coat halfway on. His eyes are darting from the flowers to Robby’s face. His throat feels like it is closing in as he manages to make a weird squeak come out. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling onto his cheeks from his glassy eyes. Robby just stands there with the bouquet of daisies and mayflowers acting as a barrier between the two men. Jack has made no attempt to grab the flowers yet. “Uh….what…what are these? Why are you…..” Jack stutters out, still not having taken the present from Robby’s outstretched arm. Robby’s arm drops to his side and he instantly starts panicking. Shit, was this too much. Robby starts rapidly spitting words out. “Did I mess this up? Are flowers too much? Too cheesy? Should I have gone with….I don’t know……tactical cric kits?” Robby starts to bend down to place the bouquet on the ground, but Jack grabs his shoulder to stop him. Robby stands back up to his full height and looks at Jack. Jack’s voice cracks and with a small laugh he attempts to collect his thoughts enough to talk. “No, don’t…it’s just” Jack looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.” Robby stares back at Jack, eyes wide in shock. “Ever? Not even like a pity rose from a middle school dance? A boutonniere from a prom date? Nothing?” Jack snorts and uses his jacket sleeve to wipe his eyes. “Not once. I’ve always been the one to buy the flowers. This…..this is honestly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” Jack leans in and kisses Robby’s cheek. “Thank you!” Robby exhales, a breath he didn’t know he was holding as relief washes over him. His shoulders relax and he offers the bouquet to Jack again. Which he takes this time. “Okay, good because I was about two seconds away from turning around and sprinting to my car, only to pretend this never happened.” Jack laughs, still with tears in his eyes, but now there is also something else there too. Maybe love? Robby doesn’t know what it is, but what he does know is that he loves the way Jack’s cheeks have turned a light pink hue. He will never stop buying Jack flowers. I will be sending this man a bouquet every chance I get from now on. “You’re ridiculous” Robby shrugs. “I’m ridiculous about you.” Jack hugs the bouquet tight to his chest as he steps aside to let Robby in. “Well, come on in casanova. I need to find something to put these in. I’m honestly not even sure I have a vase.” As Robby walks into Jack’s place, he	The Sweetest Things Robby and Jack have officially been dating for a few weeks and tonight they will be going out on a date to a new Italian restaurant that Jack has been dying to try. They both had the day off, so naturally Robby spent it pacing around his apartment and trying on at least 70 different outfits. Everything seemed not nice enough or way too tight on his body and he wanted tonight to be perfect, he and Jack hadn’t had a chance to go out together in weeks between the administrative bullshit Gloria has been making him do and their opposite schedules, the longest period of time they have gotten to talk face-to-face was for 5 minutes during sign-out 2 days ago, which was abruptly ended when Robby was pulled into a potential OD rolling in by ambo. He settled on an olive green button up and a pair of black pants. While driving to Jack’s he made a quick pitstop at a florist. He is the romantic in the relationship. Always doing small gestures for Jack to show his love. He brings Jack coffee, he orders food to be delivered to him when he on shift and when he is at home, and he leaves little notes in Jack’s locker for him to find. ————————————————————— Robby’s hands were behind his back when Jack opened his apartment door. Robby was starstruck by the sight on the other side of the door frame. Jack was in a tight black polo, that showed off every muscle of his chest and arms. Robby was staring with his jaw open. Jack smirked to himself. Mission accomplished: look so good that Robby is at a loss for words. He notices Robby’s arms are behind his back and nods to them. “What do you have there?” Robby is still not fully present in the conversation, so Jack pokes him in the shoulder. Robby shakes his head, settling his eyes back on Jack’s face, which has a little bit of stubble, which he knows Robby loves. “Sorry, you look really good. Did you ask me a question?” Jack smirks again. “Well, thank you, but I look good everyday.” Robby rolls his eyes, Jack’s ego is another thing that Robby loves. He HATED it at first, all those years ago when Adamson introduced him as the new attending, but Robby has realized that Jack is just confident in himself both as a person and a doctor. Which honestly, is amazing. He wishes he could feel half as self-assured as Jack does. “I asked what you have behind your back?” “Oh yeah” Robby pulls his arms out from behind his back and holds out the bouquet of flowers to Jack. “These are for you” Robby says with a bright smile on his face. Jack freezes with his coat halfway on. His eyes are darting from the flowers to Robby’s face. His throat feels like it is closing in as he manages to make a weird squeak come out. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling onto his cheeks from his glassy eyes. Robby just stands there with the bouquet of daisies and mayflowers acting as a barrier between the two men. Jack has made no attempt to grab the flowers yet. “Uh….what…what are these? Why are you…..” Jack stutters out, still not having taken the present from Robby’s outstretched arm. Robby’s arm drops to his side and he instantly starts panicking. Shit, was this too much. Robby starts rapidly spitting words out. “Did I mess this up? Are flowers too much? Too cheesy? Should I have gone with….I don’t know……tactical cric kits?” Robby starts to bend down to place the bouquet on the ground, but Jack grabs his shoulder to stop him. Robby stands back up to his full height and looks at Jack. Jack’s voice cracks and with a small laugh he attempts to collect his thoughts enough to talk. “No, don’t…it’s just” Jack looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.” Robby stares back at Jack, eyes wide in shock. “Ever? Not even like a pity rose from a middle school dance? A boutonniere from a prom date? Nothing?” Jack snorts and uses his jacket sleeve to wipe his eyes. “Not once. I’ve always been the one to buy the flowers. This…..this is honestly the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” Jack leans in and kisses Robby’s cheek. “Thank you!” Robby exhales, a breath he didn’t know he was holding as relief washes over him. His shoulders relax and he offers the bouquet to Jack again. Which he takes this time. “Okay, good because I was about two seconds away from turning around and sprinting to my car, only to pretend this never happened.” Jack laughs, still with tears in his eyes, but now there is also something else there too. Maybe love? Robby doesn’t know what it is, but what he does know is that he loves the way Jack’s cheeks have turned a light pink hue. He will never stop buying Jack flowers. I will be sending this man a bouquet every chance I get from now on. “You’re ridiculous” Robby shrugs. “I’m ridiculous about you.” Jack hugs the bouquet tight to his chest as he steps aside to let Robby in. “Well, come on in casanova. I need to find something to put these in. I’m honestly not even sure I have a vase.” As Robby walks into Jack’s place, he sneaks a glance at Jack’s watery smile. Yep, flowers are going to be a common occurrence from here on out. Also, note to self, buy Jack a vase next time. —————————————————————— Once they are inside, Robby takes a seat at Jack’s counter as Jack looks around in a panic to find something that vaguely resembles a vase. “Okay, vase….vase….I definitely own one. Somewhere” Jack mutters to himself. He’s darting through the kitchen, opening every cabinet as Robby watches on in amusement. Robby, who can never miss the opportunity to tease Jack, spits out, “You don’t sound so confident. Which is rare for you, Dr. Abbot?” Jack not really paying attention to Robby, pulls something out of a cabinet and holds it up. It’s a colander. “This is….not a vase” Jack says with a frown. He sets the colander on the counter and goes back to searching. He pulls out a giant mixing bowl, a frying pan, and a roller, adding them all to the growing pile of random kitchen items that is on his counter. He then pulls out a coffee mug. Holding the coffee mug in his hand, he turns around and holds it up for Robby to see. “Techincally….?” He says with a shrug. Robby lets out a belly laugh. Oh, how much Jack loves that sound. It’s rare for Robby to be so carefree. “Man, technically, that’s for caffeine emergencies, not for a romantic gesture.” Jack groans and adds it to the pile before crouching down, to dig under his sink. He emerges and triumphantly hoists a dusty, oversized pickle jar into the air. The smile on his face is huge. “AHA! See? Vase.” Robby smiles, but responds in the most deadpan tone he can muster up. “That’s a jar.” Robby stares at Jack. “For pickles” Jack, slightly embarrassed, frowns a little. “It’s a vase in spirit” He turns to his sink, rinses the jar quickly, fills it up with water, and carefully places the bouquet in it, before setting it down in the middle of the counter, close to where Robby is sitting. The flowers flop awkwardly against the sides of the jar, since they are way too tall. Jack steps back, hands on his hips, looking flushed but proud. “There, perfect” Robby watches on as Jack fusses with the flowers, trying to get them to stand perfectly upright. “You’re ridiculous and I love it.” Jack continues to fiddle with the flowers, not even noticing Robby has left his seat at the counter, to sneak up behind him. He only realizes it when Robby wraps his arms around Jack’s waist and presses a kiss to his neck, muttering “love you”. Jack turns around, remaining in Robby’s arms, and places his hands on Robby’s face. He leans up a little, so he can give Robby’s a quick kiss . “Love you too and I love the flowers. Thank you again” ——————————————————————— Later that night, Jack and Robby sit across from each other at the restaurant, menus pushed aside, now that they have ordered. Jack reaches across the table, and grabs Robby’s hand, lightly rubbing his thumb against the older man’s knuckles. He is half-smiling as he opens his mouth to talk. “So….why those flowers, daisies and something else that I can’t name? And not roses? Or something dramatic?” He says that last word with a little teasing edge to his voice. Robby grins as he leans forward, so Jack can hear his reasoning. “Because….roses are predictable. Anyone can walk into a florist and grab roses. Daisies are….you” Jack snorts, not believing that his best friend and partner just called him a daisy. “I’m a daisy?” Robby shrugs. “Yeah, they are simple, bright, stubborn. They can grow anywhere, even in cracks in the sidewalk. They don’t need perfect conditions to thrive.” Robby gives Jack a smile. “That’s you. Stubborn, bright, a fighter. Plus, they represent new beginnings.” Robby gestures with his free hand to the both of them. “This whole thing is both of our new beginning.” Jack blinks, caught off guard by the heartfelt reasoning Robby just gave. His throat is tight again, so his next words come out softer than he has ever spoken in his life. “And the other flower?” Robby smiles again, but a blush starts to rise on his face. “They’re mayflowers. They are all about hope and resilience, which is us. Plus, they are the state flower of Massachusetts, and I know how much Boston means to you.” Jack just stares across the table at Robby, his eyes glassy. What a romantic. He tries to laugh it off, but his voice wavers. “You’re insane” Robby leans in farther and meets Jack’s eyes. “Insane about you.” Jack shakes his head, hiding behind his water glass, so Robby cannot see the blush that is crawling up his neck. Robby is usually the blusher, but when he does these sweet little gesture, Jack helped but swoon. ————————————————— The rest of the dinner went smoothly. Jack and Robby laughed about the pittlings, discussed interesting cases they have seen lately, spitballed about potential research they want to do, and recommended articles for the other to read. Robby dropped Jack back off at his apartment, giving him a kiss before Jack got out of the car. Robby watched Jack walk inside his house before he pulled away. Jack unlocked his door, still smiling faintly as he thought about the night. As he stepped inside the door, hanging up his jacket on the hook above the bench where he keeps his go-bag, he notices something on the ground, just outside the threshold. Bending down, he picks up a small card that must have slipped from the bouquet earlier. It’s a simple note, handwritten in Robby’s messy chicken scratch. Jack, Here’s to new beginning and old relationships taking new forms - Mike Jack stares at the words, as his throat tightens for the third time this evening. Leaning against the doorframe, card pressed against his chest, he blinks back tears. “Sap. You’re such a sap” he mutters to himself. Jack looks around his house, thinking, before carefully propping the note up against the pickle jar turned vase on his counter. The flowers, still lean awkwardly against the sides of the jars, but the card makes it complete. Jack stands there, staring at the flowers, his smile is small, but genuine. He exhales, loosening his shoulders and whispers. “Sweetest damn thing anyone’s ever done for me.”	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618606	{"authors": ["futuresurgeon22"], "language": "English", "title": "The Sweetest Things"}
(I hope you) never let me down again It was only 9 in the morning, and Will Byers was having an existential crisis. Specifically, an existential crisis in the shape of Michael Wheeler. He was pretty sure the boy was trying to kill him. Because at the moment, Mike had his hair in a fluffy ponytail, scribbling in a notebook with the sunlight falling over his freckled face, making his big brown eyes look like pools of gold. And he was absolutely gorgeous. His breath hitched as he looked at him, eyes tracing his skinny wrists to his coal curls, admiring how beautiful he looked like this. It was unfair how pretty Mike was. Mike’s eyes flicked up to meet Will’s, and Will realized he was staring with a start and turned away, blushing. “Like what you see, Byers?” Mike teased. The joke hit closer to home than Mike thought it did. “In your dreams, Wheeler,” Will responded, hoping the blush played off as just a trick of the light. “I just need you for a reference.” In a bout of boredom, Mike had decided that he needed to prove to Will that writing could be just as vivid as painting, so now they were locked in a competition to capture the other person better, spending at least 15 minutes a day working on it. They were on day 10 now, and it was ridiculous, because writing and painting were entirely different art forms, but Will wasn’t complaining- now he had an excuse to look at Mike as often as he wanted, and for once he had Mike’s full attention. It was the single guilty pleasure Will allowed himself; with quarantine dragging on and zero signs of Vecna for almost a year, urgency to find him had tensions running high. What was the harm in allowing himself to admire this gorgeous boy for a few minutes every day? Internally, Will sighed. He knew the reason. Of course he did; Mike and El were still dating, and he would never, ever come between them. He should try harder to get over his stupid crush; but deep, deep down, he didn’t want to. No matter how impossible it all was, he couldn’t let go of his love for Mike. He could keep it hidden, he could deal with it never coming true, but he couldn’t let it go. “Will, turn your head.” Suddenly, Mike was right in front of him, grabbing his chin and turning it close to him, staring intently into Will’s eyes. Will was acutely aware of how close they were, of how red he probably was- oh, god, he hoped Mike didn’t pick up on how hard his heart was beating. But Mike simply dropped his chin and scribbled something down on his notepad, retreating back to the bed like it wasn’t a big deal. “What was- what was that for?” Will said, laughing nervously, trying to play it off like the moment was a joke instead of a full fledged gay panic for him. “I needed to describe your eyes,” Mike said, shrugging like it was obvious. Will wished Mike would describe his eyes more often, and then felt guilty about it. Sort of. Mostly he was just still remembering Mike’s hand on his chin. “Well, show me your eyes then. Make it fair.” He said it to keep the joke alive, to brush off his thoughts, but then he felt Mike’s eyes on him. “Okay,” he said, and Will looked up at Mike to find his honey-brown eyes staring into his hazel ones. Oh, okay, then. Will was frozen for a minute before he fumbled for his brush so he wouldn’t look like he was staring for any other purposes than art. Obviously. But of course, the little voice in his head was absolutely dying, because Mike had never looked at him quite so intensely before over something so little, and his eyes were so pretty, and- “BOYS! BREAKFAST!” Karen Wheeler’s voice broke the spell, and both Mike and Will looked away like they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. Mike recovered quickly, though, and slid off the bed, tousling his hair with one hand casually like it wasn’t destroying all the defenses Will had put up against having gay crises in one go. “I guess we’ll have to finish later,” Mike said, and Will was too flustered to respond, so he just nodded and stuck his brushes into a cup of water. Mike wandered out as Will picked up his stand, and Will ruminated on that interaction. Why did that feel so intense? Mike had modeled for Will before, but never quite like that, and he didn’t know if he’d ever get over Mike getting that close. Mike had been acting… weird, these last few months. Not noticeable unless you knew him well and knew what to look for. Will was both of those things, though, so he picked up on it, and it confused him. It was like Mike was looking for all these little things to be helpful for Will; casually taking his plate after breakfast, noticing when he was running low on paint, bringing up inside jokes that no one else was able to get. He was also touching Will more, brushing shoulders or hands or just casually meeting his eyes more often. Not that Will was complaining, but it was odd, especially after all that had occurred after Lenora. But it was like Mike didn’t even notice the shift. Shaking off the thoughts, Will	(I hope you) never let me down again It was only 9 in the morning, and Will Byers was having an existential crisis. Specifically, an existential crisis in the shape of Michael Wheeler. He was pretty sure the boy was trying to kill him. Because at the moment, Mike had his hair in a fluffy ponytail, scribbling in a notebook with the sunlight falling over his freckled face, making his big brown eyes look like pools of gold. And he was absolutely gorgeous. His breath hitched as he looked at him, eyes tracing his skinny wrists to his coal curls, admiring how beautiful he looked like this. It was unfair how pretty Mike was. Mike’s eyes flicked up to meet Will’s, and Will realized he was staring with a start and turned away, blushing. “Like what you see, Byers?” Mike teased. The joke hit closer to home than Mike thought it did. “In your dreams, Wheeler,” Will responded, hoping the blush played off as just a trick of the light. “I just need you for a reference.” In a bout of boredom, Mike had decided that he needed to prove to Will that writing could be just as vivid as painting, so now they were locked in a competition to capture the other person better, spending at least 15 minutes a day working on it. They were on day 10 now, and it was ridiculous, because writing and painting were entirely different art forms, but Will wasn’t complaining- now he had an excuse to look at Mike as often as he wanted, and for once he had Mike’s full attention. It was the single guilty pleasure Will allowed himself; with quarantine dragging on and zero signs of Vecna for almost a year, urgency to find him had tensions running high. What was the harm in allowing himself to admire this gorgeous boy for a few minutes every day? Internally, Will sighed. He knew the reason. Of course he did; Mike and El were still dating, and he would never, ever come between them. He should try harder to get over his stupid crush; but deep, deep down, he didn’t want to. No matter how impossible it all was, he couldn’t let go of his love for Mike. He could keep it hidden, he could deal with it never coming true, but he couldn’t let it go. “Will, turn your head.” Suddenly, Mike was right in front of him, grabbing his chin and turning it close to him, staring intently into Will’s eyes. Will was acutely aware of how close they were, of how red he probably was- oh, god, he hoped Mike didn’t pick up on how hard his heart was beating. But Mike simply dropped his chin and scribbled something down on his notepad, retreating back to the bed like it wasn’t a big deal. “What was- what was that for?” Will said, laughing nervously, trying to play it off like the moment was a joke instead of a full fledged gay panic for him. “I needed to describe your eyes,” Mike said, shrugging like it was obvious. Will wished Mike would describe his eyes more often, and then felt guilty about it. Sort of. Mostly he was just still remembering Mike’s hand on his chin. “Well, show me your eyes then. Make it fair.” He said it to keep the joke alive, to brush off his thoughts, but then he felt Mike’s eyes on him. “Okay,” he said, and Will looked up at Mike to find his honey-brown eyes staring into his hazel ones. Oh, okay, then. Will was frozen for a minute before he fumbled for his brush so he wouldn’t look like he was staring for any other purposes than art. Obviously. But of course, the little voice in his head was absolutely dying, because Mike had never looked at him quite so intensely before over something so little, and his eyes were so pretty, and- “BOYS! BREAKFAST!” Karen Wheeler’s voice broke the spell, and both Mike and Will looked away like they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. Mike recovered quickly, though, and slid off the bed, tousling his hair with one hand casually like it wasn’t destroying all the defenses Will had put up against having gay crises in one go. “I guess we’ll have to finish later,” Mike said, and Will was too flustered to respond, so he just nodded and stuck his brushes into a cup of water. Mike wandered out as Will picked up his stand, and Will ruminated on that interaction. Why did that feel so intense? Mike had modeled for Will before, but never quite like that, and he didn’t know if he’d ever get over Mike getting that close. Mike had been acting… weird, these last few months. Not noticeable unless you knew him well and knew what to look for. Will was both of those things, though, so he picked up on it, and it confused him. It was like Mike was looking for all these little things to be helpful for Will; casually taking his plate after breakfast, noticing when he was running low on paint, bringing up inside jokes that no one else was able to get. He was also touching Will more, brushing shoulders or hands or just casually meeting his eyes more often. Not that Will was complaining, but it was odd, especially after all that had occurred after Lenora. But it was like Mike didn’t even notice the shift. Shaking off the thoughts, Will headed downstairs, where Ms Wheeler had made bacon, eggs, and toast for breakfast. He thanked her, scooped a generous serving, and sat down at the table in his usual spot besides his mom and Mike. He glanced a look at the other boy, and Mike looked so uncivilized, it made Will snort into his eggs. Mike paused, fork halfway to his mouth, and gave him a curious look. “What?” “Use your napkin, Michael,” Will snorted, and Mike turned scarlet and shoved him a bit, making Will blush in turn. He heard a slight cough, and looked up to see Jonathan staring very un-subtly at him from across the table, and Will kicked his brother, making Jonathan yelp. Unlike before, Mike didn’t seem to notice. It made Will’s heart stutter a bit to think he was listening specifically to him- but the thought made him kick himself, this time. Will was sitting closer, and Mike always seemed to know when someone was looking at him, so he chalked it up to that. The rest of the day passed Will by in a blur, like most days. It was summertime, and school was out, so Will had nothing to do but wait for time to pass. Right now, he found himself in the basement, painting, listening to The Clash through his walkman. He had a large canvas in front of him, a landscape of one of the many fields of Hawkins he’d been working on for a few weeks now. At the moment, he was adding the details on the trees behind the WSQK, a bike propped against the wall of the building. He stepped away from it, and admired his work. He was finished, finally. He let out a satisfied sigh, and took of his Walkman, turning around to find- “Mike?” Will jolted. “Woah, woah, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Mike said, eyeing him up and down, observing the paint on his arms and in his hair. Then he snorted a bit. “I think you jumped, like, 10 feet right then.” “Oh my god, shut uuuuppppppp,” Will complained, grinning. “It’s not my fault you were stalking me!” “Stalking you?!?” Mike spluttered, feigning offense. “Me? Never! I just so happened to witness you for a few minutes as you finished what might just happen to be the greatest masterpiece ever painted.” Now, Mike’s attention was on the canvas behind WIll, and he walked over to inspect it. He whistled under his breath. “Seriously, Will, how did you get it in this much detail? This is incredible.” Mike looked at him with such awe and intensity in his eyes, Will blushed in spite of himself. “I just- I just painted it the way I saw it,” he said, embarrassed. “Did you even use a reference or anything?” “...no…” Will had visited that field, which was his go to reading and picnic spot, so many times during the long days he had the view memorized. Mike just stared at him in awe. “Byers, you may just be the craziest person I’ve ever met.” “Well, crazy together, right?” Will said it shyly, and Mike’s smile softened. “Crazy together,” he reaffirmed, and started towards the stairs, breaking the moment. “Oh my GOD, I’m so hot right now, it’s like a bajillion degrees outside. Do you wanna go get an ice cream or something? I was thinking we could-” “It’s for you, by the way,” Will blurted, getting a familiar sense of deja vu from the whole situation. Even the field reminded him of another painting that he’d made, but this time, it was going to go right. Mike spun around, halfway up the stairs. “What?” “The painting, it’s for you. Well, for your whole family. You all have done so much for us, I wanted to say thank you, I guess.” Will could feel his face burning as Mike stared at him again with that intense look; what was it with Mike and looking at you like the secrets of the universe hid behind your eyes? All Will knew was that he was very, very bad at handling them. “Will, that’s…” Mike trailed off, and Will didn’t know if it was just the light (probably) or his imagination (definitely), but Mike’s face seemed a few shades pinker than it had a minute before. “...you didn’t have to. We’re just happy you’re back in Hawkins.” Okay, Mike was definitely blushing. Will refused to think about what that meant (it was one thing to let yourself paint your best friend, and it was another to let yourself think he might like you back. Or something like that. Because he was definitely not thinking about it.) “Plus, I think my mom likes you more than she likes me- she’s always going on about how polite and respectful and clean you are.” Mike laughed, but Will could hear a bit of shyness in it, and before he could analyze Mike’s face to know what that meant, the lanky boy was bounding up the stairs. “Now, I’m serious- do you want ice cream? I was thinking we could try that new ice cream place down the street from your mom’s store…” Will smiled, and followed after his best friend. 20 minutes later and ten dollars lighter, the two boys sat on the low wall surrounding the park, eating their ice cream. Will had chosen vanilla, which had caused Mike to call him boring- while Mike had ordered a monstrosity of toppings on his caramel and sea salt scoop. Will didn’t even know what they all were- he could see gummy bears, peanuts, sprinkles, strawberries, candied bacon, all drenched in chocolate and caramel- and those were just the ones he could make out. It seemed absolutely disgusting, and yet it was the most Mike thing he’d ever seen. Right now, they were quiet, slowly slurping up their dripping ice cream, knees bumping together as Mike swung his legs over the side of the wall. He looked so happy, hair blowing in the wind, slurping away at that ridiculous cone, and Will was so content watching him out of the corner of his eye that he almost didn’t notice as Mike swiped one of his fingers through his vanilla, licking it with a shit-eating grin. “Hey-!” Will protested as Mike went in for another bite. “What?” He said innocently, giving Will the most innocent puppy-dog face he could manage. “Oi, you’re a real douche, you know that?” Will laughed, but relented, and let Mike take a proper bite of his vanilla. Mike hummed contentedly, before handing over his own cone. “Only fair,” he said, quoting him from this morning, and Will eyed it suspiciously. He took a small bite- and gagged. All the flavors combined in the worst possible way, the fruit flavors and chocolate and saltiness combining in what Will could only describe as literal vomit. “Mike, this tastes like horse crap,” he wheezed. “How did you eat so much of this?” Mike laughed as Will dove for the vanilla again, desperately piling it onto his tongue to erase the flavor of Mike’s nightmare ice cream. When his taste buds calmed down, Mike was still laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. He smiled at Will, before his expression turned focused, and he leaned forward a bit, staring at Will’s lips. Will’s reaction was instant. Bright red, he was about to ask what he was doing when Mike lifted his hand and brushed his thumb across the left corner of Will’s mouth. Speechless, and looking like a tomato, Will watched as Mike studied the substance on his thumb. “You had a bit of ice cream there,” Mike said simply, licked his thumb clean, and stood up like nothing had happened. Will was pretty sure he was going into cardiac arrest. “Do you wanna play at the park?” Mike said suddenly as Will sat there in shock. “I’ll race ya to the playground!” And off he went, leaving Will sitting on the wall with his cup of melted ice cream, processing what had just happened. What had just happened? Mike Wheeler had just stared at Will’s lips, ran his thumb over them, and then shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal. And then he had literally ran away. Will jumped, realizing that he should be chasing after Mike. That’s how a normal person would act after that interaction, right? A straight guy without a life-alteringly huge crush on the guy who had just caused him to have a minor gay meltdown in public? Ohhhh, Will was in deep trouble. Still, nevertheless, he ran after Mike, trying not to focus on how hot his face still was. He would blame it on the sun, if Mike noticed. Which he wouldn’t. Mike never noticed. He tried to believe this thought until he caught up with Mike, who had his hands on his knees, panting like he hadn’t seen water or shade for many a month. Running was not his forte. “You look like you just sprinted across the Sahara desert,” Will deadpanned. “Oh, go to hell,” Mike panted back, glaring with fake hatred. “You didn’t even break a sweat!” Mike looked so offended Will couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Mike tried to keep up the aggravation for a few more seconds before he joined in, laughing until their ribs hurt. For those few moments, everything was funny, and joyful, and perfect, and Will was just so… at peace. He smiled at Mike, and Mike smiled back… and then slapped his shoulder, yelling “You’re it!” before sprinting full-speed towards the playground, scaling the short steps two at a time. “You little-” Will chased after him, running up behind him, sending Mike scurrying down the slide. “Agh- it’s so hot!” Mike yelped. “Why do they make these slides out of metal? Willllllll, I think my butt is burninggggggg, help meeeeeee,” he whined, glaring at the slide as if it had personally wronged him. Will laughed at him, and they left the playground at Mike’s insistence that the slides had it out for him; the two ended up laying on the grass, side by side. They sat there in comfortable silence for a minute as they stared up into the fluttering leaves of the trees, and Will could tell Mike was thinking. “Will? El and I broke up.” Will choked on air. “What?” He sat up, coughing a bit, and stared at Mike incredulously, who for his part looked guilty for dropping this bomb on Will as he rested in the grass. “Yeah, just two days ago… it was mutual.” Will thought back to two days ago; El had seemed down when he’d stopped by to see her in Hop’s cabin. How had he not heard of this? “I guess we both realized that maybe… maybe we haven’t been working out for a while.” Mike looked so small there on the grass, picking at the individual blades with anxious fingers. Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Mike like this. “I think it’s good. I think we’ll work better as friends, anyways. But… I guess we won’t be seeing each other for a while. El said she needed to figure out who she was without me, which is totally fair, and… yeah.” Mike glanced timidly up at Will to see his reaction, and Will knew he had an expression of concerned, disbelieving shock on his face. Mike burned red with embarrassment and looked away again. Will quickly gathered his thoughts (or at least, he tried to, for Mike’s sake). “Mike, I’m- Mike, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how that feels, even if it was mutual. It still must suck, huh?” Mike nodded subtly, sitting up and meeting Will’s eyes, some of his nervousness melting back into that new intensity Will was becoming oh-so-familiar with. “Yeah. I bet.” Will went quiet for a minute, trying to figure out what to say next. Struggling, feeling like he needed to fill the silence as Mike burned a hole in his head, he blurted stuff out without thinking. “But… I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure there will be more people for you. I mean, you and El met when you were, what, 11? And she was your first girlfriend. Plus, you’re a good lookin’ guy, I’m sure-” Will suddenly cut himself off, realizing what he was saying. Mike was looking at him quizzically. Will needed to backtrack, desperately. “Oh, my god, I’m sorry, that was so insensitive- I just meant, I wouldn’t worry about being alone or something because there’s bound to be other people that want to date you- no, wait, that’s not how I wanted it to come out either, of course you can be sad and of course it was a special relationship- why did that make it sound like it wasn’t?- shit, well, I just meant- uhm- and when I said good looking I meant objectively, of course, not like I find you attractive because that would be weird, right, and uhm- I just meant- I’m sorry?” Will’s entire face was on fire. He wished he could curl up and die on-spot. What was he saying? He needed to fix this. Mike was still just staring at him like he couldn’t figure something out, eyebrows raised. “Just, yeah, basically, I’m here for you if you ever want to talk and I’m sorry that this happened. And sorry that apparently I’m absolute crap at motivational breakup speeches.” He finished in a rush with an awkward laugh, and sat there dying, waiting for Mike to speak and end his misery. He might as well just kill him now. He’d called Mike good looking. What was he thinking? Who did that? Was he about to get rejected? Will braced himself for the worst, his stomach curdling. “O…kay?” Mike said, still looking like Will was a mystery he couldn’t figure out. But before Will could look too far into it, Mike stood up, dusted his pants, and started walking back towards their bikes. “Cmon,” he said, walking backwards to look at will, hands stuffed lazily in his pockets. “I told Holly we’d be back by 3.” Will blushed one more time, burning with embarrassment, and mounted his bike as well. They rode back in relative silence, both clearly in their own worlds, and when they entered the house Mike went straight up to his room. “Bye…?” Will called after him. Mike didn’t hear him. Standing awkwardly in the doorway, he spotted some dishes in the sink, and he decided to make himself useful. He needed to do something with his hands, anyway. He stood in front of the sink, rolled up his sleeves, and tried to process the last two hours. From the painting to getting ice cream to that goddamn lip brush to Mike confessing his breakup to Will blabbering to Mike’s strange behavior, Will still felt like he was overloading. Soon, Will was done with the dishes, so he moved onto other chores in the house absentmindedly; cleaning helped him think, and he really needed to think right now. He was dusting Ms Wheeler’s fancy overhead light in the living room when he was interrupted by Jonathan and Nancy entering the house in a flurry, carrying several large grocery bags. It was their job to shop for the meals, and Will could definitely tell by the size of their load- but that was clearly not on their minds as they gaped at Will, who was balancing precariously on a ladder, caught red handed with the feather duster poised to swipe grime off the crystals composing the chandelier. “...hi?” He offered nervously, and the two just rolled their eyes and moved on, though Jonathan gave him a look that said ‘I can very clearly tell something is up and you will be telling me about it later’ and Nancy sighed something that sounded suspiciously like “boys” under her breath. Will finished up his dusting, and put the supplies away, moving into the kitchen to help Nancy and Jonathan unpack the groceries. His ears burned as they stared at him again, but they didn’t bring it up. Once all the food was in its rightful place, Nancy finally spoke up. “Will, have you seen Mike?” “Oh, uh, I think he’s in his room,” Will said, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “He was acting kinda weird last time I saw him.” Nancy, queen of muttering under her breath, thanked him before walking by him with a mumbled “figures, Michael”. As soon as she left the room, Jonathan turned to him with a quizzical eye. “Basement?” As much as Will wanted to take Jonathan up on his offer, he was still figuring it out himself. “Later?” he asked sheepishly, and Jonathan seemed to understand, giving him a smile and a comforting squeeze of the shoulder as he walked past. “What do you want for dinner?” he asked, and Will was grateful for the topic change. “I was thinking spaghetti,” Jonathan said, looking in the cabinets for a can of tomato sauce. “Sounds delicious,” Will agreed, and helped his brother set up the meal in comfortable silence. Jonathan took over cooking when he could, his way of showing his gratitude to the Wheelers, and Will liked helping him out, even if he couldn’t cook to save his life. Mostly, he just stirred the pasta and the sauce to keep them both from burning as Jonathan chopped broccoli to steam. “Your day was good, though?” Jonathan asked, breaking the quiet. Will thought about it. It had been confusing, of course, but… it had quite honestly been one of the best days he’s had in… a while. He smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, it was really good.” Jonathan’s eyes softened. “Good. Mine was too.” They resumed their silence, but it was clear that Jonathan felt better about whatever had been worrying him. Will smiled, and stirred until his arm hurt. Throughout the next week, it was clear something was off in Mike; he would go from happy and joking with Will to intense and then to this confused state where it was clear he was thinking about something but Will doubted even Mike fully knew what.Today it was especially bad, starting from the second they started their competition back up. Will kept glancing up at Mike, who he caught staring at him intensely, pencil barely moving on his page. It only got worse after breakfast, and it threw him for a loop so badly that Will decided to go visit El to get away from it all. “I’ll be back soon,” he called into the house, and gently shut the door behind him. It had been a week since Mike had told him that he and El broke up, and yet, Will still hadn’t seen her; he felt bad for ignoring her, and worse for using her as an escape excuse, but he was nervous about talking to her about it. He felt guilty for how he felt about Mike, especially now that they had just broken up. El was basically his twin sister, and he never wanted anything to ruin that- let alone a stupid boy (though Mike wasn’t stupid, argued his brain, to which he said: shut up, not the time). El was one of the only people, along with Jonathan, that knew that he liked boys. He remembered back in Lenora, a little before Mike had arrived, El had asked him why he never acted like the other boys did around girls at their school. She was so earnest, he was taken aback by it; there was no ill intent in her voice when she asked him if he liked boys instead. “El- El, you can’t just say that,” he’d hissed, looking around their empty house like he feared spies were there. “Why?” She’d asked him. “I like boys too. Is that a problem?” “No,” He’d said, shutting his door and sitting on his bed to have this talk with her. “Well, yes. But it shouldn’t be, really.” “What do you mean?” “Well…” he remembered struggling to phrase it. “People really don’t like it when boys like boys. Or girls like girls. I guess… people just think it’s strange, or unholy or something weird like that. I don’t know why. But they do.” “But… why?” “I think people are just scared of change. See, you know and I know there’s nothing really wrong with it, but people think there is, and so it’s dangerous to be gay in these times.” “Gay?” “Or queer, I guess. It just means you like someone of the same gender.” He paused. “But… yeah. Yeah, I like boys. But you have to swear not to tell anyone, or you could get us both seriously hurt, okay?” El nodded; she understood stakes like that. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.” A pause. “Do you like anyone?” “Aaaaand now it’s time for a topic change, oh-dearest-sister-of-mine.” Will smiled fondly at the memory as he pulled up to Hop’s cabin, hiding his bike underneath the porch steps before sneaking in through the cellar. They had to make sure the property always looked abandoned, in case someone was watching; unfortunately, El was still wanted by the US Government, and Hopper was not taking any risks. He was at work, so Will knew he wouldn’t find him there. “El?” He called up, and he heard a door open somewhere. “Will, is that you?” El called from the top of the stairs, and Will jumped two at a time to see her, scooping her up into a big hug. “Heya, El! How’ve you been?” He said, grinning. Near all of his worries disappeared as El described her recent life; she’d befriended a squirrel predictably named Mr Fibbly by feeding him peanuts she snuck from the pantry. Will listened, amused, before it got quiet. “I assume Mike told you about the breakup?” El said after a minute. WIll nodded. “Yeah. Are you okay?” He asked hesitantly, and El smiled- and though it was undeniably tinted with sadness, she looked genuinely okay. More than okay, happy. She sat down on her bed contentedly. “I’m good, Will,” she said, and Will smiled back fondly. “What about you? How is it going with you and Mike?” It took Will a second to hear what she said, but as he processed, a giant bolt of fear crashed down on him. “W-what?” “You and Mike,” El said calmly. “What- what do you mean by that? Me and Mike are just fr-” “Oh, Will, I know you like Mike,” El said bluntly, but kindly, and Will felt his stomach drop to the floor. How could she know? Was she angry? She didn’t seem angry, but Will never knew with this stuff. “How- why-” He didn’t quite know what to say, but El took his hand. “Will, calm down,” she said sternly. “I don’t mind at all. I think it’s sweet. Plus, I haven’t really had feelings for Mike since Lenora, so… don’t worry about me. I know you have been.” El was always insightful, and Will felt a bit better, but he also felt like laughing- he could never have pictured the conversation going like this. “How- how did you know?” Will asked. If El knew, was it possible that Mike knew, too…? “The painting,” El said simply. Will’s heart dropped. If El knew about the painting, that meant Mike had told her about it. Which meant… “Explain,” he asked desperately, plopping on her bed next to her. “Well… right after the day the gates opened, me and Mike were talking when he thanked me for this painting that he thought I had given him, or something like that. He used a big word to describe it…com- commi…?” “Commission.” Will’s heart was pounding. Had Mike known about the painting since they got back from Lenora? Why hadn’t he brought it up? “Yeah, commission. That’s it. Anyways, I told him I didn’t have anything to do with any painting, and I just remember seeing something light up in his eyes and he left so fast that it confused me, and to be honest I sort of forgot about the whole interaction until last week when we broke up. He told me he was sorry but that he had lied in his speech in the pizza dough freezer, that he had based it off something you said when you had given him a painting- and that’s when I figured it out. And oh, Will, you made me so sad for a minute there.” She turned to him mournfully. His mouth parched up. He hated the thought that his selfish feelings had ever made her sad. “El, I’m so sorry- I know it isn’t right to like him, especially while you were dating-” “No, not because of that, Will. Because I realized what had happened. You had made that painting, the one you worked on all summer, just for Mike, only to give it to him like it was from me. You were gonna confess, weren’t you?” Will nodded miserably. El grabbed his hand and held it. “But instead you decided to sacrifice your feelings for our relationship. Our failing relationship. It was what you said that helped him say what he did, and that’s what helped me save Max; but… but… Will, it wasn’t out of love, how I did that. I guess I knew he was lying. It made me so… so angry, and that’s what I used to channel my powers then. And I couldn’t look him in the eyes for a while. But we never talked about it, and we just stayed together until a few days ago when I realized that we hadn’t even talked in a week. And it didn’t feel like either one of us had noticed. So… we broke up.” El let out a sigh, like she had been carrying those confessions for a long time, and she looked so… free. “El…” Will hugged his sister. “So, please don’t worry about it, Will. Plus, I’ve seen you with Mike, and I think my Mike and your Mike were always different. You bring out the best in him. And he brings out the best in you.” He could tell she was smiling as she said it, hugging him back. After the visit was over and Will had promised El he would visit her in two days (with a box of Eggos and a pack of Skittles to make up for the extra long wait), he kicked back his bike and thought hard about this new revelation as he peddled down the road. Mike knew about the painting. But he hadn’t brought it up. Will couldn’t get it out of his mind. Mike did not keep secrets like that; when you did something, or he had a question for you, he took charge and asked it immediately, especially if it was for Will. They trusted each other with everything; friends don’t lie, and they don’t keep secrets. But Mike had known about this massive, heart-crushing, world-shakingly big lie for almost 3 months, and not a word. Not even a hint that he knew. Mike was so… so confusing, lately. Will almost felt sick to his stomach trying to think about all the things it could mean until he finally faced the hard truth he’d been trying to avoid. He had to talk to Mike about the painting. Soon. Today. Just like ripping off a bandaid, right? Right?	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618611&view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["certified_loser_boy"], "language": "English", "title": "(I hope you) never let me down again"}
I Want You to Die Through Me "But Jaeho's the opposite. He kills while looking them in the eyes. So he eats fish so well… he only eats fish." It was the same look he held during every staring contest he had with his own prey, killing them ruthlessly without a single blink. He could feel a bubble of pride settle in his chest as he felt blood coated hands press against his airways. His mouth and nose being sealed off as the lack of oxygen immediately set his mind and body into a frenzy. He could die right now… he was dying right now, but was it all that bad? "Aren't you sick of this life." He was sick of it all. Hyunsoo never wanted to side with a bunch of gangsters that saw human life as money. He never understood it until his own mother had a price tag above her head. He was once spared from joining her because his own price was too high to be killed for— he was valuable, priceless to the right hands. Those hands being Jaeho's, if he chose to play his cards right. Knowing that his own boss had used his mothers life like a chess piece filled him with blinding hatred when he pulled that trigger. He shot into her lifeless body as many times as he could before the gun went empty. He heard the gun click as the bullets vanished and instead walked over to the slowly dying man. His steps were echoing and slow, dragging on the wet asphalt like a steady predator going in for the kill. He squatted down carefully, and gently wrapped the gun in Jaeho's bloody hands. His eyes so blank and lifeless, Jaeho shivered just from glancing into them. Had he created this monster? He felt pride and joy at the mere implication that he was the one who made the cop this way. He wouldn't regret it in a million years, finally he found someone who understood him. You can't trust even the ones you call family. They could have sold the drugs and taken the money. "I should have killed you from the get go." "Don't make the same mistake." He whispered, his throat already closing in on itself as he held back dry heaving coughs. He laid limply as Hyunsoo stared down at him unmoving before he quietly placed his hands over the others mouth and nose. He held it there for a long time, feeling the desperation and last breaths on his palm. He wanted to feel the life drain from the old fucks eyes and body. Watching as he died pathetically to a rookie cop, or he wasn't quite a rookie anymore after nearly dedicating three years of his life to this scam. He held down until he felt the man lose consciousness and his body went slack. Hyunsoo let go and leaned in to hear any sounds of life, moving his hands over to the veins in the older man's throat. He held his breath before letting it go when he felt a faint pulse— it was enough. He slowly stood up and wiped the tears from his face in bitter annoyance. After all they've done together, the betrayal on top of it— he was still crying over a dying man, a dying man that didn't deserve a single drop of his sorrow. He gasped out as he blinked away the wetness and walked back to the red sports car, the same one he's driven in when he first got out of prison 150 days ago. It felt like only yesterday that he entered that dreadful prison and played "gangster" to appease his target… ending up as the victim in the end. The least he got out of it was a satisfactory conclusion to his mothers hit and run, he could die peacefully if he wanted to. All he had to do was take the red sports car and ride off into the distance like some action movie protagonist that had a badass ending. Except he didn't feel victorious. He felt so much and nothing all at once. He could only stare at the dying man and think of all the ways he should torture Jaeho until he was begging him for mercy. After three years of his life being wasted away in a joint, and then spending his only taste of freedom being monitored 24/7 by both sides— He needed a long vacation. He would leave that night and never come back, his records would be erased eventually by the Busan police once they realized he was missing. Pronounced dead, and buried alongside his mothers tree… he would change his life around and live somewhere far away from here. Jaeho was still breathing. He made sure of it, but he didn't know why… after everything, he still wanted him to live. He hoped that the old man would die maybe from lack of oxygen to the brain, his body could go into shock and he would never wake up again. Laying out on the pavement the same way his mother had died— ironically both being hit by a car in their last moments on earth. He sluggishly walked around the back of the car to dig around for a spare cellphone he knew Jaeho kept on him for emergencies. He shakily called the police and threw the phone onto the floor as he turned on the sports car with a loudness that could have woken up the neighborhood if they weren't at an abandoned building. He didn't dare look back once after he called 119 and fled from the scene. His mission was officially over. He drove for hours	I Want You to Die Through Me "But Jaeho's the opposite. He kills while looking them in the eyes. So he eats fish so well… he only eats fish." It was the same look he held during every staring contest he had with his own prey, killing them ruthlessly without a single blink. He could feel a bubble of pride settle in his chest as he felt blood coated hands press against his airways. His mouth and nose being sealed off as the lack of oxygen immediately set his mind and body into a frenzy. He could die right now… he was dying right now, but was it all that bad? "Aren't you sick of this life." He was sick of it all. Hyunsoo never wanted to side with a bunch of gangsters that saw human life as money. He never understood it until his own mother had a price tag above her head. He was once spared from joining her because his own price was too high to be killed for— he was valuable, priceless to the right hands. Those hands being Jaeho's, if he chose to play his cards right. Knowing that his own boss had used his mothers life like a chess piece filled him with blinding hatred when he pulled that trigger. He shot into her lifeless body as many times as he could before the gun went empty. He heard the gun click as the bullets vanished and instead walked over to the slowly dying man. His steps were echoing and slow, dragging on the wet asphalt like a steady predator going in for the kill. He squatted down carefully, and gently wrapped the gun in Jaeho's bloody hands. His eyes so blank and lifeless, Jaeho shivered just from glancing into them. Had he created this monster? He felt pride and joy at the mere implication that he was the one who made the cop this way. He wouldn't regret it in a million years, finally he found someone who understood him. You can't trust even the ones you call family. They could have sold the drugs and taken the money. "I should have killed you from the get go." "Don't make the same mistake." He whispered, his throat already closing in on itself as he held back dry heaving coughs. He laid limply as Hyunsoo stared down at him unmoving before he quietly placed his hands over the others mouth and nose. He held it there for a long time, feeling the desperation and last breaths on his palm. He wanted to feel the life drain from the old fucks eyes and body. Watching as he died pathetically to a rookie cop, or he wasn't quite a rookie anymore after nearly dedicating three years of his life to this scam. He held down until he felt the man lose consciousness and his body went slack. Hyunsoo let go and leaned in to hear any sounds of life, moving his hands over to the veins in the older man's throat. He held his breath before letting it go when he felt a faint pulse— it was enough. He slowly stood up and wiped the tears from his face in bitter annoyance. After all they've done together, the betrayal on top of it— he was still crying over a dying man, a dying man that didn't deserve a single drop of his sorrow. He gasped out as he blinked away the wetness and walked back to the red sports car, the same one he's driven in when he first got out of prison 150 days ago. It felt like only yesterday that he entered that dreadful prison and played "gangster" to appease his target… ending up as the victim in the end. The least he got out of it was a satisfactory conclusion to his mothers hit and run, he could die peacefully if he wanted to. All he had to do was take the red sports car and ride off into the distance like some action movie protagonist that had a badass ending. Except he didn't feel victorious. He felt so much and nothing all at once. He could only stare at the dying man and think of all the ways he should torture Jaeho until he was begging him for mercy. After three years of his life being wasted away in a joint, and then spending his only taste of freedom being monitored 24/7 by both sides— He needed a long vacation. He would leave that night and never come back, his records would be erased eventually by the Busan police once they realized he was missing. Pronounced dead, and buried alongside his mothers tree… he would change his life around and live somewhere far away from here. Jaeho was still breathing. He made sure of it, but he didn't know why… after everything, he still wanted him to live. He hoped that the old man would die maybe from lack of oxygen to the brain, his body could go into shock and he would never wake up again. Laying out on the pavement the same way his mother had died— ironically both being hit by a car in their last moments on earth. He sluggishly walked around the back of the car to dig around for a spare cellphone he knew Jaeho kept on him for emergencies. He shakily called the police and threw the phone onto the floor as he turned on the sports car with a loudness that could have woken up the neighborhood if they weren't at an abandoned building. He didn't dare look back once after he called 119 and fled from the scene. His mission was officially over. He drove for hours until he couldn't handle it anymore. Somehow he found himself at the beach again… the same one when he had been goofing around with Jaeho a few nights ago. Those same haunting words replaying in his head. "You wouldn't be by my side now." At the time he took it as a sign of sorts, somewhat of a bright side to things that he hadn't even thought of. Little did he know it was more of a confession, something sinister underneath those fabricated lies that Jaeho had presented to him for three years. He wasn't religious to begin with. He gave up on God years ago, and even more so now that he was stuck with no way to return to his old life again. He kicked at the sand, his hair blowing wildly as he bit his lip and finally broke down. He fell to his knees and gripped the sand harshly as he clawed at the soft grains. He let out screams of terror and anguish. No matter how loud he got, it all got carried away by the wind and leaving his throat hoarse instead. His suit flapped open, feeling even more disgusted as he remembered who gifted him these very clothes. He watched the grains fall between his fingers as tear drops formed in the sand below him. He was crying again. He wiped at his eyes, nearly getting sand in them but that was the least of his worries as he couldn't block out the memories he felt suddenly start to suffocate him. "You were meant to kill me from the start… Hyung, why didn't you kill me!" He screamed into the wind as he felt himself choke up all over again. "It should have been me! Not my eomma! Why not me!" He couldn't even hear himself think as he vented his hurt into the open air, glad that it was still nearly midnight and far away from any civilians to worry about being overheard. He knelt in the sand for hours as he coughed and wailed helplessly, begging as he tried to stop the tears flowing from his eyes. He wanted to grieve for the family he lost without being tormented with the fact that he had loved the murderer. It was the biggest blow to his heart knowing that he had once loved the man who killed his own mother. The man who manipulated their entire friendship, their bond and future just so he could have him as a trophy of sorts— They had never officially gone out, that wasn't really an option with their status and being from two different worlds. It would have thrown their plans into jeopardy if they started dating like a regular couple. They weren't regular people to begin with. This never stopped Jaeho from laying close to him every night and secretly holding his hand under the table whenever they went out in public or even during meetings. They never took it any further… simply joking, drinking and holding each other late at night dreaming of another life they were both in— Somewhere far from the reality. Jaeho wanted to trust him so badly. Hyunsoo wanted to escape through him. They were both so wrong in the end. "Do you think I'm capable of trusting someone?" "But I trust you though." They had sat there and confessed it out loud. Trust. Family. Love. They were suppose to be the family they thought they never had, even sharing the trauma they endured around their own lives before crime. Well Hyunsoo knew he was lying about his time being in the Golden Crane Gang… he was a member, but as an undercover cop, so it had strictly been for business. This time he had blown his cover early on and yet it was all in Jaeho's favor. He had manipulated every single thing down to the seconds and it infuriated Hyunsoo. It made him scream loud as it slowly faded into soft whimpers of pain as his arm still hurt. He ignored the fact that he couldn't hear out of his right ear from the gun shot either, but what did it matter now. Go Byeong-Gap was dead. Go Byung- Chul was dead. Officer Cheon was dead. All he had left was to wait for Han Jaeho to die like the rest of them. Except it would never happen knowing how much of a cockroach that bastard was. His plan was to frame the scene at the warehouse on the drug dealer, planting the gun in his hands would be proof enough that he had killed officer Cheon and the rest of the police in the building. It wasn't wrong after all… the man had killed them. All Hyunsoo did was make his prison time longer by adding another kill. This would send that asshole to prison for a good five years at least, even with parole… which he was unlikely to get— The man was doomed to die in prison after the stunt he pulled by killing the "beloved CEO Byung-Chul". It was fool proof and would give him the grace period to think about what he was going to do with his life from now on. He wasn't entirely off the hook either, who knew what could happen in between the hours from now to later. He picked himself up from the sand and didn't bother dusting himself off as he threw his black blazer to the ocean, almost like an offering while he wished his mother farewell for the final time in the city he once called home. It had been only a week before Hyunsoo finally caught sight of the news featuring, "Drug dealer Han Jaeho finally sentenced to five years in prison for possession of 50kg of blue meth and the death of 4 police officers". Hyunsoo had to awkwardly tilt his head to see the old tv from the awful angle that it hung up at while he focused on scanning the person's groceries in front of him. He hadn't exactly turned over a new leaf, but it was a start. He moved to Ulsan, only an hour drive from Busan but still far enough that he felt like he was safe to start anew. He sold the red sports car for a hefty amount of money, but losing some of it to silence the buyer into ignoring the blood stains on the seats. He used that money to buy the cheapest apartment he could within the city, and then applied to any odd job he could find. It didn't matter what he did, he just needed something to do and money to earn. He was finally hired at his nearest family owned grocery store, grateful that the owners were elderly and very kind to him— it made him feel like he apart of some small family again. The thought made his stomach churn in loneliness. This was when he first started feeling a growing shadow over his life. He would end up looking around corners and peeking behind his shoulders every hour as he worked, thinking and thinking that he saw someone he knew. It only grew worse when he would feel like someone was watching him, his neck growing prickly as he scanned food all day and put on a facade to seem polite. It even went as far as thinking that the owners were secretly after him and had tricked him into working for them so that they could tell the police his whereabouts. He experienced paranoia seep in daily as he greeted them every morning, attempting to not feel like they were secretly sneering behind his back. He started growing more and more anxious as days went by. Strangers glancing at him would send him into fight or flight mode— his fists clenching together as he would bite his tongue from shouting out a "gangster typical" insult that would get him even more looks. He had to suppress the thoughts that kept telling him that everyone was suddenly out to get him. He abruptly remembered how Jaeho would describe this feeling to him some nights when they both were really drunk. The old man would mumble and turn sulky as his face drooped and he would look ten times older than he really was. "You won't ever get it… Hyunsoo-ssi… I hope you never do." Ironically it was all his life ended up being now. Paranoid and suspicions. He would even think such horrible things about the elderly couple who meant him no harm. He now understood why Jaeho had such a high tendency to want to kill anyone that even so much as breathed in his direction. The paranoia was so controlling, it nearly drove Hyunsoo crazy as he locked himself away in his shabby apartment, refusing to show up to work anymore after a certain incident. He had zoned out before hearing a loud clink of metal, the sound so haunting that it caused him to suddenly smell gasoline. The smell was so strong that he gagged and turned away from the person as he felt the throw up suddenly overpower his hand and spill out in disgusting chunks onto the floor. This startled the woman so much that she screamed and dropped the rest of her groceries at the counter and left— leaving Hyunsoo choking on his own spit and gagging so hard it felt like he could die. "Any last words, you have five seconds." "How did he know… How did Han Jaeho FIND OUT?!" It was a quick memory, and yet it left him withering on the floor in his own mess and tears. He was sent to the ER that same day and was given a week off to rest, which made him feel even more guilty as he kept bowing to the elderly couple and reassuring them that he was fine to work again— unfortunately he was still forced to take the day off. What made it worse was that not even a week later, something else had triggered him again. It was a burly and odd looking man who stopped by the niche grocery store and asked to buy a pack of cigarettes. It wasn't surprising to buy cigarettes but the brand was what caught Hyunsoo off guard. It was the same kind that he would deal out with Jaeho during prison time, the same kind that were even used to blackmail the guard that one time. He felt his hands shake as he looked up at the man after scanning the pack and fighting back the urge to climb over the counter and plummet the other to the ground. His paranoia immediately kicked in as he kept seizing the man up, his leather black jacket, black inner shirt and black jeans were too … off. Was this really a normal person buying cigarettes or was it one of Jaeho's minions coming back to kill him? How could they have found him… should he flee? He succeeded in finishing that one transaction before clocking out early with the excuse of being sick. Then he dragged his shaken state to another store that had alcohol. He wasn't a regular drinker, but this somehow felt far beyond him now. Anything he did was somehow going to be better than whatever was going on in his mind, he needed to break free from it all. He unpacked the beers onto his kitchen table, having grabbed any main brand that he could find and took a single can out to drink from. He wasn't sure if he liked the taste but he chugged it down regardless, hoping it would do the trick. He drank two cans before passing out on the kitchen table— easily forgetting how low his tolerance truly was for a lightweight. He stopped showing up to work from then on, refusing to leave his house as he gulped down a single bottle of beer whenever a thought or memory resurfaced— numbing it away as fast as it came. He knew what he was doing was unsafe. His own father had died form alcohol poisoning when he was just a kid. He of all people knew well that this bad habit was soon leading to an addiction that was slowly swallowing him alive, his fingers digging into the cans the longer he sat in the dark wondering when he would finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. His days turned into weeks, and then months, his days consisting of blowing off all his money and withering away in his apartment. He avoided going outside except to get more alcohol and to officially quit his job at the grocery store— bidding the peaceful couple farewell. Now he had to start from square one all over again and with a heaping amount of debt. He had slowly lost track of his bills and rent, the money soon piling up as he refused to answer his cell and never answered his door. It was only a year later when the apartment finally became bare. Hyunsoo vanishing from that region like he had never stepped foot in there to begin with. This time he would start over for good and make sure it stayed that way permanently, either he chose a career or went back to being a dead weight on the floor. He moved more inner city and found a hiring position in a night club, offering to be one of the male waiters. His hours were strange and long but it kept him busy enough to never have a single thought break through. He forcefully stopped drinking as much, his withdrawal being difficult, but at least he was able to stop at two cans a day… it was a start. Sometimes he would even pleasure customers when they came to the club— he was often complimented on his looks… so why not use it for extra tips. He had to pay rent some way and the wages of his job were decent enough, but a little added money never hurt. He wasn't proud of what he did, but he wasn't really ashamed either, something was broken inside of him. Nothing that he did mattered anymore when he stared into sunken dark eyes every morning, the life drained from them. Nothing mattered when he remembered what he no longer had, his own future falling further and further away from his grasp the longer he stayed where he didn't belong. He was simply a husk of a person, working away every night as he delivered another blowjob to some average man who could barely get it up without some Viagra in his system. It was so pathetic and yet he was still young… not quite 30 yet and not too young to make these men look like creeps. It was a win lose situation, nothing he did mattered. And it stayed that way for five years. Every day being the same as the last. Hyunsoo didn't know what to expect when he came back from a late shift and found his kitchen light on— his front door unlocked. He pushed the door open as he saw the last person he expected to be sitting under the single light bulb. Han Jaeho was sitting in his kitchen, at his small one person dining table like he lived there instead of him. Hyunsoo was so drained that he barely had the courage to confront the other— or ask why he was there. Truthfully, he assumed it was another one of his hallucinations, so he ignored it and walked over to the fridge to crack open a beer and fished out a slightly bent cigarette from his pocket to smoke. He started smoking only a year ago, the taste being vile but something to do when he had breaks on the job. He huffed quietly as the red embers burned and spilled to the already dirty floor of his apartment— a set of drooped eyes watching his every move. "You never used to smoke." The quiet was broken as Hyunsoo finally registered that the man was real and sitting in his kitchen. He took a swig of his beer as he leaned against the fridge and eyed the man with dullness, his senses so numb that it wasn't hard to fake indifference anymore. "You don't quite know me anymore, Hyung." He spoke up as he raspily coughed from the smoke coming from his cigarette, that was just another negative to his smoking habits. He didn't realize how fast the older man had moved from his seat to now stand in front of Hyunsoo— snatching away his cigarette and putting it out by throwing it away into the fully packed sink… he hadn't gotten around to doing his dishes yet. "Hey—!" "What are you doing?" The sternness of his tone sent Hyunsoo reeling as all his emotions suddenly washed over him— crashing over his head when he remembered what he so wished to forget for five years. "What am I doing? What are YOU doing? First you break into my house and demand shit—" He could hear the gangster accent suddenly slip through as he grabbed his head and groaned from an upcoming headache. He pushed the man away as he emptied out his beer bottle and threw it onto the floor noisily before shoulder checking Jaeho like he wasn't there. He tried to dig into his pocket for another cigarette, but when he tried to light it— Jaeho had already snatched it away and threw it to the floor. This really pissed Hyunsoo off now as he glared at the older man, his vision blurring as he flinched from a loud sound going off in his head— another auditory hallucination playing as he felt a ringing in his ear go off and he remembered. "I should have killed you from the get go." "If you don't kill me… you're a dead man." He gripped his head tightly as he whimpered softly from the pain searing through his head— suddenly hyper aware of hands holding his arms. He swung instinctively and landed a hard punch into the skull of his once trusted friend. He could hear a loud crack as the man flew backwards, gripping his bleeding cheek as he stared coolly back at Hyunsoo. "I should have killed you back then… why are you back again— tormenting me!" He yelled out the last words as he felt his hands shake aggressively by his side. He sobered up slightly as he stumbled closer to the quiet man, Jaeho refusing to look away as Hyunsoo got close to his face without a single flinch. "I let you live so you could take all the blame. You should have died in that prison! Why are you back here!!" He screamed in the others face ruthlessly, his eyes shining as tears formed and threatened to fall the longer he stared up at the face he'd been trying to forget. Those same eyes that looked at him with so much care and love… lies, lies lies, it had always been LIES. "Have you been well…" Jaeho whispered as he towered over the man, his cheek bleeding down his face but his eyes looking weak for once. Hyunsoo nearly lost it as he shuddered, his eyes growing dim as he stepped back… he had no control over his body anymore. He wanted to scream, fight or curse at the top of his lungs— but the man in front of him was a completely different person now. "Hit me if you want. Punch or kick me till I can't move, but stop hurting yourself, Hyunsoo- ah." The older man pleaded softly as he reached forward to grab at Hyunsoo, just to be rejected once more. "No, no, no, you're not real. Get out of my head!!" Hyunsoo whimpered as he stepped further and further into the small kitchen. He felt cornered the longer he stared at the horrifying manifestation of all of his pain into one person he deeply resented. Jaeho seemed to be at his wits end as he gripped the other man's shoulders harshly and shook him with a stern look. "Hyunsoo! I'm not whatever you think I am! I am here! I am back by your side!" "You wouldn't be by my side…" Those words again… "Jaeho… why are you here…" Hyunsoo sobbed out, his eyes closing as he broke down once more and started to lean against the other for support. "I wanted to find you for so long. I served my sentence… what else?" "You shouldn't have come back…" Hyunsoo felt his body give out as he sank to the floor with Jaeho engulfing him into a warm hug that grounded him instantly. He could still smell the faded scent of cigarettes and cheap cologne coming off the older man's suit, making him scrunch his nose as he pushed away from the arms trapping him there. "Just wait… let me hold you please." He heard Jaeho whisper as he only pulled the other in tighter, refusing to let up as Hyunsoo breathed out in annoyance while his anger slowly dissipated. "Fuck off." Hyunsoo whispered as he felt his consciousness slip with the weight of endless sleep suddenly catching up to him. He went limp in the other's arms and Jaeho sighed in relief as he loosened his grip and bridal carried the other back to his bare mattress. He hadn't meant to come back to life as what the other had described… it was a long story, and one he didn't need to elaborate on. He pushed back the greasy short shaggy hair from the peaceful man, kissing his forehead softly as he left the apartment and made sure to lock the door behind him. The next morning, Hyunsoo woke up and figured it was really was all a dream. Internally he knew it was real, the warmth and soggy pitiful eyes he could still see in the dark were all real that night. He pretended not to know and kept his charades up, going to work and forgetting whatever happened between the two men. He rather blame it on his psychotic mind than admit that what he's been running away from had finally caught up to him. He went to work like usual, ignoring the second glances that always passed over him— being eyed up like a piece of meat, it was normal. His normal way of living as he served alcohol to nearly black out drunk customers. He was startled one night to notice that a typical VIP he always served on Wednesdays was replaced with none other than Han Jaeho himself— looking like he was back in his Busan office giving out orders. It sent chills over Hyunsoo's back as he smothered his thoughts and vile insults to act like he never knew the man. "Anything to drink?" He asked like always, setting down a drinks and food menu on the table while neon lights occasionally slipped past the velvet black currents that most VIPS sat behind when being served. Hyunsoo waited a beat longer before pushing the curtains back and slipping away while Jaeho sat in his seat without saying a single word— just flicking his lighter on and off again while a cigarette hung from his mouth. Hyunsoo left work early that night, refusing to serve the man as he walked home at 9 pm at night through the typical sketchy alleyways that he grew used to in the dark. He never worried about getting robbed since money was meaningless in his life. He dragged his feet through the dark, his only source of light being a lit cigarette between his lips. He froze when Jaeho stood in front of his apartment door like a guard dog— stern and nothing reflecting in his pupils the longer Hyunsoo watched. He didn't know if he should call the police or just run back to the club and sleep there— he's done it before. It was too late to run when Jaeho finally caught sight of him and stepped down from the stairs like he wasn't shamelessly stalking the other. "So you're showing up at my work now?" Hyunsoo scoffed as he stepped closer, his thin jacket barely doing anything to salvage his warmth. He was shivering from either fear or the wind, but fear seemed a bit too unlikely considering he knew Jaeho would let him kill him in a heartbeat. In a heartbeat… why hadn't he done it back then? "How did you find my house… my job, me?" He dared ask, addressing the elephant in the room as he stood in front of the other, only coming up to his neck as Jaeho's eyes could easily peer over his head. He didn't make any effort to tilt his head back, he wouldn't give the other that. Jaeho would have to kneel and talk to him if he wanted eye contact that badly, but he refused to pick up his head and stare back at those strange dark eyes. "I have my ways. I'm not in this business for nothing." Jaeho chuckled lightheartedly, his voice soft but holding a gentle teasing to it like before. Was he not remorseful for anything, this shameless slimy bastard was really getting on his nerves at this point now. "Oh right… how could I forget." Was all the younger man could answer as he put the cigarette to his lips and Jaeho watched him do it this time without a single protest. Hyunsoo gave up staring at the unruly man's stubble, side stepping him to get to his door and never looking back as the keypad went off and shut behind him— blocking out the hunched figure of an old man in the streets. Jaeho stuck to the man like a ghost, haunting him in every form possible, whether it was in his mind, in his dreams or in the flesh. It drove Hyunsoo insane as he could dream of killing the man then wake up to see Jaeho on his way to the supermarket. It was still oddly soothing at the same time, he noticed that his anxiety and fears were lessening the moment he would catch the gangster in the crowd somewhere. As much as he wasn't a fan of stalking, this felt familiar and comfortable… like a twisted version of a Guardian Angel. Hyunsoo also noticed that many of his sexual customers at work were suddenly missing— no longer VIPs or vising the club he worked at, already knowing who was possibly behind it all. He wasn't grateful, but he was fine with not having to suck off another old man for extra tips, he just wouldn't make any extra money for rent. Another funny thing… He was late to rent this month and yet he never got a notice threatening to evict him like he always did. He even called the landlord and asked how much he still owed— just to find out all his rent and late fees were paid off for the rest of the year. He nearly dropped the land line as he bit his fingernails till they bled, his own landlord complimenting him promptly about getting the money to him quickly without asking. He knew who was doing it all. He knew why, but it could never be enough repayment for what the other had done to his life. Hyunsoo came home from his job late one day, turning on his kitchen light and not panicking over seeing Jaeho sitting there expectingly. "You paid off my landlord?" He raised a brow as Jaeho barely shifted in movement, his eyes brightening up like a kid getting praised, or paid attention to. "Let me guess, you also killed all those creepy old men from the club…" Hyunsoo accused lightly as he flung his jacket on the couch and sat down, facing the opposite way of Jaeho. He could hear light tapping of fingers on the wooden table before the sounds of clothes shuffling around. He heard a door close and it make him curious enough to peek his head over the couch cushions— only to notice his bedroom door was closed. He felt a sense of unease when he realized it was never a safe thing to have a man you barely trusted in your house and free roaming— who was also now in your room doing God knows what. "Hyung! Get out of my room." He yelled out, his frown deepening when he couldn't hear a response back. He could feel his stomach fill up with moreanxiety as he finally cracked and hoisted himself off the couch to knock on his door. He was about to twist the knob when the door flung open and Jaeho walked out wearing a new set of pajamas— nearly scaring Hyunsoo to death as he clutched his shirt with wide eyes. "Woah— Fuck Hyung! Quit lurking around my apartment!" He yelled out in frustration as he heard a soft hyena laugh echo throughout the empty house. He rubbed his face angrily before pushing Jaeho out of the way and stormed to his closet which was empty if not for a few jeans, wrinkled shirts and a black suit. That laugh was so pleasant on the ears, it made Hyunsoo blush softly as he stared down at the mess of clothes in his room now. He felt a strange sense of joy interrupt his thinking as he angrily pushed all the lingering sweet memories that resurfaced once more. Pushing his thoughts to now stare at the black suit at the bottom of his closet The same black suit he's kept since that day five years ago. "Jaeho. Leave." Hyunsoo whispered as he took the black suit and marched back out of his room to throw it at the unsuspecting man. Jaeho's reflexes were still decent as he caught the clothes and blinked in surprise at the sudden mood change, he had thought maybe they were making a slight breakthrough. Hyunsoo didn't think so. He shoved the other harshly as he pushed him back towards his dirty door, opening it wide enough to throw the other out. He never looked to check if the other was fine, he slammed the door closed and locked it, sliding down the wood as he curled up and cried into his knees. He hated everything about himself, the worse part was that Jaeho still had that look in his eyes like he was the perfect creature on earth. All that was left of him was a monster that Jaeho had created with every single lie he force fed Hyunsoo since the moment they met— He was aware he lied too, but he had given himself up the second everything went to shit! The funny thing is that he would have let Jaeho stay the night, they could have laid in bed together like they used to and ghost hands over each other's bodies with admiration. He had almost fallen into that cycle again, almost let the other backin. He refused to show to work again as he laid in his bed surrounded by beer cans and empty cigarette packets while staring up at the ceiling and wishing he could see his eomma again. He wanted to wake up and have his old life back, being a police officer and maybe working in a smaller town of Busan where nothing bad ever happened. His mother would have gotten that kidney after he exposed the entire coot Jaeho and Byung-Chul created… Officer Cheon would get her promotion and he could be home. Jaeho should be dead, and away from his life forever. He was instead wasting away in a shitty apartment, drinking and smoking his life away in hopes that he wouldn't wake up the next morning. It took only a week for Jaeho to show up again at his front door like some kicked puppy, clinging to it's master over and over again no matter how many times he was thrown out. "We need to talk." Was all the older man said before punching in Hyunsoo's house code and opening the door for them both. Hyunsoo didn't even have the energy to question how he found out his code— he knew that man was slippery and could find out anything. Jaeho sat down on the couch this time as he lit up a cigarette and puffed away while Hyunsoo hesitated by the doorway. He felt his hands shake as he stood in front of the older man and gestured to the other seat, "Move over, I can't hear good out of my left ear." And who's fault is that. He gritted his teeth as the dots connected in Jaeho's head and he immediately scooted over to the next cushion. He sat down and let the cushion sink in as he threw his head back and suddenly felt a sense of deja vu. He remembered a time when they would sit like this in their "secret spot" away from the public eye. They would sit here and chat like lovers, friends and family. Nothing mattered back then and they were happy, reminiscing on old memories. "I'm listening." Hyunsoo spoke up, letting the other know that this was his only chance to make peace with him before he either killed him with his bare hands or filed some kind of stalking investigation on him— which sounded ridiculous and like a lot of useless money he didn't have. They sat in an eerie silence as none of them spoke up, sitting and bathing in the quiet like small bugs under a rock. Hyunsoo cleared his throat and stood up, barely making Jaeho flinch as he disappeared back into his room and closed the door. He leaned against the door and sighed, not understanding why he was giving the other so many chances. He should have beat the man to a pulp at this point, but instead he was going to give him some space— what a joke. He stripped himself of his dirty and worn clothes, dropping them along the way to his bathroom as he felt his face going more and more tense from contemplating. He pushed open the bathroom door, one of the hinges broken off as it slammed against the too small tub, a loud crack already echoing against the ceramic tiles. He couldn't care about the conditions of anything as he put his hands against the small sink and stared at his reflection for the first time in months. He looked so hollow and shrunken in. His eyes were bulging out and his cheekbones were sticking out against his slimmed down cheeks from since… fuck knows. His eyes were unfamiliar and distinctively decorated by a dark stain under his lids. He pulled back his eyelids and could see a faint yellowish tint on the eye whites as he trailed his fingers down to pull at his lips and examined his questionable gums and teeth— all looking somewhat normal hopefully. He couldn't handle his appearance anymore as he grabbed his toothbrush and put a large amount of toothpaste onto it. He jammed it into his mouth as he slowly brushed away and kept staring at his body again. He looked so thin, his ribs were poking out and his body felt cold even when the steam from the shower rose up around him. He brushed harder against his teeth as he wanted to erase the disgust he felt just looking at himself. It was his fault for avoiding the significant changes for so long and acting like nothing was wrong. He spat out the rest of his toothpaste and stepped into the shower, the water hot for once as he stood underneath it and let the heat burn away his flaking skin. He felt it itch and burn as he refused to move away from the stream, only reaching a hand out to dial the heat down a tad. Hyunsoo had been waiting for this moment in years. He had to admit he let Jaeho live on purpose— In hopes that the other would either die in prison or… or… Make it out alive and come back to me. He was so sick in the head for still having feelings towards a villain that slaughtered his entire family for manipulation. Yet deep down all he wanted was to know Why. What had happened that… he deserved such a fate— if he deserved it at all. He grabbed for a plain soap bar he had stolen and scrubbed his skin till it felt like it was new— ignoring the harsh way he nails were blatantly scratching at his skin so roughly that it turned red and hurt to the touch. He walked out of his room again with still damp hair, but wearing comfortable clothes for once, a pair of sweats and a white plain cotton shirt that he had forgotten about… it was one that his mother had bought for him and never got to wear for some reason. Jaeho was still sitting in the same spot, hardly moving a single muscle as Hyunsoo sank back into his own seat and sighed, for once feeling truly refreshed and clean. He didn't even have the urge to go open a bottle or light a cigarette, he just sat and felt. "Do I have to ask first." He whispered, his hair feeling cold in the room since he didn't properly dry it, but not enough to make him willingly get up and fetch a towel. "I know nothing I say can be good enough for you…" Jaeho started off, his eyes looking sullen as he finally glanced at Hyunsoo with a small frown. "I rather hear it than nothing at all." Hyunsoo bit at his fingertips again, his nails already down to the flesh but still trying to bite off any skin that felt wrong. He rather not make himself bleed, but this was a sober type conversation and he didn't want to crack open a beer right now— He just needed something to do. "Did you regret it…?" He questioned and stuffed his hands inside his sleeves so that he could put them under his thighs to stop himself from biting too deep. "Yes…" "Since when, for how long?" "The moment you sold yourself out to me." Hyunsoo clenched his teeth and swallowed harshly as he fought back the tears that were blurring his vision. He wanted to pretend like he wasn't seething inside from this conversation already— his heart pulsing so heavily that it hurt when he sucked in shaky breaths. "Why did you do it…" Why kill my mother and lead me on to think we could have a happy life together. "I wanted you to stay," Jaeho shifted slightly on the couch as it gave out a low creak from the springs being centuries old now, "I was worried you'd turn on me if I didn't have some kind of…" Jaeho stopped as he bit his tongue and realized all his wordings sounded awful— Leash. Blackmail. Dirt on him? "You wanted control…" Hyunsoo let out an inappropriate laugh as the truth finally came to light, almost seeming comedic at how simple it all really was. He laughed so hard that he leaned forward and held his stomach from the sickness conjuring up in his gut, his throat going raw the longer he cackled— until he felt wetness spill down into his hands. He wiped at his face and turned towards Jaeho, no longer embarrassed to seem weak in front of him— this was the same man that had seen him breakdown in front of the entire prison over his mothers death. "You realized that if you could turn me into a double agent… if you killed my mother and made it seem like the police were the ones who failed me, I would run to you with open arms." It was hardly a question, it was a statement. Jaeho simply nodded his head as he clasped his hands together and fiddled with his thumbs like a nervous kid. "Then why… why give it all up at the end. Why did you keep me around?" "I still wanted you by my side… even if it killed us both." How romantic. Hyunsoo snickered as he twisted his hands tightly and stood up, ending the conversation for good as he pushed back his damp hair from his face and loomed over the sitting man. "Are you happy now? You spared my life, I spared yours. We're even now." He grimaced as he tried to hold himself back from just strangling the older man right there and then. Jaeho suddenly reached up and grabbed at Hyunsoo's hand softly, carefully bringing Hyunsoo closer before he walked away. "I want to start over. I want a real family this time— and with you!" Jaeho was desperate to get all his words out as Hyunsoo tuned him out and closed his eyes to just figure out a way to give rid of this poor excuse of human waste. "You were never my family… all of this—" He gestured to the two of them, "we were only meant to be a ploy! I used you just as much as you used me!" Hyunsoo felt himself get worked up as he flung the other's hand off his wrist and backtracked to get away from the old man, his heart quickening from adrenaline and fear. Jaeho was persistent as he launched himself off the couch and gripped the younger man's forearms before pushing him gently against the wall of the apartment. Hyunsoo grunted as he felt the cold wall through his thin shirt, his eyes going wide and frantic as he fought against the strong grip. For once he felt helpless and desperate in the presence of Jaeho. All the muscles he had built up in the academy and prison were long gone… he was just a shell, bones and flesh now as he truly felt his energy dissipate from all his struggling. "Let me go!!" He screamed, his voice cracking at the end as Jaeho held him still and hardly had any emotions on his face as he watched the frantic man calm down once Hyunsoo realized he was truly weak. "Let me go please… leave me alone in this hell you created!" "You want to save me from what you've caused?! How does that even make any sense, how can I live with my eomma's killer! How could I have ever loved you back then if I knew from the start! Isn't that why you lied!?" "You're a selfish bastard if I ever saw one! You killed everyone but me! Why, why, why, why couldn't you kill me!" Jaeho felt his eyes soften as he watched the spit and tears all blend together into a wet mess on Hyunsoo's face as he struggled against the other's grip once more, full of new rage the longer he yelled. "Hyunsoo… I love you, it's all I ever wanted from you… I—" "You don't love me! You're just so sick and desperate that you dragged me down to hell with you! I am just like you now! Does that make you proud!! I'm… I'm just like you now…" The last words faded out as Hyunsoo suddenly felt that pandora's box open up as he reached awareness of what he truly felt all these years. I turned out just like you… you molded me to fit into your heart without thinking if you fit in mine. Hyunsoo let out a shaky breath as he slammed his head into the shoulder of the man, his arms fully blocked off from his body as he was engulfed into a tight hug. He sobbed loudly against the rough material of that god awful itchy wool suit jacket that the old man liked to wear some days. He felt the material soften slightly as he cried and cried, his body feeling like he was being wrung out like a towel from how much water spilled from his eyes— and the compressive way Jaeho was holding him. He didn't know how long they stood there for, intertwined so deeply while Hyunsoo felt the room suddenly grow more and more cold with evening coming. Until the sun went fully down and they were both flooded in complete darkness. He dared to move first— shifting his head away from the scratchy material as Jaeho followed suit and pulled back slightly, his face completely missing in the darkness. Hyunsoo felt his body going limp as he was lifted up— too tired to complain as he was carried away to his own bed, tucked in like some sickly child. It felt a bit comforting still, even at his age. He rolled over to his side when he noticed that Jaeho was taking off his jacket and vest, leaving himself in only the white button up and his dress pants. Hyunsoo found it weird that the man still dressed up like a drug dealer… maybe it was depressing to think that this was the only way he knew how to live and act. The older man pulled him in closer, Hyunsoo burying his face inside of the cheap cologne of chest that he was familiar with. It was all so familiar. "Did you really mean it back then." Hyunsoo asked, his tone calm and no longer shaky as the aftermath of his outburst finally evened him out for the night. "Did you really want to sell the drugs and run away together?" Hyunsoo asked again, hearing a soft grunt from above his head. "I'm sick of it. Living this life. Hyunsoo- ah should we sell the drugs and leave this business?" "Yes… I was sick of that life…" Jaeho clutched the other tighter as he breathed out from his nose and buried it in the other's still damp hair. "Did you also mean it back then… about how this life was the only one I could live…" Jaeho mumbled with a tone that Hyunsoo wasn't quite familiar with… it was almost sorrow. "Nope. There's no other work that you're fit for." Hyunsoo chuckled softly as he pulled back from the embrace and fixed the man with a hard stare, his eyes focusing and refocusing in the darkness to admire the common facial features that he memorized for over three years. "Yes. I meant every word… there is no life better for you than being a drug dealer." Hyunsoo responded ruthlessly as he smirked hurtfully and pulled back from the hug to sit up on the bed and rub at his face. "I think you should leave now… I'm fine—" "Don't do that…" Jaeho sat up hurriedly as he flocked to the other man's side, but only keeping an inch apart so that they weren't quite touching but close enough to hear their own breathing. "Do what? What you deserve?" Hyunsoo joked cruelly as he slipped out from under the covers and walked to the bedroom door slowly— blindly going in the dark as his bare feet guided him all the way to his front door. "Leave now while I'm asking nicely." Hyunsoo mumbled, knowingly fully well that Jaeho was still behind him— creepily following him like a ghost. He heard clothes being shuffled around as the man went back and grabbed his jacket and vest, returning to the front door and not saying a single word as he slipped past the other and vanished into the midnight dark. Hyunsoo never saw him again. Jaeho had wanted to make it up to him somehow, buying flowers or maybe even going out for a meal together. He had bought the other roses and waited by the apartment door patiently with his business suit on and anxiety in his eyes as the hours ticked away. It reached midnight and no one was home yet. He didn't have Hyunsoo's phone number so it was pointless to call him— as if the other would respond anyway. He decided to come back tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. Every tomorrow turned into a week and then a month. Hyunsoo never returned to his apartment. It was only three months later that Jaeho finally went to his work and asked to see the man— just for the staff to all give him sad and shocked looks. Hyunsoo had died from alcohol poisoning that night he last visited. Approximately at 1 am… only to be discovered at 8 am the same morning behind an alleyway. Jaeho was the only one left alive to bury his body… the only family he considered in his heart was now gone forever. Jaeho had sobbed like a baby at the cremation center when they unveiled the soulless body to him— somehow Hyunsoo looked more alive than ever… His cheeks were still sunken in and his eyes closed but his face was so peaceful. It filled him with a soft anguish as Jaeho realized this was the life he was meant to live in. One without Hyunsoo in it. The biggest betrayal of all was the fact that Hyunsoo didn't need Jaeho in his life. Hyunsoo knew how much he meant to Jaeho and took advantage of this vulnerability to rid his entire existence … ending his life while leaving Jaeho permanently heartbroken. Maybe Hyunsoo died with a smile on his face, he had gotten what he always wanted in the end… Jaeho losing everything. "I'll never ask you to trust me again." "You should have never found out." Jaeho truly lived with regret now.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618616	{"authors": ["qyvisitor"], "language": "English", "title": "I Want You to Die Through Me"}
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas Sunday, December 08, 2019 The weather had continued its relentless turn towards colder temperatures as fall gave way to winter. Technically it would be about two more weeks until winter started officially, but the unseasonably freezing temperatures lately certainly made it feel like winter already. Each new day felt like the coldest one of the year. The rainy season was still in full swing, although with the cold snap, the rain was more like freezing rain or slush as often as not. Windbreakers and jackets had been swapped out for proper coats for most residents of the city, and everyone dressed in layers. You didn’t want to be caught outside without a warm outer layer beneath your coat and over your undershirt; flannel shirts, sweaters, and hoodies were all popular choices. These were now more necessities than options when dressing for the day. Despite all of that, Esteban Diaz loved this time of year. As fall faded into winter there were so many wonderful holidays and family events to celebrate during these months. Halloween in October. The family’s yearly ski trip to Mt. Baker and Thanksgiving in November. Christmas in December. New Year’s Day and his own birthday in January. It was a busy time of year, and Esteban loved every single opportunity to celebrate with his boys. He was enjoying a rare day off from his shop, just sitting on the couch and enjoying a nice warm cup of coffee when he heard Sean and Daniel coming back from Noah’s birthday party. He heard them pull up even over the sound of the Christmas music he was playing on the stereo. The festive music played soft and clear on the speakers, but it was no match for the din of his sons’ arrival. Sean, Daniel, and Chris’s joyful shouts were not exactly soft or subtle. Despite it being his day off, Esteban would not be having a lazy day today. He had big plans for today, for him and the boys, as it so happened. This weekend would mark the first opportunity for the Diaz family to decorate for Christmas. Esteban heard the commotion moving up the sidewalk. He took the opportunity to refresh his cup of coffee and peak out of the window. The first snow of the season was coming down, but it was light on the ground; no real accumulation yet. This was entirely surprising. Sometimes Seattle got snow in December, but it usually didn’t actually stick around on the ground until late December or early January. Esteban’s musings about snow were interrupted by something he saw out of the window. His eyes widened, his cheeks flushed, and he quickly looked away. The cause of his momentary discomfit was that he had seen Daniel kissing Chris goodbye. He knew that boys of Daniel’s generation were quite different than boys of his generation had been. Even so, Esteban was pretty sure that boys these days didn’t usually kiss their friends goodbye at all. Even if they did, he was absolutely certain it wouldn’t look like that. He knew that Daniel and Chris were close, but he didn’t know that they were romantic together. Not that he minded. Esteban was nothing if not open-minded. He just wanted to see his sons be happy. But it was a bittersweet realization that his little boy was growing up and it stung a bit that Daniel hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about his relationship with Chris. Sean’s lack of a reaction told Esteban that Sean already knew about it. That stung a little, too. Still, Esteban understood. He did his best to be present in his boys’ lives, but there was only so much he could do. Only so many hours in the day. He worked hard at his shop to keep a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food in their bellies. His boys understood that, too, and they all three made the best they could of the time they had together. But at some point, being there is being there and not being there is not being there, and there are consequences to that no matter how understanding somebody is. Sean stepping up to help raise Daniel meant that Daniel wasn’t alone through the turbulent and often troublesome stages of childhood and adolescence. It also meant he was bonding with Sean instead of Esteban in all of those moments that he missed while at work. Esteban watched as the boys broke their embrace, Chris giving one last wave over his shoulder as he ran home to the house next door. Both of his sons waved goodbye to the boy, and both watched until Chris was safely inside, the white wooden screen door slapping shut with an audible thunk a moment after he vanished through the door. It was only a moment before his two sons emerged through their own front door, still laughing and smiling. “Hola, mijos! Did you have a nice time at Noah’s birthday party?” Esteban asked warmly. “Yeah, dad! It was so awesome,” Daniel said, his voice bright and chipper. “Yeah, it was good. I think everyone had a lot of fun,” Sean answered. That was a bit of an understatement. Sean and the ten members of his C.U.B.S. had enjoyed all manner of fun	It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas Sunday, December 08, 2019 The weather had continued its relentless turn towards colder temperatures as fall gave way to winter. Technically it would be about two more weeks until winter started officially, but the unseasonably freezing temperatures lately certainly made it feel like winter already. Each new day felt like the coldest one of the year. The rainy season was still in full swing, although with the cold snap, the rain was more like freezing rain or slush as often as not. Windbreakers and jackets had been swapped out for proper coats for most residents of the city, and everyone dressed in layers. You didn’t want to be caught outside without a warm outer layer beneath your coat and over your undershirt; flannel shirts, sweaters, and hoodies were all popular choices. These were now more necessities than options when dressing for the day. Despite all of that, Esteban Diaz loved this time of year. As fall faded into winter there were so many wonderful holidays and family events to celebrate during these months. Halloween in October. The family’s yearly ski trip to Mt. Baker and Thanksgiving in November. Christmas in December. New Year’s Day and his own birthday in January. It was a busy time of year, and Esteban loved every single opportunity to celebrate with his boys. He was enjoying a rare day off from his shop, just sitting on the couch and enjoying a nice warm cup of coffee when he heard Sean and Daniel coming back from Noah’s birthday party. He heard them pull up even over the sound of the Christmas music he was playing on the stereo. The festive music played soft and clear on the speakers, but it was no match for the din of his sons’ arrival. Sean, Daniel, and Chris’s joyful shouts were not exactly soft or subtle. Despite it being his day off, Esteban would not be having a lazy day today. He had big plans for today, for him and the boys, as it so happened. This weekend would mark the first opportunity for the Diaz family to decorate for Christmas. Esteban heard the commotion moving up the sidewalk. He took the opportunity to refresh his cup of coffee and peak out of the window. The first snow of the season was coming down, but it was light on the ground; no real accumulation yet. This was entirely surprising. Sometimes Seattle got snow in December, but it usually didn’t actually stick around on the ground until late December or early January. Esteban’s musings about snow were interrupted by something he saw out of the window. His eyes widened, his cheeks flushed, and he quickly looked away. The cause of his momentary discomfit was that he had seen Daniel kissing Chris goodbye. He knew that boys of Daniel’s generation were quite different than boys of his generation had been. Even so, Esteban was pretty sure that boys these days didn’t usually kiss their friends goodbye at all. Even if they did, he was absolutely certain it wouldn’t look like that. He knew that Daniel and Chris were close, but he didn’t know that they were romantic together. Not that he minded. Esteban was nothing if not open-minded. He just wanted to see his sons be happy. But it was a bittersweet realization that his little boy was growing up and it stung a bit that Daniel hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about his relationship with Chris. Sean’s lack of a reaction told Esteban that Sean already knew about it. That stung a little, too. Still, Esteban understood. He did his best to be present in his boys’ lives, but there was only so much he could do. Only so many hours in the day. He worked hard at his shop to keep a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food in their bellies. His boys understood that, too, and they all three made the best they could of the time they had together. But at some point, being there is being there and not being there is not being there, and there are consequences to that no matter how understanding somebody is. Sean stepping up to help raise Daniel meant that Daniel wasn’t alone through the turbulent and often troublesome stages of childhood and adolescence. It also meant he was bonding with Sean instead of Esteban in all of those moments that he missed while at work. Esteban watched as the boys broke their embrace, Chris giving one last wave over his shoulder as he ran home to the house next door. Both of his sons waved goodbye to the boy, and both watched until Chris was safely inside, the white wooden screen door slapping shut with an audible thunk a moment after he vanished through the door. It was only a moment before his two sons emerged through their own front door, still laughing and smiling. “Hola, mijos! Did you have a nice time at Noah’s birthday party?” Esteban asked warmly. “Yeah, dad! It was so awesome,” Daniel said, his voice bright and chipper. “Yeah, it was good. I think everyone had a lot of fun,” Sean answered. That was a bit of an understatement. Sean and the ten members of his C.U.B.S. had enjoyed all manner of fun last night. Some of it was even wholesome; video games, board games, even party games like charades. “You sound tired. Did the boys keep you up all night talking and giggling?” Esteban asked with an indulgent sense of concern. Sean laughed. That was pretty close to the truth, but with a hilarious twist; it wasn’t giggling that had the boys busy into the wee hours of the morning. “Not the whole night,” Sean said with a passable facsimile of his father’s indulgent tone. “He had fun, too,” Daniel said defensively. “Yeah, true. We all did,” Sean said, echoing his earlier pronouncement. “Well, I’m glad you boys had fun. I hope you’re not too worn out to help your papito with a few chores around the house today,” Esteban said in a would-be innocent tone. His grin gave him away. Even Daniel smelled a rat. He didn’t know exactly what his dad was up to, but he did know Esteban was up to something. “Nah, we’re okay,” Sean said. He yawned and lazily pawed at the hair on the back of his head, but the offer was genuine. “What do you need help with?” Daniel asked, smiling a goofy grin. “Putting up the Christmas decorations,” Esteban replied, chuckling brightly. “Oh, oh! I’ll get the lights!” Daniel announced. Daniel tore off down the stairs so quickly Esteban barely had a time to shout a warning after him. “Don’t run on the stairs, mijo! You’ll break your neck!” Esteban yelled. “I won’t!” Daniel assured his father, barely slowing down. Esteban turned to his older son, smiling brightly. “Help me move the TV over?” Esteban asked. “Yeah, of course,” Sean said immediately. Sean had taken a single backpack to carry a change of clothes for himself and Daniel. He dumped this bag near the closet by the front door and went over to help Esteban move the TV down. Esteban closed the blinds in the first two windows. That would help protect the back of the TV from the sun’s harmful rays, and besides, they wouldn’t be able to see out of those windows, anyway. It was a quick enough process, despite taking their time. They moved the small decorative table first, and then slid the TV down a little so it wouldn’t block the fireplace. They managed to move the TV and the entertainment center in one go by being careful and going somewhat slow. They braced the TV with their bodies while they slid the entertainment center so it would tip over. With the TV moved down, Sean moved the coat rack near the front window around to the little section of wall near the front door. The newly vacated space is where the Christmas tree would go. Meanwhile, Esteban moved the small table into the little pocket of space in the corner that would previously have been behind the TV set. They usually placed the nativity scene on this little table. While Sean and Esteban were doing all of that, Daniel kept making trips. He cheated a little using his powers to help provide strength and support as he carried two heavy boxes each trip. He would have struggled to carry even a single box naturally, though that was more down to the bulk than the weight itself. The boxes were somewhat large and unwieldy. Daniel had just dropped off his third trip of boxes when Sean and Esteban finished rearranging the living room. “Whoa, mijo. You must be getting pretty strong to carry two at once,” Esteban said. There was a note of pride in his voice that sent Daniel’s heart soaring. “Yeah,” Daniel agreed, smiling. “Don’t overdo it and hurt yourself. No need to show off,” Esteban warned. “I’m not showing off, dad. I can handle it,” Daniel assured him. Esteban chuckled. “My son, the grownup,” Esteban teased. Daniel blushed furiously. “Ah, jeez, dad,” Daniel whined. “He is getting big. Boy is growing like a weed,” Sean noted. Daniel smirked with self-satisfaction as he headed down the stairs again. Sean’s voice carried the same note of fatherly pride as Esteban’s dad. Sure, Sean was his brother, but that wasn’t all he was. He fulfilled many other roles for Daniel, including as a de facto second parent. “You need help, cub?” Sean shouted down the stairs. “No, there’s only two more boxes left anyway,” Daniel shouted back up the stairs. Sean and Esteban started digging through the boxes Daniel had already brought up while Daniel fetched the last two. “Ah, there’s el nacimiento,” Esteban said, pulling out the small nativity scene. The set was old, well-worn, but also well-loved; in good shape, despite its obvious age. It was hand-carved from driftwood, which Esteban loved to point out he had done with his father and his brother when they were younger even than the boys were now. The set consisted of a small lean-to shack, a tiny manger, and six tiny figures to represent Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and the three wise men. “I did the manger, and your Tío Eduardo did the shelter,” Esteban said fondly. Both boys smiled and nodded along, muttering about how it was interesting. They’d heard the story a dozen times each, but they always humored their father. He could get very sentimental about his late family back in Mexico, especially his brother, who had died as a boy. The family tradition of new members adding to the scene had been kept alive in America, though. There was also a hand-colored backdrop; a night sky with a brightly shining star drawn in crayon; Sean’s addition to the set when he was very little. Esteban had kept it and displayed it ever since. Daniel’s contribution was a handful of sheep made from googly eyes glued to cotton balls. These, too, were proudly displayed with the other pieces. Perhaps they were not carved from wood, but each boy had made something from his heart, using the skills he had, and Esteban respected that. Esteban arranged the scene on the corner table while Sean pulled out several wads of extremely tangle lights from the various boxes. “How are these always tangled?” Sean asked in exasperation. They always carefully wrapped the lights before storing them away, and yet it seemed that they always found some way to tangle themselves while sitting in the cardboard box in the basement storage room. It was like some form of annoying, yet harmless magic. Sean started sorting the lights into two piles. The smaller lights were for the inside; they wrapped them around the tree. The larger bulbs were for outside. He roughly sorted the decorations in the same manner. There was garland to string around the doors and windows, a wreath to hang on the door, a set of wooden silhouettes of Santa and his sleigh team for up on the roof, a set of big plastic candy canes to line the walkway, and a big red bow and ribbons for the chimney to make it look like a gigantic wrapped present. For the inside, there was garland on a smaller scale, as well as red and silver tinsel, boughs of holly, and a sprig of mistletoe. The ornaments and tree decorations were scattered haphazardly across several boxes. There were electric candles for the windows, stockings for the fireplace, and stocking holders to hold them up. There was wall art in many sizes and shapes; snowflakes, candy canes, stars, Santas, elves, and snowmen, as well as messages ranging from ‘Feliz Navidad’ and ‘Merry Christmas’ to ‘Seasons Greetings’ and ‘Tis the Season.’ Esteban joined into the sorting effort as soon as he finished with the nativity, and Daniel joined in when he had brought up the last of the boxes from the basement. “Are we going to get the tree today?” Daniel asked, his voice as eager as it was hopeful. “Sí, mijo. After we get all of this sorted out,” Esteban said. He grinned and then added, "Unless you want to get a plastic tree this year." "NO!" Sean and Daniel insisted in unison. Esteban chuckled grandly at his joke. He knew his boys preferred a real tree and he loved to tease them about getting a fake one. “Can Chris come with us?” Daniel asked. Esteban smiled, and chuckled. He nodded. Somehow, knowing that his son’s desire to hang out with his best friend and neighbor was not entirely innocent did nothing to diminish how sweet and cute it was. If anything, Daniel’s growing up was cute in its own right. “Of course, mijito. If it’s okay with Charles, then it’s okay with me,” Esteban answered. “Cool! Thanks, dad,” Daniel said. Daniel rewarded his father with a grateful hug and rested his head on Esteban’s shoulder for a few moments before returning to the sorting. The Christmas music played on softly in the background while they worked. “Oh, found the tree skirt,” Sean announced. It was a black cloth with dozens of shapes sewn onto it. Doves, flowers, and seashells, arranged into geometric patterns. The fabric that the shapes were cut from was brilliant, nearly garish. The contrast between bright and black almost strained the eyes, yet it was undeniably festive; cheerful and warm. The skirt was handmade by their abuelita, who had died before they had a chance to meet her, but this bit of family lore they had also heard repeatedly, and so they treasured it, anyway. It was protected inside of a two-gallon plastic zipper bag. Sean carefully set the item aside and kept digging. Esteban started humming along with the Christmas music, and soon Daniel joined in, an off-key duet that made up for in enthusiasm what it lacked in musical fidelity. Sean smiled, shook his head softly, and tried not to laugh.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75622881/chapters/197761911	{"authors": ["Naughty_Wolf"], "language": "English", "title": "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas"}
An Accidental Witness “God, why don’t they just kiss already,” Rogue complains quietly, her southern drawl naturally emphasizing the word ‘kiss’. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Scott replies, not bothering to be quiet at all. To his credit, the Professor could tell what they’re thinking either way. The X-Men are currently watching an explosive argument between Professor X and Magneto, the mutant leaders once again debating morals instead of planning their strategy. They’re supposed to be working with the Brotherhood. They were to invade facilities of imprisoned mutants, free them, retrieve any information they could, and take it to the ground on the way out. But Magneto had already dismissed the rest of the Brotherhood to research separately, so Rogue, Scott, Jean, Ororo, and Logan sit awkwardly around the other half of the conference room table. In truth, Rogue is the only one who is being awkward. Logan is casually smoking, staring into space, while Jean and Ororo are actually discussing the mission. Scott had opted to watch the drama, same as her, but he’s much more casual about it. Hearing his comment, she whips her head around to stare at him. “Really?” “Oh, yeah, they were like a thing in the 60’s. Then, you know, they broke up when Magneto decided to become a terrorist, and we’re trying to pretend we didn’t figure it out seeing their first interaction. It’s pretty obvious once you start noticing it.” “Holy shit—Ah had no idea. That makes so much sense!” At this point, Magneto is gripping onto the arm rests of the Professor’s chair, face intensely close to the telepath’s as he argues. Xavier isn’t backing away either, both yelling over the other. It devolved entirely from well-meant questions of whether they would be using lethal violence to insulting the other’s morality, philosophies, and life experiences. It’s almost childish. “Alright, we’re not gettin’ anywhere. I’m leavin’,” Logan grunts, taking the blunt out of his mouth only briefly. He does just that, Jean and Ororo following without pausing their conversation. “Should we follow ‘em?” Rogue whispers to Scott. “Probably,” he agrees, making no move to get up. His red visor obscures most of his expression, but it’s clear he’s amused by the Oscar-worthy drama happening in front of him. “...Okay.” She studies the two arguing in fascination, knowing the Professor only as a kind mentor to the X-Men and children, and Magneto only from her kidnapping and subsequent attempted murder. Of course she’s still mad about it. The hair streaks aren’t so bad though. Anyway, in their distraction Rogue sees sides of them she hasn’t ever seen before. Xavier is well and truly frustrated, and if he was any more pissed off, she bets there’d be steam coming out of his ears. On the other hand, Magneto is kinder than he ever acts to anyone else. Yes, he’s arguing hard and is just as frustrated, yet there’s no physical violence to accompany. He’s not cutting off the fight abruptly, he’s arguing out of true passion. They both are. To be honest, she can see a little bit why they were together. “Jean’s calling me,” Scott says abruptly. She startles, having forgotten he was there. “See ya.” He leaves, and she’s left feeling even more awkward—all she’s doing is watching her boss and his ex argue. It’s weird to stay, right? She should leave. She’s gonna leave. Rogue stands up and creeps to the door, just about to close the door behind her so they can be left to privacy, when they suddenly stop talking. Magneto is taking the Professor’s face in his hands, and— She stands there, mouth dropped open, watching a known terrorist kiss her teacher. And it’s not just a chaste press either, it’s passionate. Rogue suddenly remembers herself, a blush on her face, and closes the door hastily. She stays there in shock, the interaction having blue-screened her brain. Holy shit. She needs to tell Scott.	An Accidental Witness “God, why don’t they just kiss already,” Rogue complains quietly, her southern drawl naturally emphasizing the word ‘kiss’. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Scott replies, not bothering to be quiet at all. To his credit, the Professor could tell what they’re thinking either way. The X-Men are currently watching an explosive argument between Professor X and Magneto, the mutant leaders once again debating morals instead of planning their strategy. They’re supposed to be working with the Brotherhood. They were to invade facilities of imprisoned mutants, free them, retrieve any information they could, and take it to the ground on the way out. But Magneto had already dismissed the rest of the Brotherhood to research separately, so Rogue, Scott, Jean, Ororo, and Logan sit awkwardly around the other half of the conference room table. In truth, Rogue is the only one who is being awkward. Logan is casually smoking, staring into space, while Jean and Ororo are actually discussing the mission. Scott had opted to watch the drama, same as her, but he’s much more casual about it. Hearing his comment, she whips her head around to stare at him. “Really?” “Oh, yeah, they were like a thing in the 60’s. Then, you know, they broke up when Magneto decided to become a terrorist, and we’re trying to pretend we didn’t figure it out seeing their first interaction. It’s pretty obvious once you start noticing it.” “Holy shit—Ah had no idea. That makes so much sense!” At this point, Magneto is gripping onto the arm rests of the Professor’s chair, face intensely close to the telepath’s as he argues. Xavier isn’t backing away either, both yelling over the other. It devolved entirely from well-meant questions of whether they would be using lethal violence to insulting the other’s morality, philosophies, and life experiences. It’s almost childish. “Alright, we’re not gettin’ anywhere. I’m leavin’,” Logan grunts, taking the blunt out of his mouth only briefly. He does just that, Jean and Ororo following without pausing their conversation. “Should we follow ‘em?” Rogue whispers to Scott. “Probably,” he agrees, making no move to get up. His red visor obscures most of his expression, but it’s clear he’s amused by the Oscar-worthy drama happening in front of him. “...Okay.” She studies the two arguing in fascination, knowing the Professor only as a kind mentor to the X-Men and children, and Magneto only from her kidnapping and subsequent attempted murder. Of course she’s still mad about it. The hair streaks aren’t so bad though. Anyway, in their distraction Rogue sees sides of them she hasn’t ever seen before. Xavier is well and truly frustrated, and if he was any more pissed off, she bets there’d be steam coming out of his ears. On the other hand, Magneto is kinder than he ever acts to anyone else. Yes, he’s arguing hard and is just as frustrated, yet there’s no physical violence to accompany. He’s not cutting off the fight abruptly, he’s arguing out of true passion. They both are. To be honest, she can see a little bit why they were together. “Jean’s calling me,” Scott says abruptly. She startles, having forgotten he was there. “See ya.” He leaves, and she’s left feeling even more awkward—all she’s doing is watching her boss and his ex argue. It’s weird to stay, right? She should leave. She’s gonna leave. Rogue stands up and creeps to the door, just about to close the door behind her so they can be left to privacy, when they suddenly stop talking. Magneto is taking the Professor’s face in his hands, and— She stands there, mouth dropped open, watching a known terrorist kiss her teacher. And it’s not just a chaste press either, it’s passionate. Rogue suddenly remembers herself, a blush on her face, and closes the door hastily. She stays there in shock, the interaction having blue-screened her brain. Holy shit. She needs to tell Scott.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618666	{"authors": ["JSnapdragon"], "language": "English", "title": "An Accidental Witness"}
mwah mwah Only God knows how, but for some reaaon or another Fyodor ended up being romantically involved with a woman far too young for him. Ah fuck it, just admit it, its a child. Ah, but what a fine young girl she is. Barely fourteen years, yet her body seems to be properly developed, well, minus her height. Thats one of the main dead giveaways about her age, that, and her behaviour. One of the things about her that Fyodor finds himself thinking about over and over again is her softness - she is so. very. soft. Her shoulders, arms, legs, breasts, thighs, hands, feet... when she comes in close to hold his hands during the colder months, or to run at him and embrace him with her full body... it feels like hes getting attacked by a pillow. There is so much warmth, such fluffiness, so much love. And its so very pure, its suffocating. Her cheeks when she smiles far too widely, all to show her unbridled joy- bordering on explosive when she looks at him. Her lips... oh goodness, her lips, so plush, so soft... he has to cover his face, he finds himself becoming red at the mere thought of it. One of their favorite things to do is kiss. Of course, since Fyodor is still in his right mind (as much as he can be) he doesnt wish to engage in sex with her, not until she is older, he says, much to the dismay of his partner. This is the rule he set for them. (However, hed be lying if he said he doesnt have several fantasies about it - about filling her to the brim, impregnating her, and making her his wife, oh God, shed look so beautiful, such a cute wife, she already looks so good in white, she might just destroy him if she wore a wedding dress, with a veil barely covering her sparkling eyes and her sweet impish smile, and those lips... glossy and soft, and oh... hes growing red again) Its not especially because hes afraid that hed 'corrupt her innocence' or anything like that, or that she might become addicted to sex or something, knowing puberty hormones. (although itd be kind of cute to see her like that, he doesnt want her to become entirely dependent on him. Her freedom loving and happy go lucky attitude is a breath of fresh air for him, and for once, he doesnt want to take that away or destroy it. In fact, he wishes he could preserve it into her adult years. It is just the perfect look for her, joyous, happy, and doing whatever she so pleases. The ideal woman, he thinks.) Its more that... the restrictions increase the pleasure tenfold. He shivers at the mere thought of it. He already enjoys the sweet romantic interactions he has with his partner, handholding, hugging, cuddling... but when it comes to kisses, he finds himself awfully fixated. It excites him more than the idea of having sex with her. Just plain and simple kissing turns him on so much, that, one time, just before his darling Nikolai was about to head for school, she gave her sleepy lover a goodbye kiss- on the lips! And what a fatal mistake she made. She intended for it to be a brief little peck and be on her way, but Fyodor immediately pulled her into an embrace, extended the kiss, and brought her into bed with him. He had her wrapped up in his hold did not let go for another 10 or 15 minutes! "I'll be late!" She says, "You're messing up my hair- and my uniform!" He hums and holds her so close, so very close. Her barely developed chest pressing against his and their heartbeats intertwined. He runs a hand through her hair that were previously in braids, now come loose, and cups her cheek. Littering her with kisses all over her face, trailing down to her neck, her shoulders, her arms, and her small delicate hands. "I'll fix it for you, just stay with me for a moment..." he murmurs as he closes his eyes to breathes in her scent. Then, taking one look at her lips, once again he feels himself in a trance and starts all over kissing her more and more obsessively. She was late by more than half an hour for that day. And of course it was because Fyodor couldnt help but kiss the nape of her neck as he combed her hair, and pepper the inside of her thighs and legs with kisses as he fixed her uniform, but before he could have the chance to capture her and get into a frenzy, Nikolai was out the door as soon as he slipped the last shoe onto his darlings foot. (She came running home though, running straight into her lovers arms, pulling him down by the collar and kissing him deeply- to which the two spent their whole evening in each othes embrace) When it comes to kissing, with her, it is simply intoxicating. Poisonous. Deadly, fatal! Hes not sure why or how, but it is so addictive to him. He cannot imagine being without her kisses. And if hes like this with now, then imagine sex, oh, he might as well perish without her. Maybe it wouldnt be such a bad thing. But for now... Being in her embrace, her warmth, her softness, her childish glee, oh, his heart cant take it. Whats a man to do when he recieves this much overflowing affection? Coming from such a small being at	mwah mwah Only God knows how, but for some reaaon or another Fyodor ended up being romantically involved with a woman far too young for him. Ah fuck it, just admit it, its a child. Ah, but what a fine young girl she is. Barely fourteen years, yet her body seems to be properly developed, well, minus her height. Thats one of the main dead giveaways about her age, that, and her behaviour. One of the things about her that Fyodor finds himself thinking about over and over again is her softness - she is so. very. soft. Her shoulders, arms, legs, breasts, thighs, hands, feet... when she comes in close to hold his hands during the colder months, or to run at him and embrace him with her full body... it feels like hes getting attacked by a pillow. There is so much warmth, such fluffiness, so much love. And its so very pure, its suffocating. Her cheeks when she smiles far too widely, all to show her unbridled joy- bordering on explosive when she looks at him. Her lips... oh goodness, her lips, so plush, so soft... he has to cover his face, he finds himself becoming red at the mere thought of it. One of their favorite things to do is kiss. Of course, since Fyodor is still in his right mind (as much as he can be) he doesnt wish to engage in sex with her, not until she is older, he says, much to the dismay of his partner. This is the rule he set for them. (However, hed be lying if he said he doesnt have several fantasies about it - about filling her to the brim, impregnating her, and making her his wife, oh God, shed look so beautiful, such a cute wife, she already looks so good in white, she might just destroy him if she wore a wedding dress, with a veil barely covering her sparkling eyes and her sweet impish smile, and those lips... glossy and soft, and oh... hes growing red again) Its not especially because hes afraid that hed 'corrupt her innocence' or anything like that, or that she might become addicted to sex or something, knowing puberty hormones. (although itd be kind of cute to see her like that, he doesnt want her to become entirely dependent on him. Her freedom loving and happy go lucky attitude is a breath of fresh air for him, and for once, he doesnt want to take that away or destroy it. In fact, he wishes he could preserve it into her adult years. It is just the perfect look for her, joyous, happy, and doing whatever she so pleases. The ideal woman, he thinks.) Its more that... the restrictions increase the pleasure tenfold. He shivers at the mere thought of it. He already enjoys the sweet romantic interactions he has with his partner, handholding, hugging, cuddling... but when it comes to kisses, he finds himself awfully fixated. It excites him more than the idea of having sex with her. Just plain and simple kissing turns him on so much, that, one time, just before his darling Nikolai was about to head for school, she gave her sleepy lover a goodbye kiss- on the lips! And what a fatal mistake she made. She intended for it to be a brief little peck and be on her way, but Fyodor immediately pulled her into an embrace, extended the kiss, and brought her into bed with him. He had her wrapped up in his hold did not let go for another 10 or 15 minutes! "I'll be late!" She says, "You're messing up my hair- and my uniform!" He hums and holds her so close, so very close. Her barely developed chest pressing against his and their heartbeats intertwined. He runs a hand through her hair that were previously in braids, now come loose, and cups her cheek. Littering her with kisses all over her face, trailing down to her neck, her shoulders, her arms, and her small delicate hands. "I'll fix it for you, just stay with me for a moment..." he murmurs as he closes his eyes to breathes in her scent. Then, taking one look at her lips, once again he feels himself in a trance and starts all over kissing her more and more obsessively. She was late by more than half an hour for that day. And of course it was because Fyodor couldnt help but kiss the nape of her neck as he combed her hair, and pepper the inside of her thighs and legs with kisses as he fixed her uniform, but before he could have the chance to capture her and get into a frenzy, Nikolai was out the door as soon as he slipped the last shoe onto his darlings foot. (She came running home though, running straight into her lovers arms, pulling him down by the collar and kissing him deeply- to which the two spent their whole evening in each othes embrace) When it comes to kissing, with her, it is simply intoxicating. Poisonous. Deadly, fatal! Hes not sure why or how, but it is so addictive to him. He cannot imagine being without her kisses. And if hes like this with now, then imagine sex, oh, he might as well perish without her. Maybe it wouldnt be such a bad thing. But for now... Being in her embrace, her warmth, her softness, her childish glee, oh, his heart cant take it. Whats a man to do when he recieves this much overflowing affection? Coming from such a small being at that. Nothing, absolutely nothing, but submit, and indulge, fully and entirely to the source of his affections. Submission to her whims, her love, her kisses, her embrace. To her mischievous schemes, playful demeanor, and poignant thoughts on life, religion, philosophy and what else. Hes not sure how he got into a relationship with her, or why he accepted her feelings, but God, she might as well have been an angel from heaven to free his soul. Or a devil to secure his position in hell. Either way sounds entrancing, so as long as she is with him. An eternity of being under her hold... an eternity of kisses that one could drown in. Hed be a fool to not take the chance.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618671	{"authors": ["ligament"], "language": "English", "title": "mwah mwah"}
the boy behind the piano Yushi sighed in pure disbelief as he faced yet another “Out of Order” sign taped on the boys’ restroom door. This would be the fourth– and last– restroom on his floor, how could they all be out? Reluctantly, he made his way to the stairs to find a restroom on the floor one above his. He didn’t wander up there often, as the majority of the second floor resided those who were a year below him. He passed a few classrooms, bowed at a passing by teacher, and continued on with his search for a restroom that, hopefully, did not have a sign taped to the door. Yushi swore he spotted the restroom logo flag all the way at the end of the hall, finally. But before he made it to the end of the hall, he was suddenly distracted by the sound of a piano. If he was a cat, you would probably see his ears perk up. He couldn't help but slow down his walking pace as the piano started sounding closer and closer. When he reached the door leading to the room in which the piano, and the piano player, occupied, he stopped. Curiosity got the best of him when he carefully slid the door open by a mere centimeter. When he looked through the gap he’d made between the door and the wall, he saw chairs, a couple of music stands, a few instruments, all spread throughout the room. And then he’d spot the piano and the individual putting said piano to use. It was a boy– another student, judging by the matching uniform. The way in which the piano was positioned allowed Yushi to see a bit of the boy’s side profile, but mostly his back. The boy had dark locks and a sharp jaw; his shoulders were broad and his neck was long. He seemed to be playing an intricate piece, but what did Yushi know? All he was sure of was that it sounded beautiful. So beautiful that he didn't even realize what he had been doing– watching a stranger through a centimeter wide gap play the piano. Like a creep. And when it hit him, he immediately straightened his posture and backed away from the door of the music room. He felt the tip of his ears turning red and hurried to what he had originally come up there for– the restroom. The next day, a Thursday, Yushi found himself wandering up to the second floor of his school building again during lunch break. He was only half aware of what he was doing, curiosity getting the best of him yet again. He was oddly intrigued by the boy he saw playing the piano yesterday and wanted to see him– hear him– play again. He heard it when he got to about a few rooms away. Yushi didn’t know why or how, but he was sure that it’d be the same boy he saw yesterday. There’s no way it wouldn’t be. He inched towards the door and, much like the day before, lightly pulled on it to leave a small gap for him to peek through. Yushi was right. It was the same boy with the dark hair and long physique. He listened, and watched, as the boy hit every note with the pads of his long fingers. He saw him lightly sway his body and nod his head along to the melody he released. Yushi couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. He had never been engrossed in anything like this before, and the unfamiliarity made him shiver. Yushi himself wasn’t particularly passionate or good at anything. He was also a quiet person, mostly keeping to himself and not talking to many. He studied whenever, to get through high school and eventually into university. And when he wasn’t studying, he’d either be in bed, or he would be sitting in front of his computer screen clicking away at his video game– League of Legends. So, maybe he was intrigued by this stranger because he had never witnessed so much emotion– so much warmth– from something as simple as the playing of an instrument. Maybe it was because it made him wonder what it’s like; to have something you’re good at; to have a passion. Or maybe he just enjoyed seeing the boy play. Admiration. Yushi would never admit that though. It was day three of Yushi’s grand discovery, and like clockwork, Yushi slipped away to the stairwells with his lunch bag in hand. He had brought a variety of breads that he planned on devouring for lunch, so he told himself he would only watch the unknown Piano Boy play for a few minutes. He pulled the door to the music room open, just barely wide enough for him to see the boy, subconsciously smiling. Only a few minutes. Yushi watched, listened, observed, admired and he didn’t know how many minutes had passed but a curious “Tokuno Yushi?” interrupted his focus on the boy playing the piano. Startled, Yushi jumped a bit, bumping his head on the door. Shit. He immediately felt a warmth travel up his face, and when he turned around he was met face to face with his classmate– Oh Sion. Yushi’s voice was soft, timid, as he began, “Sion. Err.. What are you up to..!” He had no idea what to say to cover him literally watching a random boy play piano through the crack of a door. “Oh, I was just trying to find my brother. He forgot his lunch with me again,” Sion told him, but then he proceeded to raise an	the boy behind the piano Yushi sighed in pure disbelief as he faced yet another “Out of Order” sign taped on the boys’ restroom door. This would be the fourth– and last– restroom on his floor, how could they all be out? Reluctantly, he made his way to the stairs to find a restroom on the floor one above his. He didn’t wander up there often, as the majority of the second floor resided those who were a year below him. He passed a few classrooms, bowed at a passing by teacher, and continued on with his search for a restroom that, hopefully, did not have a sign taped to the door. Yushi swore he spotted the restroom logo flag all the way at the end of the hall, finally. But before he made it to the end of the hall, he was suddenly distracted by the sound of a piano. If he was a cat, you would probably see his ears perk up. He couldn't help but slow down his walking pace as the piano started sounding closer and closer. When he reached the door leading to the room in which the piano, and the piano player, occupied, he stopped. Curiosity got the best of him when he carefully slid the door open by a mere centimeter. When he looked through the gap he’d made between the door and the wall, he saw chairs, a couple of music stands, a few instruments, all spread throughout the room. And then he’d spot the piano and the individual putting said piano to use. It was a boy– another student, judging by the matching uniform. The way in which the piano was positioned allowed Yushi to see a bit of the boy’s side profile, but mostly his back. The boy had dark locks and a sharp jaw; his shoulders were broad and his neck was long. He seemed to be playing an intricate piece, but what did Yushi know? All he was sure of was that it sounded beautiful. So beautiful that he didn't even realize what he had been doing– watching a stranger through a centimeter wide gap play the piano. Like a creep. And when it hit him, he immediately straightened his posture and backed away from the door of the music room. He felt the tip of his ears turning red and hurried to what he had originally come up there for– the restroom. The next day, a Thursday, Yushi found himself wandering up to the second floor of his school building again during lunch break. He was only half aware of what he was doing, curiosity getting the best of him yet again. He was oddly intrigued by the boy he saw playing the piano yesterday and wanted to see him– hear him– play again. He heard it when he got to about a few rooms away. Yushi didn’t know why or how, but he was sure that it’d be the same boy he saw yesterday. There’s no way it wouldn’t be. He inched towards the door and, much like the day before, lightly pulled on it to leave a small gap for him to peek through. Yushi was right. It was the same boy with the dark hair and long physique. He listened, and watched, as the boy hit every note with the pads of his long fingers. He saw him lightly sway his body and nod his head along to the melody he released. Yushi couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. He had never been engrossed in anything like this before, and the unfamiliarity made him shiver. Yushi himself wasn’t particularly passionate or good at anything. He was also a quiet person, mostly keeping to himself and not talking to many. He studied whenever, to get through high school and eventually into university. And when he wasn’t studying, he’d either be in bed, or he would be sitting in front of his computer screen clicking away at his video game– League of Legends. So, maybe he was intrigued by this stranger because he had never witnessed so much emotion– so much warmth– from something as simple as the playing of an instrument. Maybe it was because it made him wonder what it’s like; to have something you’re good at; to have a passion. Or maybe he just enjoyed seeing the boy play. Admiration. Yushi would never admit that though. It was day three of Yushi’s grand discovery, and like clockwork, Yushi slipped away to the stairwells with his lunch bag in hand. He had brought a variety of breads that he planned on devouring for lunch, so he told himself he would only watch the unknown Piano Boy play for a few minutes. He pulled the door to the music room open, just barely wide enough for him to see the boy, subconsciously smiling. Only a few minutes. Yushi watched, listened, observed, admired and he didn’t know how many minutes had passed but a curious “Tokuno Yushi?” interrupted his focus on the boy playing the piano. Startled, Yushi jumped a bit, bumping his head on the door. Shit. He immediately felt a warmth travel up his face, and when he turned around he was met face to face with his classmate– Oh Sion. Yushi’s voice was soft, timid, as he began, “Sion. Err.. What are you up to..!” He had no idea what to say to cover him literally watching a random boy play piano through the crack of a door. “Oh, I was just trying to find my brother. He forgot his lunch with me again,” Sion told him, but then he proceeded to raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing up here? Were you watching him?” Yushi’s eyes widened, “What..! No. I- I was visiting him. My friend,” the words spilled out of him, “Um– My friend.. I wanted to share my bread,” he’d say, weakly lifting his lunch bag up. “But I didn’t want to interrupt his playing. But- but I was just about to go in.” “Your friend?” Sion questioned. “You–” Before Sion could continue, the door to the music room slid open behind Yushi. And for the second time in a span of less than five minutes, he jumped. And then he slowly turned his body around, facing Piano Boy. Fuck. The boy’s face was pretty, but Yushi couldn’t even think about that as he quite literally just got caught. He contemplated making a run for it and never showing face on this floor again. But when he remembered who the witness just happened to be, he shook the idea away. He saw Sion almost every day in several classes. That wouldn't do. “Hyung?” Yushi’s eyes widened; he felt himself holding in a breath. His voice sounded nice, husky– but again, not important. Hyung? “Jaehee, you forgot your lunch with me again,” Sion told him, shuffling in his backpack, “Also– Yushi? I didn’t know you were friends with my younger broth–” The boy, who he now knew as Jaehee, had confusion written all over his face, “..Yushi? Wh–” Before he could finish his sentence, a flustered Yushi quickly reached into his lunch bag and pulled out the first pastry his hand touched. “Right. J-Jaehee. Here’s the bread you wanted. But I just forgot. I’m supposed to go meet with Mr. Choi. Like right now,” he rushed to get the words out, as he pushed the packaged bread into Jaehee’s chest and practically bolted (fast walked) away. He didn’t know if the two boys he was just standing in front of were calling out for him, and if they were he couldn't hear them. His mind blocked out any and all sound until he finally reached the stairwells, where he paused to catch his breath. He leaned his body against the railing and released a breathy “Holy shit.” Yushi had never been in a situation like this before. What the hell was he thinking? Laughter filled the walls of Yushi’s bedroom. “Oh my god, Yuu chan. There’s no way you were stalking some boy. And the boy happened to be Oh Sion’s brother. And you were stalking him. This is so funny, I think I’m gonna start crying.” Yushi reached for one of his pillows to throw at the laughing mess of an individual in front of him. “Riku, please,” Yushi groaned, putting his face in his hands, “This is so- I’m so dumb. Embarrassing. So embarrassing.” “Curiosity really did kill the cat,” Riku spat before falling into another laughing fit at his own joke. Yushi picked up another pillow again, this time hitting the hysterical boy with it repeatedly. And Riku couldn't stop laughing, making Yushi laugh with him in return. “Seriously though. What am I gonna do, hyung? Maybe I should move schools,” the younger mumbled, hiding his face again. “Don’t be dramatic! It’s Friday, so they have two whole days to forget what happened before going back to school. Just don’t show your face on the second floor again. Stop stalking the poor second year! Why did you keep going up to see him anyways?” Riku raised a brow, “and for three days straight? You’re never this interested in something.” “Ugh, I don’t know. That’s the problem.” “You definitely have a little crush on him. Is he cute?” Is he cute? Yushi groaned, “I don’t have a crush, I don’t even know him!” Riku leaned in to poke his cheek, smiling cheekily, “You didn’t answer my question, Yuu-chan.” Come Monday, Yushi had to physically restrain himself from making way to the music room when lunch break started. As much as he was disappointed that he wouldn't be able to see the Piano Boy– Jaehee– play again, his embarrassment took higher priority. He saw Sion in the morning right when he got to school but fortunately for Yushi, he didn’t try to talk to him about what he witnessed last week; he just smiled and went on with whatever he was doing. He felt a bzzt in his pocket from his phone and when he read the notification, he regretted checking his phone in the first place. riku > ryo chan said he doesn’t know anyone in his class with the name ‘jaehee’ yushi i’m gonna kill u. why are u asking around < riku > isn’t that weird tho???? ryo chan is literally the president of their class > he knows like everyone yushi CAN U STOP < i’m blocking u < Yushi sighed, slipping his phone away in this pocket. Before Yushi discovered Jaehee , he usually stayed in his usual seat in his homeroom class for lunch– which is where Yushi was now instead of at the door of the music room upstairs. It was usually just him and a couple other classmates who stayed in the room for lunch. He pulled out his lunch bag, rubbing his hands together in excitement; he brought more pastries today. He unwrapped a milk bun and just as he was about to take a bite, he heard the door to the classroom slide open. When he looked to his right at the sound, his jaw dropped at the sight of the Piano Boy. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights. The boy started towards Yushi, and the latter didn’t know what to do or where to look. “Yushi..? hyung..?” Yushi choked on air. “Sorry, is it okay if I call you hyung? Sion hyung told me that you’re the same age as him, which means that you’re older than me as well.” Yushi nodded his head slowly, still in shock; still confused. “Okay, J-Jaehee..?” Yushi said, but it’d come out as more of a question. “I’m not really used to other people calling me Jaehee,” the younger boy said, scratching the back of his neck, “That’s more of.. a family nickname? My name is Daeyoung.” Yushi widened his eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He felt the tips of his ears turn rosy. “I’m so sor–” “It’s okay though! I don’t mind, Yushi hyung,” he’d say with a soft smile. “Anyways, I just wanted to return your bread.” Yushi didn’t even realize that the younger boy had anything in his hands. “Eh?” Jaehee– Daeyoung– placed the bread gently on Yushi’s desk. “I figured that this wasn’t actually for me, so it didn’t feel right to accept it.” Daeyoung seemed so kind; so purehearted. “You can have it, Jaeh- Daeyoung,” Yushi said, shaking his head. He placed the bread back in his hand. “I will admit though, I wasn’t originally planning on giving you my bread,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact. Daeyoung giggled. He giggled. “I know, hyung. Thank you anyways, enjoy your lunch!” yushi ryo chan doesn’t know a jaehee because his name isn't jaehee < it’s daeyoung < i’m an idiot < riku > ohhhh > well that goes without saying > the idiot part Another lunch break passed and Yushi couldn’t stop thinking about the younger boy. His face was so warm. So pretty. Even though he was younger, he was taller than Yushi by tenfold. And he was so kind. He didn’t even question what Yushi was doing outside the music room. He basically just went along with it. And he is so talented on piano. Yushi itched to see him play. “Just go up to the music room! Properly introduce yourself and compliment his playing!” Riku’s words floating around Yushi’s mind. “All you’ve been talking about lately is this boy, even when we’re playing League! Just do it Yuu-chan!” Yushi groaned at the thought before being interrupted by what sounded like someone calling out his name. “Yushi!” When he turned his head, he was met with a smiling Sion. “Hi, Sion.” “Hi, Yushi. My brother– Jaehee–” Why did it look like Sion was smirking? “Asked me to give you this. He would’ve brought it to you himself but he’s practicing hard for a recital.” He placed a paper lunch bag on his desk. “See ya~!” Yushi gently picked up the bag and inspected the outside of it. It was a pastel green color with white polkadots all around. Cute. Before opening the bag, he looked around the room with light pink cheeks. He didn't know why, but it felt sacred; like this was just for Yushi only and no one else was allowed to see. He must have been going crazy. When he opened the bag, he was greeted with a small note along with a strawberry sando. Hi Yushi hyung, You seem to really like bread so this is to repay you for the bread from the other day. Sorry I couldn’t deliver this to you myself! Sincerely, Jaehee / Daeyoung :) The sando looked homemade. It was wrapped in pastel green paper– the same shade as the lunch bag it came in. If Yushi was in the comfort of his bedroom, he would definitely be squealing. What the fuck! Search Recent jaehee x daeyoung x oh jaehee x oh daeyoung x daeyoung jaehee x oh sion x @daeyoungkim [ Follow ] —> [ Requested ] @daeyoungkim has accepted your follow request. @daeyoungkim has requested to follow you. @tokunooo helloo < thank you very much for the sando < @daeyoungkim > hi yushi hyung! > no problem! > was it okay? @tokunooo it was very tasty < thank you again < @daeyoungkim > phew > that’s a relief > my first time making a sando lol! @tokunooo really? < you didn’t have to < @daeyoungkim > it’s okay! i wanted to give you something back for the bun you gave me > really yummy btw! > you’ll have to let me know what bakery you go to @tokunooo i can < maybe < @daeyoungkim > maybe??? @tokunooo i’m a gatekeeper < @daeyoungkim > i’ll earn it then! The sound of a high pitched squeal attacked Yushi’s eardrums, “Tokuno Yushi, you flirt! I didn’t know you had that in you!” Yushi responded by slapping Riku’s shoulder, “What are you talking about? I’m not flirting!” “These DMs say otherwise, and he’s flirting back! Oh my god!” “Shut up! He’s not flirting back. I think he’s just like- really nice. Like naturally kind.” “Do you even hear yourself? I can’t believe you went through the trouble of trying to find his Instagram, just to learn that he doesn’t even share a last name with Sion. You should’ve just asked me, and then I could’ve asked Ryo chan! He would definitely know.” Riku said, followed by his laughter. Yushi shook his head in defeat, knowing there’d be no way to get past his teasing. riku > i have info!!!!!!! > ryo chan told me that daeyoung runs to the music room to practice during lunch break > like basically every day yushi and what am i supposed to do with that information < riku > im sure youll figure something out >:) “Yes, Yushi?” “Can I please go to the restroom?” – Which is how Yushi found himself upstairs in the empty music room just minutes before lunch break would officially start. It felt weird for him to be in there. He had only ever seen the room from the outside through the crack of the door. He fidgeted with his fingers on his right hand, while his left held a baby blue paper lunch bag. “Jaehee/Daeyoung” was written on the bag with black ink. He walked towards the piano, feeling strange– he’d never seen the piano up close either. Yushi snapped out of his racing mind and placed the bag on top of the piano. Before he could overthink any further, he fled the music room. @daeyoungkim > thank you!! for more pastries!! > i had some after practice > yes hyung i’d really love for you to take me to your favorite bakery > and > do you want to come to my next recital? read @daeyoungkim > hyung? > is that weird of me to ask read @daeyoungkim > sorry if i made u uncomfortable T_T @tokunooo hey sorry < i was < washing the dishes < i would love to come < Yushi had definitely not been washing the dishes. Yushi had been freaking out over Daeyoung’s invitation. The thought of being able to see the younger boy play in such an official setting– not through a cracked door– made Yushi feel weird and tingly inside. Butterflies made rounds throughout his tummy, but he’d never admit that. Walking towards the front door of the recital hall, Yushi straightened his white button down shirt with his palms that were gradually getting clammy.. He had no idea what one was supposed to wear to a piano recital, so after an hour of back and forth deciding, he settled on a short sleeved button shirt and black pants. He exhaled a deep breath he didn’t realize he had taken and entered the hall. After presenting his ticket that, much to his dismay, Daeyoung bought for him, he found a seat. Content with his seating, he would lay a small subconscious smile on his face. He was extremely excited to see the younger boy play, giddy even. Without realizing, he bounced his leg with anticipation. He was close to impatient, wondering when Daeyoung would come out. He looked around the hall for a second and saw Sion sitting with two adults, seemingly to be his parents. They were seated right in the front row. Yushi looked away envious at their view. Finally, the lights in the hall dimmed and Daeyoung walked across the stage to sit in front of the piano. A soft yellow spotlight was flashed onto him. Daeyoung seemed so calm and composed; Yushi thought about how he’d probably pass out being under a spotlight. He was dressed in a pale blue button shirt and slacks, and his hair was ever so slightly parted. Thoughts about how handsome he looked bounced off the walls in Yushi’s brain. Daeyoung looked like he fit perfectly with the piano. Like it was made for him. And right when he began to pad at the first note, Yushi was stunned. The sound was even more beautiful, hearing it in an enclosed hall made especially for music to travel. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the boy while listening intently. By the end of the song, Yushi felt weak. It was so beautiful, so mesmerizing. He didn’t think he would be able to stand. And it didn’t help that when Daeyoung finished the piece, he stood up to bow and looked throughout the crowd until his eyes landed on Yushi’s. He flashed a beautiful smile at Yushi– the most beautiful smile he’d ever witnessed– and made his way backstage. Yushi stayed glued to his seat until he finally saw Daeyoung walking towards him after however-many-minutes had passed. When he stood, he realized most of the audience had cleared out. He spotted Sion and his family again, standing near the front of the stage chatting. “Hyung, I’m so glad you made it!” Daeyoung said, excitement racing through his voice. He pulled Yushi in for a hug, which made his eyes widen and his body stiffen. He hadn’t expected it, but he soon reciprocated. When Daeyoung pulled away, Yushi was able to get a good look at his face. Daeyoung was beaming and it made Yushi’s heart flutter. “Of course I made it, you were amazing.” He’d say softly, “You’re so talented, Daeyoung. Wow,” Yushi was speechless as he looked up at the younger boy. Daeyoung’s eyes were the shape of crescents as a giggle escaped his lips.”Thank you, hyung. I-” “Canyouinvitemetoallyourrecitalsfromnowon,” Yushi blurted, eyes wide and cheeks reddening. Yushi slapped his mouth with his hand, realizing that he had just interrupted Daeyoung in the middle of talking. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” He apologized, muffled behind his hand. Daeyoung reached forward and grabbed the hand that rested atop Yushi’s mouth. He guided it down to Yushi’s side and it almost seemed like he hesitated to let go. Yushi’s ears were hot. He’d never felt so much heat radiate through his face and body as he flushed in front of Daeyoung. The taller boy flashed him another one of his beautiful smiles and said, “Of course, hyung. I’d be more than honored to have you at all of my recitals.” He would then slowly lean his face forward and flicker his eyes to Yushi’s lips. Yushi sucked in a breath in disbelief of what was unfolding, but screwed his eyes shut anyways. Daeyoung then laid a small peck on Yushi’s lips and quickly pulled away. When Yushi opened his eyes, Daeyoung’s face was as flushed as Yushi felt his own was. This made him giggle, and Daeyoung giggled along with him. “Hey you two! Stop kissing over there, we can all see you!!” Sion would shout from across the hall.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618686	{"authors": ["bedrot"], "language": "English", "title": "the boy behind the piano"}
The beginning of nothingness "C'mon, you aren't making this any easier." The hooded cultist muttered, though there was a definite undertone of fear as they hauled on the chain attached to the last lamb's neck. "Just a little farther, and all this pain will stop! Don't you want that?!" The sheep barely registered the plea of the stranger trying to drag them to their death, instead resisting with everything they had left as they snarled unintelligible curses at their handlers. The 'lamb' could hardly be even called that anymore. It looked less like a sacrifice and more like one of the brutish, mutated monstrosities that guard the bishops domains. It towered over its jailors, bound in multiple sets of chains- some already showing signs of failure. Five cultists held a chain attached to the thick iron collar locked around its neck. The beast writhed against its bindings, the rusty chains digging deeper into its flayed flesh. It was coated in blood, a surprising amount of which was not its own. It's bloodied muzzle, flesh still trapped between broken herbivorous teeth, was proof of its continued lethal defiance of its fate. All could see how desperately the monster clung to life, even as it was slowly and inevitably dragged before the four that had ordered its death. But that wasn't quite the truth, was it? The 'lamb' was running purely on emotions. The boundless strength the sacrifice had was reduced by weeks of poor meals, leaving its towering frame gaunt and frail, their muscles have degraded to a horrifying degree. They fought on, against impossible odds, on pure stress alone. Truly, the rebellious beast had already given up. Yet, their instincts drove them to continue to fight. Part of them just wanted to die. They were so tired. They had lost so much. Another part, equally as desperate, wanted to FIGHT. They had taken SO MUCH. They were SO TIRED of it. The four bishops loomed ahead, waiting patiently for the last threat to their rule to die. The chains echoed in the clearing, none of the cultists daring to speak, lest they drew the Lasts ire. The Lamb continued to fight, even as they were dragged to their knees before the bloody stone at the center of the impromptu execution site. Raging against their chains with broken limbs. Bellowing against their demise with empty lungs. Glaring up at the headsman with hate filled, hungry eyes. Something was breaking GROWING. To the bulls credit, they didn't flinch as the enmity seemed to multiply. Dark smoke leaking from their eyes, teeth sharpening. The bishops began their speech, waxing poetic about how fate was averted. The lamb was so tired FURIOUS. The green one muttered something about a traitor remained sealed. They were falling apart BREAKING FREE. The squid started to say something, but stuttered to a halt as the sacrifices back bulges outward, their gray wool staining pitch black, their eyes becoming dull glowing coals. VENGEANCE rest… The frog barked something at the bull, who quickly hefted their axe. The Lamb didn't feel anything anymore THEY WERE FILLED WITH POWER. The chains no longer registered as they shattered to pieces. The spider didn't seem to react to the chaos happening before them, as the Lamb pupated into something horrendous. The green bishop was snarling in disgust, the blue screeching in fear. The frog barking orders to the panicking followers. Instead, they finished their pointless speech. Through the cacophony, these words alone seemed to reach what was left of the lamb slumped on the execution stone, the ax rapidly descending on their neck as the manifestation of their wrath tore from their back. "And the old Faith THUNK Shall be… preserved." The One Who Waits had been true to his namesake for a long, long time now. Eternity had few interruptions, as it turned out. He may have been chained away in the gateway to his relm for centuries, but he got surprisingly few visitors. The gateway was impossibly wide, made by one of his predecessors to accomidate some massive influx of souls- before their plan to shove all of the living into the realm of the dead had been unceremoniously stopped by the red crown choosing a new bearer. Thus, very few souls actually appeared before him. He only got lucky a few times, so his opportunities to throw a wrench into his siblings plans were few and far between. His pickings of vessels was… slim, to say the least. He got a couple over the centuries, but they all failed him one way or another. But that was all in the past now. He and his disciples- two poor souls tossed at his feet in some cruel joke- waited patiently for the soul that was DESTINED to free them. The one guaranteed to succeed. The one that would have no choice but to free him. His siblings had taken steps to attempt to stop the relentless march of fate, to cling to that meaningless power that they coveted more than the people that helped them get there. But truly, they could not have been more confoundingly inept in their efforts. Killing off	The beginning of nothingness "C'mon, you aren't making this any easier." The hooded cultist muttered, though there was a definite undertone of fear as they hauled on the chain attached to the last lamb's neck. "Just a little farther, and all this pain will stop! Don't you want that?!" The sheep barely registered the plea of the stranger trying to drag them to their death, instead resisting with everything they had left as they snarled unintelligible curses at their handlers. The 'lamb' could hardly be even called that anymore. It looked less like a sacrifice and more like one of the brutish, mutated monstrosities that guard the bishops domains. It towered over its jailors, bound in multiple sets of chains- some already showing signs of failure. Five cultists held a chain attached to the thick iron collar locked around its neck. The beast writhed against its bindings, the rusty chains digging deeper into its flayed flesh. It was coated in blood, a surprising amount of which was not its own. It's bloodied muzzle, flesh still trapped between broken herbivorous teeth, was proof of its continued lethal defiance of its fate. All could see how desperately the monster clung to life, even as it was slowly and inevitably dragged before the four that had ordered its death. But that wasn't quite the truth, was it? The 'lamb' was running purely on emotions. The boundless strength the sacrifice had was reduced by weeks of poor meals, leaving its towering frame gaunt and frail, their muscles have degraded to a horrifying degree. They fought on, against impossible odds, on pure stress alone. Truly, the rebellious beast had already given up. Yet, their instincts drove them to continue to fight. Part of them just wanted to die. They were so tired. They had lost so much. Another part, equally as desperate, wanted to FIGHT. They had taken SO MUCH. They were SO TIRED of it. The four bishops loomed ahead, waiting patiently for the last threat to their rule to die. The chains echoed in the clearing, none of the cultists daring to speak, lest they drew the Lasts ire. The Lamb continued to fight, even as they were dragged to their knees before the bloody stone at the center of the impromptu execution site. Raging against their chains with broken limbs. Bellowing against their demise with empty lungs. Glaring up at the headsman with hate filled, hungry eyes. Something was breaking GROWING. To the bulls credit, they didn't flinch as the enmity seemed to multiply. Dark smoke leaking from their eyes, teeth sharpening. The bishops began their speech, waxing poetic about how fate was averted. The lamb was so tired FURIOUS. The green one muttered something about a traitor remained sealed. They were falling apart BREAKING FREE. The squid started to say something, but stuttered to a halt as the sacrifices back bulges outward, their gray wool staining pitch black, their eyes becoming dull glowing coals. VENGEANCE rest… The frog barked something at the bull, who quickly hefted their axe. The Lamb didn't feel anything anymore THEY WERE FILLED WITH POWER. The chains no longer registered as they shattered to pieces. The spider didn't seem to react to the chaos happening before them, as the Lamb pupated into something horrendous. The green bishop was snarling in disgust, the blue screeching in fear. The frog barking orders to the panicking followers. Instead, they finished their pointless speech. Through the cacophony, these words alone seemed to reach what was left of the lamb slumped on the execution stone, the ax rapidly descending on their neck as the manifestation of their wrath tore from their back. "And the old Faith THUNK Shall be… preserved." The One Who Waits had been true to his namesake for a long, long time now. Eternity had few interruptions, as it turned out. He may have been chained away in the gateway to his relm for centuries, but he got surprisingly few visitors. The gateway was impossibly wide, made by one of his predecessors to accomidate some massive influx of souls- before their plan to shove all of the living into the realm of the dead had been unceremoniously stopped by the red crown choosing a new bearer. Thus, very few souls actually appeared before him. He only got lucky a few times, so his opportunities to throw a wrench into his siblings plans were few and far between. His pickings of vessels was… slim, to say the least. He got a couple over the centuries, but they all failed him one way or another. But that was all in the past now. He and his disciples- two poor souls tossed at his feet in some cruel joke- waited patiently for the soul that was DESTINED to free them. The one guaranteed to succeed. The one that would have no choice but to free him. His siblings had taken steps to attempt to stop the relentless march of fate, to cling to that meaningless power that they coveted more than the people that helped them get there. But truly, they could not have been more confoundingly inept in their efforts. Killing off all potential candidates for a prophecy? A prophecy that they would aid the god of death? The same god of death that they had SEALED IN THE AFTERLIFE?! Narinder chuckled darkly. Surely one of his siblings had felt some guilt for what they did to him, and led the others astray. That was the only explanation for this utterly baffling course of action, not to mention how poorly the 'secret plan' was kept secret. Not that guilt would stop him from enacting vengeance; if they truly regretted their actions, then they would not mind suffering his wrath. The twin guardians, Aym and Baal, glanced up at him, but said nothing. He had trained them extensively to be perfect servants, helping him attend his godly duties while he was… indisposed. Lost souls, near death experiences, what have you. But right now, they all waited. Just a little longer, and the key to their- to his freedom would be dropped right into his hands. …any moment now. Hmm. Narinder's smile fell. They were taking too long. He peered out into his domain, trying to spy a lost soul that he knew belonged to him- that was OWED to him. But all he could see at first were more wooden graves, more piles of skulls. If even fate itself had turned on him… Was this actually some cruel joke? Was there never a prophecy at all, and his siblings had simply decided to wipe out an entire species just to- No, wait. There. In the distance, Narinder spotted his quarry: a prone figure coated in patchy wool and blood, the stark red standing out against the bone ash. It rested just a couple godly paces directly in front of him- not that he could pace, due to the wretched chains that held him. It wasn't moving. Perhaps his newest vessel needed a little… encouragement. He raised one boney hand, and pointed at the still lamb. His chains drew taught as he did so. "Fetch them." He snarled, causing the twins to leap to their feet and dart into the fog that drifted across the gateway. He groaned as he waited for the two cats to bring back the lazy sheep. No, perhaps that was unfair. Maybe the poor being had simply lost hope, and hope was certainly something he would be able to provide. Vengeance was the main offer, however- and that was a very powerful motivator in and of itself. He straightened as he saw the shadows of the twins push through the mist, the Lamb slung between them, dragging them before him like a drunkard to prison. Their head was hanging limply. Narinder shifted forwards to get a better look at the limp lamb. Aym and Baal hurredly brought them closer, before gently laying them down on their side. The lamb hardly reacted, its eyes distant and glassy. It was like any will they had was simply sapped from them. The soul was… horribly damaged. The neck had a jagged scar, still bleeding and fresh, but the worst damage was on their back. A spindle shaped tear cut clean right down their spine- or, what would be their spine, if the hole It looked like a sheep-shaped chrysalis that yet lived in spite of the violent exit of the owner. The One Who Waits could not help himself, and peered deeper, pondering the dark inside of the sheep's soul. If he was to revive them… Well. The ritual should give them everything a mortal needs to survive, but. This was their SOUL. The very essence of their being! It was not the only scar they carried, far from it- wounds old and fresh crisscrossed underneath the patchy wool, though all those wounds would heal in time with his gift. But the tear in their back was another matter entirely, not of some mortal blade trying to get IN, but more a matter of some part of themselves trying to get OUT. And clearly, whatever was missing was a cornerstone to the souls existence, as the Lamb seemed to unravel as he assessed the damage, the edges of the wound dissolving into a black, thread like material as the soul frayed at its torn edges. Given the battles that the sheep had clearly seen, The One Who Waits hardly thought fading away was an appropriate fate. A warrior such as this deserved better. The sheep let out a quiet sigh, closing their eyes, and the dissolution of their being accelerated. Narinder's eyes widened in panic. His ticket out was slipping through his fingers- quite literally in this case, the body of the last lamb turning to dust in his hands. He had to do something, and fast. "Lamb." He said, a gentle command in his voice as he pressed his thumb against the hole, attempting to hold it shut. "Though you are already dead, I still have need of you." This finally got the attention of his future vessel, who tiredly looked up at the God that held them. Narinder felt the decay slow under his finger. Progress. "Those foolish bishops thought they could keep you from me in death, but instead sent you straight to me." he murmured, brushing their cheek with his other hand, noting that their eyes were still unfocused. He would need to word his offer very carefully. "I will grant you life once more. But I would ask something in return." The Lambs eyes focused a little, and they struggled to prop themselves up in his hand. They looked at him in confusion for a moment, opened their mouth… and nothing came out of their mouth, yet Narinder still heard them. [Why me? What value could i possibly have left?] "You are destined to great things, little Lamb." Narinder began, urging them to live with his voice alone. "Fate dictates your path. You are not meant to end here, naught but a meaningless sacrifice." The Lamb's ears perked. They were listening."You are meant to serve me, avenge your people, slaughter my treacherous siblings, and free me from these wretched chains." he growled, rubbing his thumb along their back to sooth any concerns they may have. After all, being volunteered to wage war against gods was- "Ok." The sheep almost immediately answered. Narinder blinked in surprise, but tried to not show it in his face any more than that. Their voice was louder, more assured- yet still strained. "Oh really, Lamb?" Narinder purred, amusement tinging his voice. How eager they were to slaughter… "You don't even yet know what to call me." "Its… the right thing to do, right?" they muttered, sitting themselves up to better look at the god. "I… I should want this. My family- everyone I know died because of them. This is something I need..." "...right?" Narinder paused. Ah, of course. "It seems your emotions have dulled, little Lamb. If you need a drive to fight, you may rely on mine for a time. Do not fear- to die with such a…" he murmured, gently caressing their back with his other hand for emphasis, "critical wound to your soul, it stands to reason your connection to mortal feelings may be similarly damaged. But do not fret- it shall heal in time." he assured. Such had happened with his experiments into resurrection- temporarily dulled emotions, cravings for the flesh of the living. But those would only be minor obstacles for his vessel. "Now. I offer a pact for you, little Lamb." The one who waits announced, setting down the Lamb on the ground before him. "Take up the red crown that I once wore, and raise a cult in My name. With the power granted by your followers, you shall become very mighty indeed. Do we have a deal?" "Yes." the Lamb responded as soon as he was finished, looking up at him with determination. The hole on their back had stopped growing, and their gray eyes now gleamed with purpose. "Then go, My Lamb," Narinder commanded, as the crown shot off his head and landed in the Lambs, "And tell them that The One Who Waits has a new vessel." The Lamb, overflowing with power, had no time to answer. In a pillar of red light, they returned to the world above. the impromptu execution grounds were silent, the battle that had raged here moments ago long since having moved elsewhere. For such a mighty struggle, there were few signs of its existence, save for some discarded robes, and an unmoving body of the last sheep. A once unmoving body, that was suddenly dragged up from the ground by an unseen force, the half-decapitated head hanging limply from what flesh kept it attached to the stump. Red light surrounded it as the head flipped back to its spot between the shoulders, as the beast returned from the dead, chains shattered and clothed in a red cloak. A black crown with a single red eye settled between the Lamb's horns, as their own eyes opened… to a quiet, empty part of the forest. The place where they died was now as quiet as a crypt, with not a single living soul in sight- hell, not even a body had been left behind. The Lamb glanced around, noting the absence of resistance. They looked down at one of the empty cloaks, kicked it, and said: "The One Who Waits has a new vessel."	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618701	{"authors": ["OscarWisaaad"], "language": "English", "title": "The beginning of nothingness"}
A Spell For His Name Chapter 1 “You look miserable.” “Do I?” Solomon answered sarcastically, not even bothering to lift his head up from his book. He was sitting at his desk in his bedroom, surrounded by his bookshelves. There were books scattered on his desk and floor; It's almost as if someone has ransacked his room. There were half finished assignments scattered everywhere. Solomon had been writing an essay for class, but had completely lost himself in…whatever this was. He didn't care enough to make a pile, he just put everything down. His desk was covered in stacks of notes and essays, most having been scribbled over multiple times. "Its a mess in here." Asmodeus, his pact partner, commented as he walked over to Solomon's desk and sat down on it with crossed arms. Asmodeus knew from his frequent impromptu visits to the wizard’s room in the Purgatory Hall that it wasn't uncommon for Solomon's room to be a mess; however, the demon could sense something was different. This mess was like an open window in his troubled soul. Something was clearly wrong with him. "What happened?" "It's nothing," Solomon dismissed dismissively, not moving a centimeter from his position. "I got caught up working late last night." "Yeah, and?" Asmodeus prodded curiously. "And I... I've been doing some thinking..." Solomon trailed off, looking down at the book on his desk. "I've been thinking about my past." Asmodeus raised his eyebrows, confused and intrigued by what Solomon was saying. "Thinking about yourself? That's my job." Amodeus looked down at all the scattered books. They all shared the pattern of being about Solomon in some way. ‘Legend of King Solomon’, ‘Solomon the Wise’, ‘King Solomon the Cruel’. It was uncanny, even for what Amsodeus was used to. The demon knew Solomon's past was difficult to say the least, but he also has seen the sorcerer grow a lot from it. Being an immortal does that to you; it makes you think and change in ways that a normal mortal wouldn't have time to do in a normal lifetime. Solomon now used his power for the good of humanity and made significant contributions and enhancements to magic studies. Even so, there were still plenty of mysteries that he had yet to find answers to, even after hundreds of years. The legend of King Solomon the Wise would be considered one of the more ancient legends in history. In the modern Devildom, they knew of the man as one of the great magicians from the ancient world, but few knew the true story behind it. It was said Solomon ruled with divine judgement, but ultimately betrayed the gods by owning over one thousand women and slaves. The gods banished him from heaven, and Solomon became immortal as a punishment for his sin. His kingdom fell into ruin, leaving no other survivors except for him. Solomon's last wife and only child died due to illness and neglect. But Solomon’s heart would never die, and the pain of losing his loved ones could never fade. After losing everything, Solomon devoted his life to learning magic and making up for lost time. He devoted his immortality to humanity as its protector, trying to give them the tools and wisdom to survive. He made many allies and enemies, both mortal and immortal. Asmo nodded, understanding the story of the old king better than anyone. "You would make for a fine demon for me if you would just die..." The demon smiled heartlessly, not taking the sorcerer’s dismay very seriously like usual. Solomon glared daggers at Asmodeus. "You don't have to remind me that.." His glare turned back into a neutral face and he picked up his book again, trying to pretend like he didn't hear the lust demon. But it was clear that he did hear him; his tone was bitter, and there was anger evident in his posture and body language. Solomon wasn't angry that Asmodeus reminded him of how he used to act or that his past clearly earned him a place in damnation, but rather at the fact that he cannot die. Solomon tried many methods before in the first development of his curse. None worked. He tried burning himself to ashes; he tried freezing himself to death, he even tried using a demon lord’s pact to seal himself away. Solomon couldn't die. It's a fact he'd rather pretend didn't exist. So when Asmodeus brings it up, it gets under Solomon's skin in ways he hates to admit. "If you would just stop bringing it up every chance you get.." Solomon said, closing the book and setting it aside on his desk. The two lock eyes, and neither flinches; Solomon’s hazel eyes meeting the intense amber eyes of the demon. But the tension in the air becomes palpable and heavy as seconds pass. Eventually, Solomon drops his gaze and sighs. "I know I shouldn't talk about it." Asmodeus said, “I know a way to make you really forget your past," he says softly. Asmodeus leaned forward, lowering his voice as much as possible as he gazed into Solomon’s eyes.. "Come on~ Don't tell me you can resist this offer. It’ll be good for me and you,” Asmodeus’ voice was full of	A Spell For His Name Chapter 1 “You look miserable.” “Do I?” Solomon answered sarcastically, not even bothering to lift his head up from his book. He was sitting at his desk in his bedroom, surrounded by his bookshelves. There were books scattered on his desk and floor; It's almost as if someone has ransacked his room. There were half finished assignments scattered everywhere. Solomon had been writing an essay for class, but had completely lost himself in…whatever this was. He didn't care enough to make a pile, he just put everything down. His desk was covered in stacks of notes and essays, most having been scribbled over multiple times. "Its a mess in here." Asmodeus, his pact partner, commented as he walked over to Solomon's desk and sat down on it with crossed arms. Asmodeus knew from his frequent impromptu visits to the wizard’s room in the Purgatory Hall that it wasn't uncommon for Solomon's room to be a mess; however, the demon could sense something was different. This mess was like an open window in his troubled soul. Something was clearly wrong with him. "What happened?" "It's nothing," Solomon dismissed dismissively, not moving a centimeter from his position. "I got caught up working late last night." "Yeah, and?" Asmodeus prodded curiously. "And I... I've been doing some thinking..." Solomon trailed off, looking down at the book on his desk. "I've been thinking about my past." Asmodeus raised his eyebrows, confused and intrigued by what Solomon was saying. "Thinking about yourself? That's my job." Amodeus looked down at all the scattered books. They all shared the pattern of being about Solomon in some way. ‘Legend of King Solomon’, ‘Solomon the Wise’, ‘King Solomon the Cruel’. It was uncanny, even for what Amsodeus was used to. The demon knew Solomon's past was difficult to say the least, but he also has seen the sorcerer grow a lot from it. Being an immortal does that to you; it makes you think and change in ways that a normal mortal wouldn't have time to do in a normal lifetime. Solomon now used his power for the good of humanity and made significant contributions and enhancements to magic studies. Even so, there were still plenty of mysteries that he had yet to find answers to, even after hundreds of years. The legend of King Solomon the Wise would be considered one of the more ancient legends in history. In the modern Devildom, they knew of the man as one of the great magicians from the ancient world, but few knew the true story behind it. It was said Solomon ruled with divine judgement, but ultimately betrayed the gods by owning over one thousand women and slaves. The gods banished him from heaven, and Solomon became immortal as a punishment for his sin. His kingdom fell into ruin, leaving no other survivors except for him. Solomon's last wife and only child died due to illness and neglect. But Solomon’s heart would never die, and the pain of losing his loved ones could never fade. After losing everything, Solomon devoted his life to learning magic and making up for lost time. He devoted his immortality to humanity as its protector, trying to give them the tools and wisdom to survive. He made many allies and enemies, both mortal and immortal. Asmo nodded, understanding the story of the old king better than anyone. "You would make for a fine demon for me if you would just die..." The demon smiled heartlessly, not taking the sorcerer’s dismay very seriously like usual. Solomon glared daggers at Asmodeus. "You don't have to remind me that.." His glare turned back into a neutral face and he picked up his book again, trying to pretend like he didn't hear the lust demon. But it was clear that he did hear him; his tone was bitter, and there was anger evident in his posture and body language. Solomon wasn't angry that Asmodeus reminded him of how he used to act or that his past clearly earned him a place in damnation, but rather at the fact that he cannot die. Solomon tried many methods before in the first development of his curse. None worked. He tried burning himself to ashes; he tried freezing himself to death, he even tried using a demon lord’s pact to seal himself away. Solomon couldn't die. It's a fact he'd rather pretend didn't exist. So when Asmodeus brings it up, it gets under Solomon's skin in ways he hates to admit. "If you would just stop bringing it up every chance you get.." Solomon said, closing the book and setting it aside on his desk. The two lock eyes, and neither flinches; Solomon’s hazel eyes meeting the intense amber eyes of the demon. But the tension in the air becomes palpable and heavy as seconds pass. Eventually, Solomon drops his gaze and sighs. "I know I shouldn't talk about it." Asmodeus said, “I know a way to make you really forget your past," he says softly. Asmodeus leaned forward, lowering his voice as much as possible as he gazed into Solomon’s eyes.. "Come on~ Don't tell me you can resist this offer. It’ll be good for me and you,” Asmodeus’ voice was full of temptation. Solomon rolled his eyes, knowing full well where this conversation was headed. "Thats enough, Asmo. Just leave." Asmo chuckled quietly, standing up and brushing his clothes off. He turned towards Solomon "Is this why you've been acting so strangely lately? Your past?" he guessed. Solomon shook his head slightly, not looking up from his book. "Then what is bothering you?” Asmodeus insisted with actual concern and interest this time. He hated not being in the know. Solomon sighed, setting down the book on his desk once again. He leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "This isn't something you can solve, Asmo." Solomon stated simply. Asmodeus quirked an eyebrow. "You're a demon, and demons aren't the most empathetic nor the brightest of creatures." Solomon continued. Asmodeus scoffed at Solomon's remark, raising his hands to defend himself. Solomon ignored him and carried on. "The only thing that will fix the problem is time, not magic." "Well, I think you're wasting it." Asmodeus stated. He crossed his arms, leaning back against the desk, waiting for Solomon to respond. After no response he spoke, "I want to take you for a drink tonight at the new club.” This got Solomon to perk up a bit. It had been awhile since he properly let himself go, and it was not an idea he disliked. After all, alcohol tended to make Asmodeus more tolerable. The greatest thing about the Devildom had to be the amount of clubs. The resident demons were all about indulgence in food, sex, drugs, money, power, and more; Always more. Solomon often walked down these sidewalks for the novelty magic trinket shops, but that was when he was alone. Wasting money on the surprise gift boxes was his guilty pleasure. Solomon calculated that there was a factorial of 55 possibilities. This impossibly large number gave Solomon the feeling of surprise he ached all these recent decades. The ever looming night of the Devildom was cut through by the shiny neon sign of the lust club Asmodeus took him to. Horny demons acted chaotically outside just in front of the entrance. This made Solomon wonder how wild it was on the inside… The line was insanely long, but thanks to Asmodeus’ status, they both got to skip it. Amodeus opened the doors, and the bass of the music was immediately heard. The duo walked in. Solomon was not afraid or disturbed. Well, maybe a bit disturbed, but it was nothing he hadn't seen in the Devildom before. “What do you think?!” Asmodeus yelled through the music as he snapped a selfie, "It's the hottest new place on Devilgram” “I think I stepped in someone's jizz…” Solomon grimaced as he gingerly looked at the bottom of his shoe. “It's all in good fun, Solomon. Come on, let's get wasted.” The night gave Solomon a strange sense of deja vu. The loud club, drinks, and most of all the draw he felt toward Asmodeus. This was almost exactly like their first night together. It was centuries ago when a drunk Asmodeus slouched on Solomon’s shoulder and started venting to him about his ex. Despite his protests, there was no getting that lust demon off of him, leaving him no choice but to sit and listen. Solomon decided to use the situation to his advantage, and then they were pact mates. “Here, your favorite," Asmodeus offered him a drink while sipping his own ‘Asmo-tini’. Solomon accepted the glass of whiskey with a reluctant sigh, swirling the amber liquid before taking a sip. It burned his throat like always, but he supposed that was part of the experience. “Alright, fine. One drink. But I'm not getting drunk. You know how I am when I drink too much.” One drink after another, Solomon was a man possessed. One glass just didn't satiate him… It didn't have the same kick as it did years, or rather centuries ago. Suppose he simply gained a tolerance after a while. It was impressive, but so painful. He has a desire to feel numb and forget the night… “Thats it, down it, down it!” Asmodeus whooped, having a blast and encouraging the sorcerer to take another shot. His head was spinning, the room blurring around him as he downed another shot. He wasn't sure how many he'd had by now, but he knew it was too many. He was a mess, his usually composed demeanor completely shattered. His words were slurred, his movements uncoordinated. “Why...why did I let you drag me here...? I'm a mess…You were right. I am miserable.” He let out a drunken sob, all of his emotions pouring out in his inebriated state. All the stress that he'd been holding in for centuries all came crashing down on him at once. “I'm immortal. I've seen empires rise and fall, loved and lost countless times. I've watched everyone I care about grow old and die, while I remain stuck in time. I can't take it anymore…” Asmo was taken aback by Solomon's sudden outburst. He wasn't used to seeing the usually composed sorcerer in such a state. He hesitantly placed a hand on Solomon's shoulder, trying to offer some comfort. “Hey, hey, um, it's okay…I’m here,” Solomon leaned into Asmodeus's touch, as if seeking comfort from the contact. He knew he was making a fool of himself, but the alcohol had removed all his inhibitions and his barriers. At that moment, all he saw was Asmodeus. The golden eyed demon, as strong and confident as always. The beautiful, glowing eyes... And the touch that sent chills down his spine… He wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, wrapped up in Asmodeus's warmth.... Solomon blinked once, twice, snapping out of Asmodeus's gaze which was literally hypnotizing him. Even he was not immune to the demon's charms. Solomon looked away, trying to collect himself. “I need air.” He mumbled, “No, you can't leave yet, I just got here!” “I’m sorry, Asmodeus, I'll make it up to you…” Solomon stumbled towards the door leading outside. A few moments later, Solomon was sitting on one of the tables outside of a closed cafe. It was located in the more slothful parts of the devildom, so Solomon was able to drink in the silence of the night. After his drink, he thought that taking a walk through the city and a little light pollution would help him focus and sober up just enough. He thought for a moment before throwing his glass in a bin, walking outside the club and into the humid night. He walked along the cobblestones aimlessly. Maybe he should go back home, or rather to the Purgatory Hall. It was not too far off from what Solomon considered a ‘home’, but he couldn't get too attached. There was a sense of shame that lingered deep in his soul when he was at Purgatory Hall; with the angels. It was a cruel twist of fate, and it made Solomon feel like everyday was judgement day. Luke was too innocent to care or understand, but what would Simeon think of Solomon coming home like this? They obviously must know everything about him. He could not understand why Simeon and Luke would treat him with such care and admiration after everything he has done. Solomon was not a good person and he knew that; he was practically a demon already, and his life was Hell. The angels were too generous, and Solomon resented that in an odd way. He did not need to be treated nicely like a child. He was mature enough to handle any divine punishment, he thought. This is what had been bothering him. Solomon didn't deserve angels, or anyone; he was cursed to be alone as punishment. Having lived so long, his consciousness was far from clean. A young innocent life was impossible, but it is what Solomon wishes for. Despite his feelings about long term attachment, he could not help but feel a bit attached especially to his roommates. He did not know why, but he always noticed when they were acting off or down. Solomon felt guilty when he missed a plan they had, and he found himself going out of his way just for them. Was this some kind of celestial hypnosis? His roommates featured Luke and Simeon. Luke was the more innocent and immature of the two. He resembled a blonde child no older than ten despite being centuries old. Solomon wondered how that was even possible. Angels sure aged strangely. He was a nice kid; he didn't bother Solomon, so that made him okay. He baked a lot, which made Solomon very happy especially when pastries were getting quite expensive. Although, the angel would never let Solomon help for some odd reason. Solomon was a self-proclaimed “chef” who traveled the world and has centuries of experience. Perhaps Luke was just too prideful to ask someone more mature for help, how cute. The other angel was Simeon, a charismatic arch angel. He was rather tolerant for an angel. As a bonus, he also wrote one of Solomon’s favorite contemporary series of books: TSL. Solomon thought Simeon spoke very strangely; his speech was very encouraging and genuine. His wit gnarly matched Solomon’s and he was capable of jokes that didn't feed off shock value or innuendos. It was very different from mortals’ and especially different from the demons he was acquainted with. Simeon was intelligent enough to challenge him, yet still be open to learning and criticism himself. Games of chess finally became a challenge, and Solomon was content. From the first meeting they had all those months ago he was getting closer to the angel. Solomon thought they were closer than demons he's known for centuries, almost like a… Solomon wouldn't, and shouldn't, dare call anyone a friend, for a friend and acquaintance were very different things. But Simeon made Solomon feel nice. Maybe it was because Simeon was a literal angel, and Solomon had never met one before. Novelty was certainly nice to have, he supposed. No, that couldn't be it. This was much deeper than novelty. It was almost like In Solomon’s hell, Simeon was the closest thing to heaven. Maybe, if they got closer, Solomon would finally be forgiven and granted peace. It was getting very late. Not that he could see it, but his DDD read 19:44. Surely Simeon would be worried, so Solomon would return back. He was sobered up just enough anyway. “There you are!” Asmodeus called from behind, "I've been looking for you.” “What happened to the club?” Solomon did not expect this. “Or did you miss me?” Solomon mocked the other. “Dont make this about you. I just got bored, and no one ditches Asmodeus.” “Sure.” In a way, Solomon was flattered. Asmodeus loved parties more than anything, so for him to come looking for the sorcerer was mild of Asmodeus. They both walked together before splitting at the crossroad to their homesteads.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75618636/chapters/197749791	{"authors": ["Soqhie333"], "language": "English", "title": "A Spell For His Name"}
Slippery pride Sukuna had been watching Itadori in heat for three days now. And it was starting to get really annoying, because the boy was barely able to stand up straight due to his stubborn refusal to let anyone treat his heat. He said it would pass and flatly refused any option that involved intercourse. Itadori was becoming so consumed by heat that even Gojo offered him intercourse—among many others. And yet, Itadori had refused. Sukuna's vessel, what kept him alive, was Itadori's body (in part). And Sukuna was not going to allow himself to lose his chance to conquer the human world again under any circumstances. He had to keep his only vessel alive and kicking, no matter how irritating it was to him. So, on the fourth day of Yuuji's heat, he simply brought the boy into his domain. Yes, his territory of power, inside Yuji's mind. Sukuna intended to materialize a couple of women of the exact type of Itadori—Sukuna, being in Itadori's mind every day, knew everything about him by heart—so that they could procreate and Itadori would calm down once and for all, because obviously Sukuna wasn't going to fuck him. Rather... it was almost impossible for Sukuna to fuck him without lethal consequences, considering that Sukuna is rough and all the women he had fucked ended up dead. "Do you think you can hold back your biology forever? You can't hold back that natural part of yourself. Eventually, you'll have to give in, or the consequences will be lethal," Sukuna muttered almost like an order, his voice rough and thick. Itadori blinked slowly and confusedly, trying for a long time to figure out where he was, trying to focus his gaze on any fixed point in the domain other than the cold and irritated gaze of the demon king. Finally, he resigned himself to speaking: "I don't want to." I stammer like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum, dragging out each word and almost nodding my head due to the constant stress my body has accumulated during this heat cycle. "You don't want to? Do you think you have a choice, brat?" Your body ignores the assertions of your stupid mind." "I will create three women who will dance for you like whores, and you, Yuuji, will allow them to do so, or I swear I will find a less... civilized way to stop your heat," declared the other, placing two fingers on the smaller man's forehead and pressing hard as a slight warning. Itadori swallowed hard. Clearly, he wasn't going to give in. But even so, Sukuna wouldn't give up. It was like dancing tango with two bulls, a battle between two egos bigger than walls. Sukuna proceeded to materialize—or rather, create—three beautiful and willing women. Tall and attractive, with voluptuous breasts and rounded hips, exactly the type of girl Yuuji had been having wet dreams about for a long time. Sukuna lived in his mind, so he knew it by heart and had to swallow all the fantasies of his vessel. The veteran demon was not going to allow the boy to get even sicker under any circumstances. He was going to stop his heat no matter what, because simply letting it pass was not a viable option, not with someone like Yuuji. That damn brat didn't need time, he needed good company and a good fuck to stop a heat of such magnitude. "Look at them, brat. They're all yours." Itadori's reaction was not verbal, but instead, it was contrary to what was expected. He gagged at the mere sight of them and covered his mouth to keep from vomiting. What the hell was wrong with his vessel? Was he broken or was he backwards? "What the hell is wrong with you? You have the women from your nighttime fantasies right in front of you, willing and eager to fuck you. So why are you holding back like this? There's no reason not to fuck them." "I don't want this. I don't want anyone to touch me," Itadori muttered through clenched teeth, trembling and with no trace of active consciousness in his gaze at this point. "You're being irrational. Your body craves this, it's a basic need that you must satisfy, whether your mind wants to or not." Nothing made sense. The boy had even rejected Gojo, the most powerful human sorcerer in the world. And now he was rejecting exactly the type of woman he liked? What the hell was his problem? Sukuna, irritated, moved closer to the boy, making the women disappear, and pointed at him to scold him further. But he couldn't help feeling his heart shrink when, as he approached, he sensed heat. Too much heat. Itadori was weak, and Sukuna's proximity only made him nod more. Sukuna decided to gently touch his cheek to feel his temperature and could tell how hot he was, a side effect of the heat cycle. He was radiating so much heat that it could be compared to the deepest, underground levels of hell; but theoretically, that was unsustainable for a human. Besides, his skin felt very soft to the touch. It was worrying. It was almost as if her body was going to break at a point of no return, and Sukuna wasn't going to allow that. Sukuna let out a harsh, irritated growl. He	Slippery pride Sukuna had been watching Itadori in heat for three days now. And it was starting to get really annoying, because the boy was barely able to stand up straight due to his stubborn refusal to let anyone treat his heat. He said it would pass and flatly refused any option that involved intercourse. Itadori was becoming so consumed by heat that even Gojo offered him intercourse—among many others. And yet, Itadori had refused. Sukuna's vessel, what kept him alive, was Itadori's body (in part). And Sukuna was not going to allow himself to lose his chance to conquer the human world again under any circumstances. He had to keep his only vessel alive and kicking, no matter how irritating it was to him. So, on the fourth day of Yuuji's heat, he simply brought the boy into his domain. Yes, his territory of power, inside Yuji's mind. Sukuna intended to materialize a couple of women of the exact type of Itadori—Sukuna, being in Itadori's mind every day, knew everything about him by heart—so that they could procreate and Itadori would calm down once and for all, because obviously Sukuna wasn't going to fuck him. Rather... it was almost impossible for Sukuna to fuck him without lethal consequences, considering that Sukuna is rough and all the women he had fucked ended up dead. "Do you think you can hold back your biology forever? You can't hold back that natural part of yourself. Eventually, you'll have to give in, or the consequences will be lethal," Sukuna muttered almost like an order, his voice rough and thick. Itadori blinked slowly and confusedly, trying for a long time to figure out where he was, trying to focus his gaze on any fixed point in the domain other than the cold and irritated gaze of the demon king. Finally, he resigned himself to speaking: "I don't want to." I stammer like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum, dragging out each word and almost nodding my head due to the constant stress my body has accumulated during this heat cycle. "You don't want to? Do you think you have a choice, brat?" Your body ignores the assertions of your stupid mind." "I will create three women who will dance for you like whores, and you, Yuuji, will allow them to do so, or I swear I will find a less... civilized way to stop your heat," declared the other, placing two fingers on the smaller man's forehead and pressing hard as a slight warning. Itadori swallowed hard. Clearly, he wasn't going to give in. But even so, Sukuna wouldn't give up. It was like dancing tango with two bulls, a battle between two egos bigger than walls. Sukuna proceeded to materialize—or rather, create—three beautiful and willing women. Tall and attractive, with voluptuous breasts and rounded hips, exactly the type of girl Yuuji had been having wet dreams about for a long time. Sukuna lived in his mind, so he knew it by heart and had to swallow all the fantasies of his vessel. The veteran demon was not going to allow the boy to get even sicker under any circumstances. He was going to stop his heat no matter what, because simply letting it pass was not a viable option, not with someone like Yuuji. That damn brat didn't need time, he needed good company and a good fuck to stop a heat of such magnitude. "Look at them, brat. They're all yours." Itadori's reaction was not verbal, but instead, it was contrary to what was expected. He gagged at the mere sight of them and covered his mouth to keep from vomiting. What the hell was wrong with his vessel? Was he broken or was he backwards? "What the hell is wrong with you? You have the women from your nighttime fantasies right in front of you, willing and eager to fuck you. So why are you holding back like this? There's no reason not to fuck them." "I don't want this. I don't want anyone to touch me," Itadori muttered through clenched teeth, trembling and with no trace of active consciousness in his gaze at this point. "You're being irrational. Your body craves this, it's a basic need that you must satisfy, whether your mind wants to or not." Nothing made sense. The boy had even rejected Gojo, the most powerful human sorcerer in the world. And now he was rejecting exactly the type of woman he liked? What the hell was his problem? Sukuna, irritated, moved closer to the boy, making the women disappear, and pointed at him to scold him further. But he couldn't help feeling his heart shrink when, as he approached, he sensed heat. Too much heat. Itadori was weak, and Sukuna's proximity only made him nod more. Sukuna decided to gently touch his cheek to feel his temperature and could tell how hot he was, a side effect of the heat cycle. He was radiating so much heat that it could be compared to the deepest, underground levels of hell; but theoretically, that was unsustainable for a human. Besides, his skin felt very soft to the touch. It was worrying. It was almost as if her body was going to break at a point of no return, and Sukuna wasn't going to allow that. Sukuna let out a harsh, irritated growl. He materialized a soft, large double bed in his territory and freely released his alpha pheromones to calm the boy, something he hadn't done in centuries. Carefully, he carried Itadori to the bed. He was going to fuck him as gently as he could, although it was something that was going to be extremely difficult for him, simply because the word "gentle" practically did not exist in Sukuna's vocabulary. Carefully, I settled Itadori between the sheets and padded pillows. "To have sex, you need at least one hole to fill, whether it's a pussy or an anus. Your body is so weak that you couldn't fill any woman's pussy, so it's up to me to fill your damn anus. I'll be careful." Sukuna didn't wait for permission; just seeing Itadori's delirious gaze was enough. He began to unbutton his pants and quickly placed his hands on Yuji's delicate, naked hips. He carefully inserted two fingers into the fleshy, narrow area of his vessel and simulated the sensation of gentle thrusts to accustom the body lying beneath him. Itadori soon began to moan sharply and arch almost completely, genuine signs that warned Sukuna to slow down. "Don't move, tadpole." You'll only make it worse," Sukuna murmured, kissing his vessel's now warm lips carefully as he inserted another finger. Once he felt Itadori's anus moisten enough, he carefully inserted half of his penis. He wasn't going to put it all in; he wasn't that crazy. The last few times he tried to do that with women, they died within seconds. Besides, this wasn't something that even excited Sukuna himself; it never had. The other times he had acted this way were out of mere curiosity or the morbid pleasure of seeing others suffer. What's more, right now, given Yuji's condition, he saw it as a necessary act to calm his biology rather than something overly carnal, so for the first time, he wasn't seeking his own selfish satisfaction—or at least, not entirely—but rather that of his partner. "If you stay still and behave yourself, I'll go as fast and calmly as I can, is that clear, Yuji?" Carefully, Sukuna spread his legs a little wider to thrust better, while Itadori nodded cautiously, stammering a broken "yes." There was no trace of pride left in that boy. All traces of stubbornness had slipped away with the sweat of the act, leaving only the need to be relieved. They spent about two hours courting, and it wasn't until Sukuna noticed Itadori's body was completely warm and relaxed, with no further traces of the heat cycle, that he pulled away, leaving a soft, palpable kiss on Itadori's lips. The brat was already asleep. In fact, he had fallen asleep a while ago due to exhaustion and overstimulation. But at least now the boy would not die. Sukuna let out a sarcastic snort and pulled the warm body closer to his chest, and they both fell asleep with their bodies entwined.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75614881	{"authors": ["bimbofie"], "language": "English", "title": "Slippery pride"}
Jane Doe Svetlana Verkova has a flight in five hours and instead of sleeping or packing or any of the other normal things people do before a 10 hour flight, she’s at a club. A shitty club may she add because hockey players never choose good clubs. It's just past midnight at the Prodigy, a flashy new establishment that's popped up in the last three years. It's one of the few places in town that hadn't pre-reserved its VIP section for the Voyagers so, of course, it's now the place crawling with Bears and Voyagers alike. Something about the ability to fight, to fuck, to interact with anyone at anytime, Svetlana supposes. She wouldn't know. Tonight was supposed to be her curled up in her pajamas, watching hockey on television with shitty microwave popcorn at her new boytoy's place and maybe swinging 'round Ilya's hotel room for some fun if either of them were in the mood. She hadn't been in the mood for a club, let alone a club where it looks like Ilya won't be going home with her anyways. And yet, he’d scored a hat trick today, against the Voyagers. Ilya always drinks himself to absolute shit when he plays the Voyagers and Svetlana is many things, and one of those is responsible. Ilya Rozanov may be a pain in her ass (often in more ways than one at that) but she’s not going to leave him to get shit-faced alone with a team she still doesn’t trust. She knows he's been with the Boston Bears since 2009 and that its now November of 2017. She knows Ilya's been with this team through highs and lows and injuries and Cups and everything else. Svetlana knows he's their captain for a reason. That still doesn't mean she trusts them. She views the Bears the same way she views Sasha: both are good for Ilya in the short term and the quick term, but she does not trust them with his heart. Hell, Svetlana doesn't trust herself with Ilya's heart. She'll protect it all she can as his friend, but she worries. Ilya Rozanov may be a massive asshole, but that doesn't delete the caring side to him. (She remembers the first time Ilya Rozanov had gotten in a fight over her. She'd like to say that by now, she's totally forgotten what that man had said to her but she hasn't. Not because what the man said was sexual or because Ilya had over-reacted, but because he'd called her a slur and everyone had laughed. It was 2006, before Ilya actually knew how to fight and he'd pouted about the way his knuckles had hurt for weeks. It'd also fucked up with wrist shot.) So, when Ilya had called her, happy and prideful, she'd packed her bags, given them to the front desk and called an Uber to the Prodigy club. Forty-five minutes later, she's starting to regret it. Ilya had bought her a drink when she arrived, three drinks actually - two shots and a cocktail, but now he's gone and she's stuck with the WAGS and temporary girlfriends. They all fit the stereotype: skinny, blonde, white. Svetlana's more Russian than all of them put together, but that doesn't help her here. She wishes, not for the first time, that Viktor was here. Viktor, her current-and-more-serious-than-any-of-her-others-in-the-past boyfriend, wouldn't leave her to the mercy of these American WAGS. In Canada at that. Ilya had once called Canada a discount Russia, without the liqueur. Taking a sip of her ridiculously sweet cocktail (as she likes them), Svetlana agrees. She frankly doesn't understand why Ilya chosen to stay here (well, not here, in Ottawa but close enough) over the summer instead of coming back to Russia. Perhaps that's been why Svetlana had been so accommodating when Ilya had texted her his team schedule three weeks before it became public knowledge. Svetlana knows Ilya doesn't owe her anything and neither does she, emotionally or physically. But fuck, she'll admit she'd gotten used to having him around even if it was only for three months instead of the months and years and hours stacked on top of each other that they used to. If Ilya didn't have an ego the size of his dick, she'd say she missed him. Unfortunately, he does so she doesn't say a damn thing. Because of the above reason, she also won't say that she's worried about him. Outside of her and Sasha and their little gang, Ilya doesn't seem to have any other friends. And, as mentioned, he hadn't come home last summer and by how he dodged Svetlana's pushing earlier, it may not be in the cards this summer either. Svetlana is one of the only, perhaps the only, person on earth who both knows what happened to Ilya's mother and who still cares for him, even if its in a much more platonic way than it once was. Ilya's unintentional isolation that she'd warned him about all the years ago in 2008 when he'd chosen the MHL over the KHL is a growing beast in the closet that will swallow them both alive if she can't stop it. That being said, she's certainly not doing anything to combat it right now. "So! Are you and Ilza like...a couple?" A woman tweets at her over massive eyelashes. Her hair is so horrifically blonde it makes	Jane Doe Svetlana Verkova has a flight in five hours and instead of sleeping or packing or any of the other normal things people do before a 10 hour flight, she’s at a club. A shitty club may she add because hockey players never choose good clubs. It's just past midnight at the Prodigy, a flashy new establishment that's popped up in the last three years. It's one of the few places in town that hadn't pre-reserved its VIP section for the Voyagers so, of course, it's now the place crawling with Bears and Voyagers alike. Something about the ability to fight, to fuck, to interact with anyone at anytime, Svetlana supposes. She wouldn't know. Tonight was supposed to be her curled up in her pajamas, watching hockey on television with shitty microwave popcorn at her new boytoy's place and maybe swinging 'round Ilya's hotel room for some fun if either of them were in the mood. She hadn't been in the mood for a club, let alone a club where it looks like Ilya won't be going home with her anyways. And yet, he’d scored a hat trick today, against the Voyagers. Ilya always drinks himself to absolute shit when he plays the Voyagers and Svetlana is many things, and one of those is responsible. Ilya Rozanov may be a pain in her ass (often in more ways than one at that) but she’s not going to leave him to get shit-faced alone with a team she still doesn’t trust. She knows he's been with the Boston Bears since 2009 and that its now November of 2017. She knows Ilya's been with this team through highs and lows and injuries and Cups and everything else. Svetlana knows he's their captain for a reason. That still doesn't mean she trusts them. She views the Bears the same way she views Sasha: both are good for Ilya in the short term and the quick term, but she does not trust them with his heart. Hell, Svetlana doesn't trust herself with Ilya's heart. She'll protect it all she can as his friend, but she worries. Ilya Rozanov may be a massive asshole, but that doesn't delete the caring side to him. (She remembers the first time Ilya Rozanov had gotten in a fight over her. She'd like to say that by now, she's totally forgotten what that man had said to her but she hasn't. Not because what the man said was sexual or because Ilya had over-reacted, but because he'd called her a slur and everyone had laughed. It was 2006, before Ilya actually knew how to fight and he'd pouted about the way his knuckles had hurt for weeks. It'd also fucked up with wrist shot.) So, when Ilya had called her, happy and prideful, she'd packed her bags, given them to the front desk and called an Uber to the Prodigy club. Forty-five minutes later, she's starting to regret it. Ilya had bought her a drink when she arrived, three drinks actually - two shots and a cocktail, but now he's gone and she's stuck with the WAGS and temporary girlfriends. They all fit the stereotype: skinny, blonde, white. Svetlana's more Russian than all of them put together, but that doesn't help her here. She wishes, not for the first time, that Viktor was here. Viktor, her current-and-more-serious-than-any-of-her-others-in-the-past boyfriend, wouldn't leave her to the mercy of these American WAGS. In Canada at that. Ilya had once called Canada a discount Russia, without the liqueur. Taking a sip of her ridiculously sweet cocktail (as she likes them), Svetlana agrees. She frankly doesn't understand why Ilya chosen to stay here (well, not here, in Ottawa but close enough) over the summer instead of coming back to Russia. Perhaps that's been why Svetlana had been so accommodating when Ilya had texted her his team schedule three weeks before it became public knowledge. Svetlana knows Ilya doesn't owe her anything and neither does she, emotionally or physically. But fuck, she'll admit she'd gotten used to having him around even if it was only for three months instead of the months and years and hours stacked on top of each other that they used to. If Ilya didn't have an ego the size of his dick, she'd say she missed him. Unfortunately, he does so she doesn't say a damn thing. Because of the above reason, she also won't say that she's worried about him. Outside of her and Sasha and their little gang, Ilya doesn't seem to have any other friends. And, as mentioned, he hadn't come home last summer and by how he dodged Svetlana's pushing earlier, it may not be in the cards this summer either. Svetlana is one of the only, perhaps the only, person on earth who both knows what happened to Ilya's mother and who still cares for him, even if its in a much more platonic way than it once was. Ilya's unintentional isolation that she'd warned him about all the years ago in 2008 when he'd chosen the MHL over the KHL is a growing beast in the closet that will swallow them both alive if she can't stop it. That being said, she's certainly not doing anything to combat it right now. "So! Are you and Ilza like...a couple?" A woman tweets at her over massive eyelashes. Her hair is so horrifically blonde it makes Svetlana's eyes burn. She misses Russia. "No we're not." Svetlana smiles at her. "Just childhood friends and I happened to be in the area so." She shrugs and the rest of the women nod in clear disappointment. "What about you?" Svetlana asks. "Who are you here with?" The woman beams and just like that, Svetlana is irrelevant to the conversation. She knows she's being unfair. It's not these womens fault they didn't grow up with her bully of a father who demanded she watch everything he did, watch Svetlana Mikhailovna, I will not repeat myself. They love their husbands and boyfriends, and clearly are just trying to welcome another one of them into the group. It's just...looking at these women, Svetlana can not find it in herself to think any of them are worth a second of Ilya's time. Ilya as far as Svetlana knows has one obsession in life and that is hockey: if his partner is not as knowledgable about hockey as he is, Svetlana knows Ilya will be bored and Ilya would never married a person he was bored with. A boring person, maybe, but never someone who bored him. Whoever they end up being, they'll be in Svetlana's position: overqualified and yet uncomfortable with that knowledge. Svetlana sends a mini-prayer into the universe for that person in advance. ~~~ Forty-five more minutes later, Svetlana is another cocktail in and fully ready to admit she was being bitchy earlier. Turns out three of the wives had literally played ice hockey in their free time and so she's knee-deep in a heated conversation about Carolina when "Is Rozanov leaving?" One of the wives asks, blinking, and Svetlana turns. Indeed, there's a guy—easily 6'3, almost too lanky, glasses—and a girl—typical fake Russian, short and tiny and a fake blonde, but with a strong grip on his sleeve—crowding Ilya at the bar, basically pulling him towards the exit. She's got a strong enough to be almost ripping his shirt, Svetlana realizes as she stares. The rest of the women are looking at her with clear apprehension and she shrugs. "As long as he's happy." Svetlana says. "True, true," Kane's wife Abigail agrees. "It's just...he looks super drunk." Svetlana's eyebrows furrow. Ilya Rozanov, despite how often he drinks, is not a heavy drinker. He never drinks to forget; he drinks to enjoy. Ilya may drink a lot by North American standards, but when he’s at a club, he only has enough to get a buzz on. In his youth, Ilya and her had had to collect Alexei from one too many clubs when he was drunk to view being blackout drunk in public as positive. Ilya especially hasn’t been a heavy drinker since joining the Bears. “Captain duties, Svetik.” He’d explained once. “I’m a responsible man now. Very boring. Like Hollander.” And yet, Abigail is totally right. Ilya is waving on his feet, stumbling slightly as they extract him from the bar. The woman at his arm tugs him harder and Ilya trips directly into a table. Ilya never gets drunk enough to the point where he would be breaking property at a bar. (It reminds him too much of his father) Svetlana feels herself drawn to her feet. Something isn’t right. Something isn't right and she knows it, and she's lost far too many good things to not trusting her instincts. Ilya leaving with a woman? Sure. Ilya even leaving with a man in public? It's happened before. But blatantly leaving for a threesome, in public? In a bar that doesn't have a cell phone policy, so anyone could be taking photos. Don't make her laugh - Ilya of a sound mind would never. And then it hits her: Ilya's slight stumble. The way he only had three drinks over the past two hours, barely enough to get him tipsy. The way he's not even holding the girl or the guy's hand. The way he's not even trying to kiss either of them. The way he keeps pulling slightly against the girl's grip like he can't understand what's happening. The way they're going out the back door. No taxis ever go to the back door. Ilya's been fucking roofied. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, Нам пиздец, Нам пиздец... "Security!" Svetlana yells, leaving the VIP area and roughly elbowing her way through the crowd, following where Ilya and those fuckers had been going. One of the men at the bar perks up obediently. "Is everything okay, ma'a—" "—I think my friend was roofied and he just left with strangers." Svetlana rushes out. "He has an early meeting tomorrow morning (lie), he never drinks (lie), and he was completely limp (lie), I don't think he's safe!" That at least was true and it seems that her panic has convinced him of that. His eyes sharpen. "Where." "They were heading out the back!" Without a word, they both run. The alley behind Prodigy smells like sex and urine, sharp and sour. Its one flickering streetlamp projects mustard yellow light onto a graffitied wall, which against Ilya is fully slumped, head resting in the man's shoulder. "Hey!" Svetlana yells and they both stumble, Ilya pulling himself back before hitting the wall, hard. The man looks between Ilya, then to his female partner in crime, then to Svetlana and the guard, eyes flicking like a wolf caught dragging out a newborn lamb. Then, like the cowardly animal he is, he turns tail and bolts it down the alley. The girl watches her partner leave, mouth dropping open in betrayal. Svetlana can relate to that. "I..." She quivers. She's got the slightest hint of a Russian accent. Bitch. There's nothing Svetlana hates more than Russians like her giving them all a bad fucking wrap. "He consented!" She continues. Her voice is shrill and snooty, hundreds leagues out of place here with the grime and shit of a back alley. "He wanted it!" "Yeah?" Svetlana says, watching as security helps Ilya stand. "What's his name, huh? Give me the details about how my boyfriend consented to you drugging him." They're not girlfriend-boyfriend; to be frank, Svetlana would rather pound sand than actually fully commit to dating Ilya Rozanov. That doesn't mean she's not going to use people's misconception to her advantage though. "I....I..." The thing stammers out. Christ, she didn't even know who Ilya was? Svetlana can't decide if that's a good thing, or if that makes it worse. "Да пошла ты к черту, сука! Тебе чертовски повезло, что я не подаю на тебя в суд." Ilya would never consent to charges, not with the hockey world already slobbering at the mouth for the next story, but again. This bitch doesn't know that. Her lower lip trembles for a second before she too flees, leaving Svetlana with a roofied Ilya Rozanov. Up close it's even more obvious. Ilya's eyes are blown and glassy, not keeping focus for a second. The sharp intensity behind them is gone. He's having a hard time keeping his focus on her at all. His confident demeanor has collapsed in on itself; his shoulders are hunched and his legs twist inside, adding to his unsteadiness. "Svetulya," Ilya mutters, tilting his head back til his skull thunks on the wall. It's like he's unsure what's real, which Svetlana realizes with a twist, he may not. "Hey Ilyukha." Svetlana repeats. "Svetulya." Ilya repeats. "I feel...хуево." And then he throws up, right onto his shoes. ~~~ They chuck Ilya and Svetlana in the far back, at a private table that on other nights must be used for hookups or strippers or something. It is private though, with carpet not tile that smells slightly of weed and curtains Svetlana pulls immediately. She's certain the WAGS are probably talking about Ilya's secret Russian girlfriend staking her claim or whatever, but it's not her concern now. She's got bigger problems. Ilya's thrown up once already, though once Svetlana had actually been able to clean him up, it had actually been mostly just spit and mucus lodged free from hitting the wall, Svetlana's pretty sure. Either way, he's stumbling like a baby deer by the time they reach the table and Svetlana eventually bullies him into laying sideways so she can try and figure out a place to put him. A far easier feat said than done considering Ilya's like 106 kilograms and basically deadweight right now. The owner had said stay as long as you need, but frankly, Svetlana doesn't trust that. Ilya could technically stay anywhere but he's clearly vulnerable right now and letting him loose in the city where he just destroyed their hockey team seems like a recipe for permanent damage. Svetlana also knows she can't miss her flight. She's already checked out of her hotel so she can't just return him there, and all the hotels that would take her Russian cards at this hour are the shitty hotels that would leak that info. Her best bet is trying to get Ilya back to his hotel. He'll be alone but she can like prop him on his side or something. She doesn't want his teammates seeing him like this. "Ily—Ilya." Svetlana stresses, pushing him back so he continues laying horizontally. "Stay down, I don't want you puking all over yourself. What's your hotel?" Ilya blinks lethargically up at her. "Don't have one." "Yes you do." Svetlana sighs, tucking some curls behind his ear. Ilya leans into it. The lights bouncing off his face are making her almost woozy. If this were an actual establishment instead of a warehouse with smoke and lasers, she'd be able to get a towel for his eyes. "Which is it? What's your room number?" Ilya shakes his head. "No hotel. Staying with, how you say...Черт, я ненавижу английский язык...with Jane. No hotel reservation made — team knows." He sighs as he says Jane's name, sighs like the lead in a romance movie. The Ilya Rozanov Svetlana knows would never sigh, especially not like that. But you don't know him well anymore, a small voice in her head whispers. Not since he went to America. She banishes it from her head. She can be angsty later. Fine. So Ilya doesn't know or doesn't have a hotel, but this Jane was apparently waiting for him. That Jane. Years and years of texting Jane. Jane "we are nothing serious or anything" Jane. Well fuck whatever Ilya had said to her: if Ilya trusts Jane enough to make plans with her before he arrived, then clearly they must be close. Or, at least, Svetlana hopes Ilya made plans. It wouldn't be unlike Ilya to just hope Jane could drop what she's doing for him, but that'd make it infinitely more embarrassing for her. Damn Ilya and his massive fucking ego. (Though, to be fair, she also dropped what she was doing to visit Ilya when she found Ilya had arrived in Moscow a week early years ago so perhaps she's also to blame for feeding his ego.) Either way though, this Jane Doe of a Jane is the best option presented to Svetlana and Ilya seems to be getting worse by the minute based on the fact he's now hiding his face in her top. She sneaks her head down and tugs Ilya's phone from his pocket, typing in the standard password he's had since he was a kid: 5503. May 5th, 2003. Ilya Rozanov is many things, and one of the surprising ones, Svetlana has learned, is that he is quite tragic. She types in the password twice before she realizes it's wrong. "Блять." Svetlana mutters, pulling on her bottom lip with her teeth. "Ilya, дурак, what is your password?" "Hm?" "Your new password. It's not 5503." Ilya groans. "2-4-8-1. Much Better." Svetlana isn't sure why it is better, but whatever. "Lana." Ilya whines, pulling at her sleeves. "I want Jane." "I know." Svetlana replies, pulling her arms loose so she can actually scroll. "I'm calling her hold on." "Don't call her. She's shy." "Shy?" Svetlana parrots before leaning over to look Ilya in the eye. "Ilyusha, I'm debating calling an ambulance for you - don't tell me how to get you help." "No ambulances." Ilya replies immediately. "I'm fine."You can't stand,Svetlana doesn't bother replying. She checks the time again. It's 1:45. She's now got barely enough time to get through security considering the drive. Fuck. At first, Svetlana flicks through instagram and finds nothing but dms and dick pics. She then searches through contacts but gives up when she sees she's still in the Alina Toronto, Alina Raleigh, and Alina Calgary #2 As category after three minutes of scrolling. She'll never find this Jane this way. “Jesus, you man-whore.” Svetlana mutters, abandoning contacts to look through his messages. Then, there's a notification chirp and Jane <3: Still not coming over? Its late Rozanov. Svetlana lets out a breath of relief. So Jane did know that Ilya was meant to go home with her – hell, she'd even sent the location of a house a few miles from here. Abandoning all decorum, she opens the chat. It's sparely texted in by Ilya's standards but there had clearly been some sort of plan based on the fact Jane had last texted right before the game. Before she can snoop further, Svetlana flicks up the keyboard. Ilya: Hi, this is Svetlana Verkova, one of Ilya’s friends. Not to freak you out, but i think someone spiked his drug hes fine but needs a safe place to sleep tonight bc im going to the airport and all his teammate are gone. he says he was going to stay with you Ilya: can you pick him up we’re here Ilya: {Click here to see ILYA ROZANOV’S location!} Svetlana sees the read receipt pop up immediately, then watches the green text bubble appear, then vanish, appear again, vanish again. Ice starts to creep into Svetlana's heart. What if this Jane says no? What then? Would they allow her to check in a mostly unconscious Ilya Rozanov into a hotel? She only has her Russian cards on her and those get flagged sometimes, surely Ilya wouldn't be mad if Jane <3: I'm on my way. Please stay there. Jane <3: Is he alright? Jane <3: Do I need to bring him a change of clothes, or anything? Perfect grammar, Svetlana notes with a smile. So, as Svetlana suspected, Jane's not one of the pretty club girl types Ilya usually goes for. This Jane probably has short nails with small designs, maybe a pretty smile. Not the kind of things you would be able to notice under a club's lights, but the kind of thing that always catches Ilya's eye. He's more of a romantic than he'll ever admit. Ilya: A change of clothes would be great Ilya: he threw up a little then these two people tried to drag him away so his shirt is kinda gross Svetlana hits send, then pauses. Re-reads it. Хуй, she's a dumbass. If anyone sent that to her about Ilya (about Viktor), she'd crash her fucking car. Ilya: DONT WORRY Ilya: Nothing happened, security stopped it Ilya: he's just wanting you andb I want him safe "Svetlana." Ilya interrupts. "I want Jane." "I know, Ilyukha, your Jane is coming soon." Svetlana mutters, putting the phone down and running a hand through Ilya's hair again. "Your knight is coming very soon." ~~~ In the ten minutes it takes Jane to get to the Prodigy, Svetlana has learned more about Jane than she had known in six years and yet somehow all the information gives nothing away. Ilya's words started slurring halfway through, sliding back and forth and in-between languages, but Svetlana gets the picture: Jane is short, Jane has freckles, and Jane is beloved. "And when she skates, so pretty, Lana. So so handsome. And just for me. And for team and for trophies, but really, I think for me. To beat me, but still for me." Handsome. Perhaps without meaning to, Ilya's slipped between feminine and masculine adjectives when describing Jane. He said she has long hair, then described it ending at her neck. He said she's delicate, but then stated that she's strong enough to pull Ilya around in bed. He talked about her giving the best blowjobs, but also how much he wanted her to 'be brave and fuck him' when she's ready. Perhaps this is the pure spectrum of Ilya's love, Svetlana muses, checking her watch; maybe when Ilya loves someone with all his little queer heart, the person becomes androgynous. Beautiful and powerful and perfect in the way only they could be in Ilya's eyes. Years ago, this talk would have made Svetlana jealous—now it makes her slightly sad. What an amazing person her friend has found, and yet she still knows nothing about them outside of the fact she's been in the picture for years. Poor Jane Doe. Svetlana owes her a drink if not purely for the smile she puts on Ilya's face. Just when she's about to get slightly worried Jane's not coming at all, she gets a text. Jane <3: Just parked. Sorry. Roads were icy. Where are you? Ilya: inside tell the bouncer youre jane and youre here for ilya Ilya: im like 99 percent sure the bouncer was the one who helped me earlier Jane <3: Oh, I think I see you. Svetlana pulls the curtains slightly and looks out: there's no clear fish out of water like she expected to see immediately. Instead, there's only the last stragglers dancing and someone desperately trying to push their way through the crowd. Svetlana...knows that person, or at least, she knows their duplicate. They're coming this way. There's no one, if this is who she thinks that person is, that person would be coming her way. God is clearly a joker however because then, barely a second later, Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyagers and arch-rival to one Ilya Rozanov, barges into their little corner, phone (at maximum brightness too Svetlana's brain notes) in one hand and a bag in the other. His eyes are wild and he freezes upon seeing her, true deer in the headlights. Svetlana would have stood to confront him, but she's got a massive hockey player in her lap, and Shane clearly notices, his eyes drifting down. Then, Shane's face turns even paler. "Ilya." Shane Hollander breathes and without a second of pause, he moves closer, like a magnet simply unable to resist the natural forces of the world. The closer he gets, the more Svetlana's ideas of him are shattered. Shane Hollander in the public eye is an impeccable dresser; his shirts always match his shoes which always match his hair. In public, he has ramrod straight posture and pose. When he speaks to reporters, he looks them right in the eyes and never rambles. He's serious: he rarely laughs nor relaxes. He's never been taught in a scandal outside of his relationship with Rose Landry a few years ago. The perfect captain, the perfect boyfriend as Rose described him, even after they broke up. He was once investigated for tax invasion and not only it was found that he was overpaying, they also found that he donates monthly to six different charities across Canada. In public, he's so perfect he became charming in Svetlana's eyes despite Ilya's complaints that 'he's too boring to be your favorite, Svetik!' He's every PR manager's wet dream. This Shane Hollander is not that. This Shane Hollander has got on three different shades of blue, like he assumed that them being the same color meant they would work together. They don't. His left shoe is untied and all his accessories—the jewelry, the hairstyling, the sponsored shoes—are missing; instead he's got on cracked glasses and tennis shoes so grayed Svetlana isn't sure their original color. He's naturally leaning forward as if he could take and hold Ilya in his eyes. Up close, Svetlana can see how his nail-beds are chewed and there's a stain on the collar of his shirt. He's breathing too fast to be natural. His left hand is shaking. He looks so much more fragile than Svetlana knows he is. This Shane Hollander looks like he ran through the snow itself to get here, paparazzi be damned. He might have. For Ilya. "Shane Hollander?" Svetlana says skeptically. Shane won't meet her eyes, seemingly single-eyed focused on Ilya, whose basically asleep in her lap. "Yes, I—I'm here on behalf of Jane." He's got a very robotic way of speaking Svetlana notes. It sounds nothing like the calm and smooth way he talks to reporters nor the boyishness that the microphones sometimes pick up around the stadium in the heat of the game. He sounds like he's rehearsed what he's going to say. It's horrifically...flat. "She was worried about going by herself, especially if Ilya was, you know, super heavy or something. So. I'm here. Yeah." In terms of lies, its not the most unbelievable she's ever heard. If Shane Hollander wasn't such a bad liar, Svetlana may have even believed it. Upon hearing his voice though, Ilya tenses then peaks up in Svetlana's lap, tries to twist himself around. Thankfully, she and Shane have the same reaction: "Ilya! Lie down-" "Sit down, asshole, holy shit-" They exchange glances for a second. Svetlana internally declares a truce. Ilya pouts. "You both are ganging up on me." He mumbles and Svetlana watches as Shane's eyes sharpen at the sound of Ilya's voice (or rather, at how wrong it sounds). His jaw clenches. "Fuck. Shane, I want...home." At the sound of his name, Shane, Svetlana notices with no small amount of surprise, drops to his knees right on the club floor and sneaks a hand right to Ilya's pulse, using the other to hold Ilya's head back when Ilya, like a cat chasing sunlight, attempts to curl into his hand. "Stay, Ilya." Shane mutters, keeping his hand steady. His jaw is still tight but his eyes have melted into his sockets, liquid warmth unbefitting of the time and place. "I uh...looked up some things on Google, you're gonna be fine. Okay?" He awkwardly twists to look at Svetlana again, then back at Ilya, like checking the mirrors in a car. "You're just gonna feel really fucked up for a while." "You were not here." Ilya mutters, staring at Shane. His eyes are dark, intense in the way they were the first time she had worn in his Boston jersey before hooking up. The memories of the sex from that night are still more than enough for her to (occasionally) miss Rozanov's body if nothing else. He'd taken her right on the dining room table, the animal. "Why?" Shane blinks. "I was, uh." He looks up at her then back to Ilya like he can't stand to not be looking at him for a second. His ears blush scarlet red. "I was getting prepared Ilya. Dinner and all." "My favorite meal." Ilya agrees, except he's eye-fucking Shane so hard Svetlana wants to faint. "Shane, I am learning French. Слушать, oui?" He clears his throat and Shane nods bemused but encouragingly. His hand has switched positions with Svetlana's except his hand looks natural there. "Shane Hollander," Ilya slurs. He's got a very particular sort of twinkle in his face and Shane's eyes widen right in time for Ilya to continue, "Je veux te baiser la gor—" "—Shut up!" Shane whispers harshly. "Oh my god, Ilya, you can't fucking—" "—I can fucking." Ilya interrupts. "I am very good at it." "Fuck off." Shane mutters. "Ego like that, you probably make your partner do all the work." Despite the objectively mean words, Shane's tone is light, soft. For a second, it's like there's just them in the room. And then Shane glances up and everything breaks. Svetlana almost wants to apologize for being there. "I, uh, I can take him. Do you know what he was given, or when?" Svetlana shakes her head. "I've no idea. Like fifteen minutes ago, I saw two people try to drag him outside, but I do know it's getting worse. He's kinda lost his grasp on his English." "Yeah, I noticed." Shane replies, moving to scratch under Ilya's ear. Ilya, in reply, lets out a pornography-worthy moan and Shane's entire face turns redder than a spotlight. He doesn't stop though. It's 2:10. Svetlana's genuinely at risk of missing her flight at this point. "Look," She says, pulling Shane's attention off of Ilya. He looks at her with a convoluted mix of fear and panic in his eyes, like she's about to tell him to leave. "I genuinely want to trust you, but you're a stranger and I couldn't stand myself if I sent Ilya home with a stranger with bad intentions. Do you have like...any proof that you and Ilya are friends and know each other outside of the Irina foundation? Can I text Jane or something?" Shane's face goes through like a thousand expressions at once, but it's not him who replies. "Shane has Jane's phone." Ilya mumbles from the sofa. "Because he is, you told me Shane, my mon coptain?" "Coptain?" Svetlana repeats, Captain? "Copain. Cousin." Shane butts in. "Jane's my cousin so I just took her phone because it already had the address pulled up. I don't know Montreal that well." Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyagers who lives in Montreal and spreads his summers in Montreal and grew up in Ottawa which is two hours away from Montreal, doesn't know Montreal well. Okay. Sure. "So then do you like...have any photos or anything if I can't call Jane?" Svetlana tries again. Shane blinks, then the smallest smile appears. He crawls onto his face like he's fighting it every second of the way. "Yeah, of course." Shane answers. "I should have thought of that. Sorry. I...here." He turns his phone over in his hand, deliberately not giving it to her. It's a collection of five or six photos all lined up in his camera roll. He must have made an album just for this. He was prepared. Svetlana thinks before he sees how much Shane's other hand is fidgeting with his pants. Or he was nervous.Ilya's fully migrated to just staring up at Shane, eyes full of what Svetlana can only describe as stars. That frankly is enough for her to lower her guard but not all the way. She still needs more proof. She looks at the photos and...huh. "I believe you." She eventually says, nodding to Shane as he takes his phone back. "Alright lets get Prince Charming here changed and in the car. I will say though, if one damn thing happens to him, if there's one fucking mark on him that wasn't there before, I'll make hockey fucking impossible for you." Svetlana could give much better threats, but she remembers how much Ilya had said that Shane's obsessed with hockey. Given how Shane blanches just at the idea of not being able to play, clearly she made the right threat. ~~~ Shane Hollander, despite how fragile he appears, is able to lift Ilya right up into his arms princess style. As much as Ilya slurs that he wants Shane to carry him properly whatever that means, Shane carries him respectfully, under the knees and middle of his back. That doesn't stop Ilya from shoving his face into the crook of Shane's neck though. It's the second time that night that Ilya's rested his face against a man's shoulder, but the environments are so different Svetlana didn't make that connection until much later. They don't end up changing Ilya's shirt though. In Shane's opinion, Ilya's too out of it to properly consent to it and he doesn't want to cross any lines. Svetlana approves. Outside, the air is wet and cold and miserable. Despite the snow and frost, it's sprinkling, little freezing droplets splattering all around them. Ilya, despite growing up in Moscow, hates the cold. As kids, she and Sasha and Ivan and Dmitri would always fill Ilya's skates with snow whenever they wanted him to play with them because Ilya would always insist of drying out his skates instead of just scooping out the snow so then he'd have no skating excuses. The tradition stopped in their teen years, when Ilya was pushing himself so much, the snow's dampness helped sooth his blisters so he started doing it himself. Svetlana imagines Ilya curled up in the Prodigy's back alley, bleary trying to protect himself from the rain after those fuckers had done what they wanted with him. She swallows her bile and nightmares, and instead watches as Shane covers Ilya's head with the bag, fidgeting with it so it covers as much of Ilya as possible. She wonders. Shane's car is practical, ugly, and clearly loved based on the sticker residue left on the windows; it lights something warm in Svetlana's heart. She knows exactly how useless her sports cars are in this kind of weather, as loath as she is to admit it. Shane sets Ilya down in the backseat, diagonal from him. He thanks her for weighting, eyes again no where near hers, and offers to call her an Uber. She politely turns him down and reminds him that she has Ilya on Find My Friends. "One wrong turn, and I'll call police." Svetlana repeats, taking a photo of his license plate for good measure. Shane gives her a look over, but it's not in any sort of sexual or even romantic way. It's the same kind of way Svetlana's used to seeing hockey players stare down a player they admire after they're scored. Hidden deep respect. She hugs Ilya and tells him to get back safe, reminds Shane to tell Ilya to text her when he's sober. Right before they leave, as Shane's circling around to get in the front, Svetlana grabs Ilya's phone and calls it. Accepts the call. She may trust Shane Hollander as a person, but that doesn't mean she's going to let them drive off into the distance with no insurance. ~~~ At first, there's nothing and Svetlana feels stupid for her micro-spy job: just Shane checking Ilya's seatbelt again after Svetlana leaves, and the sounds of the GPS and the night. Ilya is half-snoring at this point. And then, after seven minutes of driving, just when Svetlana's gotten into her own Uber, it's like a switch is flipped—the world goes from silence to "Fuck, Ilya, oh my god." Shane breathes. Out of the club environment, it's striking how much more alive his voice sounds. He sounds like a person again. "I was about to have a heart attack in there. Jesus Christ." There's the sound of the blinker, then the phone thump of a turn. Then the engine cuts. Svetlana blinks, sits up from her slouch. They can't be there already, can they? "Shane?" Ilya's voice calls. "Shane, are we there?" "No." Shane replies. It's trembling, just the slightest bit. "I just...I just need a second. That was a lot. Shit, Ilya, some...some fucking asshole actually..." Shane trails off. There's a few pauses, then rustling. "How do you feel?" Shane asks. Ilya does a raspberry. "Bad. What is word, spinny? Very spinny and nauseous, but good now you are here." "Dizzy." Shane replies. "You're feeling dizzy." "да. Like when drunk but worse." There's another pause, then. "Shane." Ilya says. Clearly he's seen something. "Hey, Shane. Sweetheart. Look at me, nothing—" "—No, it's not nothing! Something could have happened!" Shane snaps, but it's not the anger in his tone that floors Svetlana. It's the fear. Fear as much if not so much more visceral and miserable and irate than Svetlana's own voice had sounded earlier. Shane sounds like someone is pulling his heart out of his chest by the veins, shredding each clinging blood vessel as it tries to keep itself alive. He sounds past the verge of tears. He sounds like he's watched his love die. "Something could have happened, Ilya!" Shane repeats. "You, you could have been beaten, or, or raped, or actively kidnapped and blackmailed and I had my fingers up my ass, pissed you were taking so long to show up! You were being, no you are hurt! And I was just sulking like a fucking child because you beat me and, and—" "—You were preparing yourself for me?" Ilya croons. "Oh you have been—" "—fuck off, you asshole!" Shane snaps. There's a quiver right in the depth of his vowels that brings a frog to Svetlana's throat. She shouldn't be listening to this. She knows it. She can't stop. "The whole point is it didn't even fucking matter what I was doing because some bastard thought that could just, just take you, take you from your celebrations and your friends and your team and us, and now you're drugged! If Svetlana hadn't noticed, I..." Shane makes a rough gagging sound that makes Svetlana wince across the phone. It sounded like a mix of a panic attack and vomit. "Shane." Ilya says. His voice has still changed, still too pitched and wavy but stronger in itself. "Shane, маленькое солнышко, breathe for me yes? In, out. I'm okay. Svetlana, she did notice. She is, how you say it english, fire woman?" "Fire woman?" Shane repeats, sniffling slightly. He was crying, Svetlana realizes. She's slightly saddened she was right. "да, is joke. Saying actually is Nekrasov woman. In english, I think...Wonder woman?" Svetlana can feel herself flush despite herself. Fuck you, Ilya Rozanov, for saying such nice things. "She is strong woman, confident, bold. She is one of my oldest friends. She not let me be hurt." "I know. You told me about her." Shane confirms. Svetlana blinks. Perhaps because Ilya's told her so little of his hockey life, she had never considered the fact people from said life would know about her at all. "She's like you." He continues. Ilya hums in agreement. "Similar, yes. Only I'm better at hockey. And sex." Okay, actually fuck you, Ilya.There's a longer pause, rustling sounds again like someone is adjusting, then "No, Ily-Ilya, stop." That's Shane again, a mix of laughter and firmness in his tone. "Ilya. Listen: tu sais que je suis fou de toi, mais...pas ce soir. Not today. I know you might feel clear-headed but I don't feel it. We can cuddle when we get home, okay?" There's a pause. "But you're sexy when you try to boss me around." "No." There's another pause. "Maybe in the morning when you're sober." "Okay." That's Ilya again and Svetlana can almost hear the smile through the screen. "You keeping your promise to Svetlana, very good friend." "You're an ass. I should leave on the side of this road." Despite Shane's threats, Svetlana can hear the car turning back on. "But you lovvvee me." Ilya pulls out and Svetlana waits for the rebuttal, the fuck you or you wish or anything. Instead "Да," Shane says in frankly horrific Russian. "я очень люблю его, моего никчемного парня. Это просто как проклятие." Ily hums. "Close. я очень люблю своего никчемного парня. And Это просто проклятие sounds better." "Fucker." Да, я очень люблю своего никчемного парня. Это просто проклятие. Yes, I love my shitty boyfriend a lot. It's a curse. Shitty boyfriend. Boyfriend. Holy fucking shit. Svetlana hangs up the call and bites her knuckles to keep from screaming. ~~~ Svetlana is a good friend. She wasn't meant to have heard that or seen that or have any knowledge of that so she says nothing about it or Jane or anything else, not even to her notes app. She goes through security, boards her plane, texts Ilya to drink some water, and happily embraces the unconnected life of airplane travel. The best part of being in the air is it gives her time to properly sit and sort through her thoughts. Because of this, by the time they're flying over Germany, Svetlana is already in acceptance. Is it...unorthodox for Ilya to be into someone like Shane Hollander? At first, one might think yes. Shane is, as Ilya has told her since forever, boring. He is obsessed with hockey. He's rarely left North America except when he went with his mother to visit family in Asia. He's serious and stubborn and boring and straight. Except. Clearly he's not straight first of all. His sexuality is none of Svetlana's business, but regardless of what it is, there is a part of it that makes him love Ilya and that's all Svetlana needs. And yes, Shane Hollander is boring but isn't the problem with Ilya that he's not boring enough? Ilya would be going to club in his sixties if he never found anyone nice to settle down with so perhaps some nice boring Shane Hollander is exactly what Ilya needs when his libido and knee both give out. Put Ilya and Shane together and you'll get someone with half a routine and half a social life. And Shane knows hockey, hell he knows hockey better than Ilya himself. Shane, as Ilya's WAG, would never have to sit at that table bored out of his mind—he'll be on the ice as Ilya. Hockey wise, interest wise, they fit each other perfectly. And stubborn. Well. Ilya is stubborn, she is stubborn, even Sasha is stubborn! Russians are stubborn—it is how they survive winter. Russians are all stubborn and yet there are so many nice married couples. Canada has cold winters too, and there are many nice Canadian couples. Therefor Shane and Ilya will just be stubborn together as all the Russians and Canadians before them have. Nine hours into the flight, the other realization hits her. "Блядь, так вот почему он всё прошлое лето был в Канаде!" She says out loud, almost elbowing her neighbor in the gut, but how could she not react like that? Shane Hollander, boring Shane Hollander of the Montreal Voyagers, is why Ilya did not return to Russia for the summer. Shane fucking Hollander. Ilya chose Shane Hollander over you, a tiny pathetic voice in her mind tries to say, but it dies instantly when the larger reality hits: In choosing to stay in Canada, Ilya Rozanov had made a decision, a long term decision mind you, for his love life. Not only that, but he'd made an arguably selfish decision. For Shane. Svetlana has watched Ilya bend over backwards for his family for decades. Sometimes in understandable cases like passing on sweets as a kid because his mother didn't want to get out of bed, and sometimes in cruel cases like sending thousands and thousands of dollars to his brother even though they both knew he'd spend it in a week. Hell, Ilya had even bent over backwards for her and for their friends through returning to Russia every summer despite the fact for the past two years, everyone could tell his heart had been somewhere else. And now, he'd put this love of his first. Before his family, before his friends, before his country too (because Russia would not allow a gay athlete, no matter how many gold medals or cups they won). If Shane can make Ilya do this, feel so completely satisfied and full of love that he doesn't need nostalgia and hometown comfort, who is Svetlana to worry about his loneliness? Who is Svetlana to doubt their relationship? She remembers seeing Shane in such a mess on the Prodigy floor, stroking Ilya's hair like there was nowhere else he wanted to be. Yeah. She's happy for them and with them. Shane Hollander is already so careful with himself and his life; perhaps she is just projecting here, but if there were anyone to keep Ilya safe in their heart forever, it would be someone like Shane, someone already so careful about what they allow in in the first place. When she finally lands, she lets the Moscow chill warm her from the inside out before she finally unlocks her phone and reads through all her messages. There are the basic ones from Papa, from Sasha, from Tatiana. There are two unexpected ones. She opens Ilya's first. Ilya: Thank you for last night Ilya: Really, Jane wants me to empathize how much of a good friend you were to me even if you left me with strange captain on side of the road Strange captain my ass, Svetlana thinks before sending back a middle finger, then a heart. He's still doing the Jane thing, maybe in the hopes Svetlana was drunker than she actually was. Well, Svetlana always wanted to be an actress and nows her chance. She then flips to the other new message, from an unsaved number +1 6133213537: Hi Svetlana, this is Shane, texting on Jane's number. I just wanted to thank you again for last night; you really saved Ilya from a bad situation and we both really appreciate it. We being 'Jane' and Shane, or Ilya and Shane, Svetlana wonders. Now that she knows the truth, she's shocked she even bought any part of the Jane story for a second. She scrolls down, then her jaw drops. +1 6133213537: Ilya told me not to, but I feel too bad. Please don't bring it up. +1 6133213537: {+1 6133213537 has sent you money over Contact! Click HERE to see now!} +1 6133213537: Please don't spread any details of this around. Svetlana is almost offended Shane Hollander would believe she's the kind of woman to need hush money, that she's the kind of friend who would happily gossip about something serious like that in the first place. It certainly wasn't Ilya's fault for fucks sake. But then she remembers the split second of pure panic in Shane's eyes when they made eye contact, how he had torn into Prodigy in a tear before freezing under her gaze. She remembers how scared Shane had sounded in that car, not only at what happened with Ilya...but potentially with what had happened with her. How he knew she was Ilya's close friend, already knew of her. He's terrified, Svetlana realizes, constantly terrified. And this was his way of taking back control. Therefor Svetlana accepts the money (plus she's curious and a material girl at heart) and doesn't waste a second before opening Contact. 10.000 Canadian dollars stares back at her, no matter how many times she rubs her eyes. Shane fucking Hollander. "He's Ilya's sugar daddy." She mutters to herself before pulling back up Shane's contact. +7 495 8552-812603: Hi Jane! Not at all a problem - my lips are totally sealed :) +7 495 8552-812603: that being said, if i send you back some of that Contact money, could you if ilya allows it use it to press charges on the two people who spiked Ilya's drink i think thier faces should be in clear view of the back alley cameras 😇 +7 495 8552-812603: using money for good 😙 +1 6133213537: Sounds like a plan. Smiling, she snaps it shut, but only after she saves Shane's number in her phone as Ilya's Jane. Just for fun.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75614891	{"authors": ["periwinkle_bumper_cars (Sunsets_Beget_Starlight)"], "language": "English", "title": "Jane Doe"}
Everything from the heart and soul It’s drizzling, the sun is setting, and the sky is a blend of fading colors. Even at this hour, the street is busy. Children run back and forth, vendors shout their prices, and people crowd around them to buy whatever they can. You wander aimlessly through the street, exhausted, hopeless, and lost. Four days ago, you were expelled from the Military Police. After years of training, pushing yourself to the limit, following every rule without fail—your dream was ripped away from you. And worst of all, for a stupid reason. Another soldier in the MP had hated you since the cadet days. He despised you for consistently ranking first while he came in second. So he set you up. And it worked. You didn’t even get a chance to defend yourself before they threw you out. So here you are now—no purpose, no job, no money, no home. As if being expelled wasn’t enough, you have no family and no close friends to lean on. You keep walking without a destination until you suddenly stop, feeling someone behind you. When you turn around, your breath catches. A tall man stands there, blond hair slicked back, eyes as blue as the ocean—strikingly handsome. But what stands out the most is the uniform he wears: the Wings of Freedom. You recognize him instantly. The Commander of the Survey Corps. - Can I help you? - you ask, on guard. It’s always smart to be cautious around members of the Survey Corps. You never know. He meets your gaze, his expression unreadable. - You’re {reader}, correct? - he asks firmly. You nod. - I’m Commander Erwin Smith. A pleasure to meet you. I heard you were expelled from the Military Police. What a stroke of luck. - you let out a short, humorless laugh. - I know your record. First overall in your cadet class, right? That means you’re skilled—and hardworking. Someone like you would be useful to the Survey Corps. You stare at him, surprised. - That sounds like a recruitment offer. - he gives a small smile, eyes still fixed on you. - Soldiers like you could be valuable to humanity. If you want, I can recruit you right now. You turn your face away and start walking off. - Don’t even think about it. - You have nowhere to go, do you? - Erwin’s smile widens, amused by his own question. You roll your eyes, frustrated by just how far you’ve fallen. - Does that matter? - You’ll starve out here on the street. You have no one to help you. You know he’s right. But joining the Survey Corps is dangerous. What if you die on your first expedition? Your second? Your third? Truth is—you could die at any moment. And the living conditions in the Survey Corps don’t seem anything like the comfortable life in the Military Police. You’re not inside the inner walls anymore. But if you don’t join them, you’ll die out here. Alone. Filthy. Unremembered—and without ever fighting for your life. That’s worse. - Fine. I don’t really have a choice, do I? - you finally say, turning back to the Commander, who’s still smiling at you. - I knew you’d accept. If you allow it, I’ll take you to headquarters now. You take a deep breath, trying to focus on the bright side of everything. If there is one. But at least dying while fighting is better than dying while giving up. Headquarters isn’t far. You climb into a wagon and sit beside Erwin. The ride is silent, which is honestly a relief for both of you. After about an hour, the wagon stops in front of the compound. The building is large, its outer walls made of stone, with a wide field for patrols and training. You can already spot a few soldiers going about their duties. Erwin climbs out first, and you follow. - I can show you around, explain the rules, and assign you a room - he offers. You enter the building, and he leads you through room after room, explaining what each one is for and the rules that go along with them. It’s… interesting. Though interesting doesn’t make it short. An entire hour passes before he finally brings you to the entrance of your new room. - You’ll be sharing with someone. And please, be patient with her. He opens the door and you step inside. Erwin leaves immediately, as if eager to escape the room. You look around. It’s small—two bunks with thin blankets and nearly-flat pillows, a tall shelf packed with books on history and fiction, and a dark wooden table with two matching chairs. A figure wearing the Survey Corps uniform sits at one of them—messy brown hair tied into a ponytail, glasses sliding down her nose, scribbling in a notebook. She notices you instantly and rises with an excited smile. - Ah! So you’re the one Erwin mentioned. I’m Hange Zoë. - she extends her hand and steps closer. You smile and shake it. - I’m {reader}. Are you writing something interesting? - you try to start a conversation to get along with your new roommate. - Yes! I was taking notes on new titan theories. I’ve been thinking so much about them. Don’t you find titans fascinating? - she sits again, clearly thrilled by her own ideas. - Not really, - you admit,	Everything from the heart and soul It’s drizzling, the sun is setting, and the sky is a blend of fading colors. Even at this hour, the street is busy. Children run back and forth, vendors shout their prices, and people crowd around them to buy whatever they can. You wander aimlessly through the street, exhausted, hopeless, and lost. Four days ago, you were expelled from the Military Police. After years of training, pushing yourself to the limit, following every rule without fail—your dream was ripped away from you. And worst of all, for a stupid reason. Another soldier in the MP had hated you since the cadet days. He despised you for consistently ranking first while he came in second. So he set you up. And it worked. You didn’t even get a chance to defend yourself before they threw you out. So here you are now—no purpose, no job, no money, no home. As if being expelled wasn’t enough, you have no family and no close friends to lean on. You keep walking without a destination until you suddenly stop, feeling someone behind you. When you turn around, your breath catches. A tall man stands there, blond hair slicked back, eyes as blue as the ocean—strikingly handsome. But what stands out the most is the uniform he wears: the Wings of Freedom. You recognize him instantly. The Commander of the Survey Corps. - Can I help you? - you ask, on guard. It’s always smart to be cautious around members of the Survey Corps. You never know. He meets your gaze, his expression unreadable. - You’re {reader}, correct? - he asks firmly. You nod. - I’m Commander Erwin Smith. A pleasure to meet you. I heard you were expelled from the Military Police. What a stroke of luck. - you let out a short, humorless laugh. - I know your record. First overall in your cadet class, right? That means you’re skilled—and hardworking. Someone like you would be useful to the Survey Corps. You stare at him, surprised. - That sounds like a recruitment offer. - he gives a small smile, eyes still fixed on you. - Soldiers like you could be valuable to humanity. If you want, I can recruit you right now. You turn your face away and start walking off. - Don’t even think about it. - You have nowhere to go, do you? - Erwin’s smile widens, amused by his own question. You roll your eyes, frustrated by just how far you’ve fallen. - Does that matter? - You’ll starve out here on the street. You have no one to help you. You know he’s right. But joining the Survey Corps is dangerous. What if you die on your first expedition? Your second? Your third? Truth is—you could die at any moment. And the living conditions in the Survey Corps don’t seem anything like the comfortable life in the Military Police. You’re not inside the inner walls anymore. But if you don’t join them, you’ll die out here. Alone. Filthy. Unremembered—and without ever fighting for your life. That’s worse. - Fine. I don’t really have a choice, do I? - you finally say, turning back to the Commander, who’s still smiling at you. - I knew you’d accept. If you allow it, I’ll take you to headquarters now. You take a deep breath, trying to focus on the bright side of everything. If there is one. But at least dying while fighting is better than dying while giving up. Headquarters isn’t far. You climb into a wagon and sit beside Erwin. The ride is silent, which is honestly a relief for both of you. After about an hour, the wagon stops in front of the compound. The building is large, its outer walls made of stone, with a wide field for patrols and training. You can already spot a few soldiers going about their duties. Erwin climbs out first, and you follow. - I can show you around, explain the rules, and assign you a room - he offers. You enter the building, and he leads you through room after room, explaining what each one is for and the rules that go along with them. It’s… interesting. Though interesting doesn’t make it short. An entire hour passes before he finally brings you to the entrance of your new room. - You’ll be sharing with someone. And please, be patient with her. He opens the door and you step inside. Erwin leaves immediately, as if eager to escape the room. You look around. It’s small—two bunks with thin blankets and nearly-flat pillows, a tall shelf packed with books on history and fiction, and a dark wooden table with two matching chairs. A figure wearing the Survey Corps uniform sits at one of them—messy brown hair tied into a ponytail, glasses sliding down her nose, scribbling in a notebook. She notices you instantly and rises with an excited smile. - Ah! So you’re the one Erwin mentioned. I’m Hange Zoë. - she extends her hand and steps closer. You smile and shake it. - I’m {reader}. Are you writing something interesting? - you try to start a conversation to get along with your new roommate. - Yes! I was taking notes on new titan theories. I’ve been thinking so much about them. Don’t you find titans fascinating? - she sits again, clearly thrilled by her own ideas. - Not really, - you admit, taking the seat beside her. - But theories can be useful. Her grin widens, and she hands you the notebook. You open it and start reading the first page. So far, you’re reading pure nonsense—but you try not to show it. She notices anyway. - You think it’s ridiculous, don’t you? It’s fine, you can say it. Levi calls me crazy every day. - she sighs and looks down. - It’s not that ridiculous… Who’s that? - you ask, trying to change the subject. - Levi? Oh, he’s part of the Survey Corps. You’ve never heard of him? They call him humanity’s strongest soldier. I don’t think he’s that amazing - she lies, avoiding eye contact. You simply nod your head, still trying to process how quickly your life has changed in less than a week. The next day is your first day of training. You’re put in Hange’s squad, which is actually reassuring. Your squad leader already issued your new gear and even your new black-and-white haircut. Honestly, that was the best part so far. At lunchtime, you enter the mess hall and sit beside Hange. You prefer staying away from the crowd. A tall man with a beard and dark blond hair sits across from her. You shift uncomfortably; you hadn’t expected anyone to sit with Hange. - Hey, Mike! Where are Erwin and Levi? - Hange asks. Mike begins eating from his tray, barely acknowledging your presence. - They’re coming. - he replies. Right then, you see Erwin approaching and sitting beside Mike, greeting him with light pats on the back. Another man—shorter, with black hair and sharp, grayish-blue eyes, sits beside Erwin. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say a word. Just starts eating. Hange leans toward you and whispers, - That’s Mike, and that’s Levi. They’re good friends, I promise. - Levi, Mike, aren’t you going to greet the new soldier?” Erwin asks, sarcasm dripping from his voice. You keep eating quietly, trying to ignore it. Levi says nothing, practically ignoring you. Mike nods at you. - Hey. - you nod back. You’re not here to make friends anyway. One friend—Hange—is more than enough. Later, you’re jogging around the field to warm up from the cold. The terrain is uneven and soaked from last night’s rain. Soldiers are scattered around—some training, some talking, some busy with chores. As you run, you slip on the wet ground and fall straight into a mud puddle. Great. You lie there for a moment, mortified. Falling in the mud is bad—but falling in front of everyone is worse. You notice someone approaching. When you look up, Levi is staring down at you with mild disgust. - Are you planning to lie there all day? - he asks. You quickly stand, covered in mud from head to toe. - Thanks for the help. - you say sarcastically. As if falling wasn’t humiliating enough, he had to witness it. He simply steps back, eyes never leaving you. - You should go take a shower. You smile dryly. - Really? I was planning on sleeping like this. He stares blankly, shrugs, and walks away. With a sigh, you head back to headquarters to clean up. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Days pass quickly in the Survey Corps. It’s not such a terrible place. You’re getting used to the people, too. You haven’t gone on any expeditions yet, but you’ve been training hard. Dying quickly would be unfortunate. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - …and then she punched him and he passed out. Honestly, I think he deserved it. - Hange says, thrilled by her friend’s story of punching a cheating boyfriend. You can’t really disagree. - Anyone want a drink? - Erwin asks, holding a bottle of wine. You and Hange accept a glass. Mike and Nanaba are on one of the leather couches, whispering to each other. Levi sits beside you, silent. These past few days, this group has become your usual evening companions. Sometimes it’s nice spending late nights in the headquarters bar, drinking and talking. Hange keeps rambling about her titan theories. Levi sighs at each ridiculous idea. You glance at him and mutter softly, -Don’t be like that. They’re important theories. He looks at you, surprised you’d defend her. - You actually believe that? - Levi asks, and Hange immediately stops talking. She seems a little hurt by Levi’s lack of enthusiasm, even if she tries to hide it. -At least I’m trying to figure something out… - she mumbles. Silence falls over the group, broken only by the noise from other soldiers in the bar. Finally, Erwin speaks up. - I’m preparing an expedition for next month. You should all get ready. Your heart speeds up. You knew this moment would come—but the thought still makes you nervous. Hange puts a hand on your shoulder. - It’ll be fine. I bet you’ll kill a titan on your very first expedition! You smile, grateful for her support. One month. One month until you leave the walls for the first time. Seeing the world outside might even be exciting— As long as everything goes well.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75614901?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Diana_0000"], "language": "English", "title": "Everything from the heart and soul"}
swinging by my neck from the family tree (the fates already fucked me sidways) warning: mild depictions of violence “The thunder sounds like wolves howling,” Jill muttered. Her brother Jack nodded in silent agreement. “Mother, why are you so scared of those animals?” Their mother smiled, looking up from her dishes. “You two should be asleep. Your father will be home soon, and what would he say to see you two running around?” Jill shrugged. “I just want to know. One of them waved at me on my way home from school.” “Don’t tell her that!” Jack whispered, but it was too late. Their mother turned quite pale and put the dishes aside. She always wore the old, red cloak that was her namesake, and now she pulled it tighter about her, though it was quite warm inside. Without a word, Red Riding Hood went to the cupboard and took forth the fresh loaf of bread she’d made that morning. She split it in half, set it down beside the two, and warmed her hands before the fire. “Shall I tell you the tale of why wolves frighten me?” she asked, smiling. “I must warn you; it is a scary tale to hear on such a stormy night.” Jill’s eyes shone with excitement, and she nodded eagerly. “Yes, please! I love scary tales.” So Red Riding Hood began her story. Red Riding Hood I Beware, my children, of the wolves that live in these woods. I thought little of them when I was your age, young and busy – oh, in those days I wandered everywhere. My mother often bade me visit the markets and see to my grandmother, and these tasks kept me daily on the forest’s path. I kept my wits about me and an iron knife close by in my handbasket, yet those great yellow eyes still followed me through the trees. Yes, they were big – they bared long, sharp teeth and growled at the passersby who dared look them in the eyes. The only thing that kept me safe for so long was my little red hood, just like the ones you wear. My good fairy godmother blessed me with its enchantment, to mask the smell of human meat from the hungry wolves. Well, one day I left the cloak behind, as you should never do. I meant to spend the morning baking bread and cooking stew for my grandmother’s lunch, but the cupboards only offered me a handful of apples. Undaunted, I tossed every apple into the handbasket and left my mother’s cottage, forgetting in my hurry to don the magic red hood. The morning was still new, so an icy chill lingered in the air. As I strolled down the path, large, unhuman footsteps echoed off the stones behind me. I froze, catching too late the telltale earthy scent of a wolf’s fur. He was almost upon me. My hand grasped for the iron knife, but it lay buried beneath the apples. Instead, I took hold of one and turned to face the beast. Sometimes when I fall asleep, I dream of that moment. The wolf, taken shoddy human form – and me, holding out the sweet red fruit like a sword. The beast reached out and took the fruit with taloned hands. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. Baring sharp, pointed teeth, he bit into the apple and grinned – just like this, children – while the juices ran down his chin. “And where are you going today, little red?” “To my grandmother’s. She’s almost one hundred, and she needs me to look after her.” Even as the words fell from my mouth, I backed away. “She really does need me.” God willing, I prayed the wolf’s human form came with pity. But when the beast shrugged, I heard his borrowed shoulders crack. The faster I stepped back, the quicker his pace changed to match. His eyes pivoted from me to my basket, and then back to me again. Before he could devour me, I tossed open the handbasket, pelting him with a dozen red apples. As he slumped down onto all fours, I turned and ran like hell. Behind me, I heard the enchanted human flesh and sinew slough off his true form, mingled with his howls. The wind itself seemed to be at my back as I fled, pushing me towards safety. Only when no sounds of pursuit followed did I dare catch my breath. Armed with the promise of a locked door and my grandmother’s embrace pushing me onwards, I soon arrived at her cottage. Thrice I knocked, but all remained quiet within the little house. Fresh smoke drifted from her chimney. A thousand possibilities hovered before me – my grandmother, fallen and unable to call for help, or succumbing alone to the neighbors’ yellow plague. As the latch turned beneath my hands, the door swung open with terrifying ease. Have you children seen the iron-headed axe I set beside my bed? In those days, I kept it safe behind the firewood bundles at her door. It was new and sturdy then, sharp enough to slay a giant. I took the ax, and crossed the threshold. “Grandmother?” I called out. “If you can hear me, please say something, anything!” “Is that you, little red?” she called from her bedroom. “Come closer, child. I don’t have much time left, and I must speak with you.” Her voice sounded hoarse and tired. Without thought, I obeyed. She lay in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. Her face turned	swinging by my neck from the family tree (the fates already fucked me sidways) warning: mild depictions of violence “The thunder sounds like wolves howling,” Jill muttered. Her brother Jack nodded in silent agreement. “Mother, why are you so scared of those animals?” Their mother smiled, looking up from her dishes. “You two should be asleep. Your father will be home soon, and what would he say to see you two running around?” Jill shrugged. “I just want to know. One of them waved at me on my way home from school.” “Don’t tell her that!” Jack whispered, but it was too late. Their mother turned quite pale and put the dishes aside. She always wore the old, red cloak that was her namesake, and now she pulled it tighter about her, though it was quite warm inside. Without a word, Red Riding Hood went to the cupboard and took forth the fresh loaf of bread she’d made that morning. She split it in half, set it down beside the two, and warmed her hands before the fire. “Shall I tell you the tale of why wolves frighten me?” she asked, smiling. “I must warn you; it is a scary tale to hear on such a stormy night.” Jill’s eyes shone with excitement, and she nodded eagerly. “Yes, please! I love scary tales.” So Red Riding Hood began her story. Red Riding Hood I Beware, my children, of the wolves that live in these woods. I thought little of them when I was your age, young and busy – oh, in those days I wandered everywhere. My mother often bade me visit the markets and see to my grandmother, and these tasks kept me daily on the forest’s path. I kept my wits about me and an iron knife close by in my handbasket, yet those great yellow eyes still followed me through the trees. Yes, they were big – they bared long, sharp teeth and growled at the passersby who dared look them in the eyes. The only thing that kept me safe for so long was my little red hood, just like the ones you wear. My good fairy godmother blessed me with its enchantment, to mask the smell of human meat from the hungry wolves. Well, one day I left the cloak behind, as you should never do. I meant to spend the morning baking bread and cooking stew for my grandmother’s lunch, but the cupboards only offered me a handful of apples. Undaunted, I tossed every apple into the handbasket and left my mother’s cottage, forgetting in my hurry to don the magic red hood. The morning was still new, so an icy chill lingered in the air. As I strolled down the path, large, unhuman footsteps echoed off the stones behind me. I froze, catching too late the telltale earthy scent of a wolf’s fur. He was almost upon me. My hand grasped for the iron knife, but it lay buried beneath the apples. Instead, I took hold of one and turned to face the beast. Sometimes when I fall asleep, I dream of that moment. The wolf, taken shoddy human form – and me, holding out the sweet red fruit like a sword. The beast reached out and took the fruit with taloned hands. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. Baring sharp, pointed teeth, he bit into the apple and grinned – just like this, children – while the juices ran down his chin. “And where are you going today, little red?” “To my grandmother’s. She’s almost one hundred, and she needs me to look after her.” Even as the words fell from my mouth, I backed away. “She really does need me.” God willing, I prayed the wolf’s human form came with pity. But when the beast shrugged, I heard his borrowed shoulders crack. The faster I stepped back, the quicker his pace changed to match. His eyes pivoted from me to my basket, and then back to me again. Before he could devour me, I tossed open the handbasket, pelting him with a dozen red apples. As he slumped down onto all fours, I turned and ran like hell. Behind me, I heard the enchanted human flesh and sinew slough off his true form, mingled with his howls. The wind itself seemed to be at my back as I fled, pushing me towards safety. Only when no sounds of pursuit followed did I dare catch my breath. Armed with the promise of a locked door and my grandmother’s embrace pushing me onwards, I soon arrived at her cottage. Thrice I knocked, but all remained quiet within the little house. Fresh smoke drifted from her chimney. A thousand possibilities hovered before me – my grandmother, fallen and unable to call for help, or succumbing alone to the neighbors’ yellow plague. As the latch turned beneath my hands, the door swung open with terrifying ease. Have you children seen the iron-headed axe I set beside my bed? In those days, I kept it safe behind the firewood bundles at her door. It was new and sturdy then, sharp enough to slay a giant. I took the ax, and crossed the threshold. “Grandmother?” I called out. “If you can hear me, please say something, anything!” “Is that you, little red?” she called from her bedroom. “Come closer, child. I don’t have much time left, and I must speak with you.” Her voice sounded hoarse and tired. Without thought, I obeyed. She lay in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. Her face turned grey and haggard with illness, and her eyes shone a sickly yellow – but she was still my grandmother. At the sight of my face, she smiled. Her eyes welled with tears. “I have a story to tell you.” And this is the tale she told. Grandmother's (Mary's) Final Tale Once upon a time, there lived a miller and his daughter Mary. The miller was an honest one who never once mixed his customers’ grain with sand. Despite his hard-working nature, the two remained in poverty. The daughter knew her only chance to aid her family’s station was to marry rich. As fate would have it, a well-off suitor came to court her. At first, I she entertained his suit with little hesitation. He made no untoward word or deed, and promised to be a good and faithful husband. In those days there was no better match a lady could hope for, and so the poor girl agreed, little knowing what was to come. They set the date of their wedding for the next full moon. At last, the bride thought her troubles might come to an end. But the days passed, and still Mary had not seen his house. The night before the wedding, her mysterious groom gave her a map that revealed the path ran through the neighboring woods, where thieves and wolves lurked within. At this new revelation, the bride berated herself for not knowing her suitor’s home before accepting his proposal. She would have run from her looming marriage, but there was nowhere safe in the world to escape alone and penniless. So that night, the girl called upon her closest friend Hannah and begged her companionship on the long, winding road. Hannah agreed without a second thought, even providing twin long, pointed torches to light their way and frighten off any wild beasts. Together, the two women followed the groom’s map and made their way through the fearsome woods with little trouble. The bridegroom’s house was even larger than the map drew it to be, but frightening in its silence. At every window burned a sickly green candle, and the front doors were thrust wide open. It was too late for them to turn back, but Mary couldn’t bear to bring her friend into that terrible house. While Hannah stayed safe by the doorway and kept watch, the bride explored the depths of what would soon be her new home. She opened every door and looked through every room, but not a soul appeared. Only a faint, faraway canary’s song broke the manor’s silence. The hours passed like minutes, and the bride soon found herself standing before the cellar door. She tried the latch, and the door lurched open with a sickening creak. At first sight it appeared the typical rich lord’s cellar. Countless bottles of wine and mead lined the walls, while large wedding casks of beer stood in each corner. An old woman sat in the room’s center, mending a pile of hopelessly torn clothes. She looked up at the bride’s approach, and her eyes widened in horror. “You shouldn’t be here,” she warned. Mary froze, momentarily speechless. “But I’m to wed the lord of this house,” she explained. “Surely he’s told you to expect me tonight?” But the woman only shook her head, rocking back and forth over her work. “No, no, no,” she muttered, over and over again. Her eyes snapped back up to meet the bride’s gaze. “This home belongs to thieves, cannibals, murderers. They’ve eaten a thousand girls before, and tonight they will devour you.” Three floors above them, Hannah screamed. At the sound, Mary turned to run and aid her friend. But the old woman leaped to her feet and seized the bride by the wrist with an iron grip, gagging her with a half-mended shirt. A hundred footsteps thudded against the floorboards above, drowning out Hannah’s cries. With her last burst of strength, the old woman pinned Mary behind a great beer cask in the room’s corner. Not a moment later, the groom’s loud, howling laughter flooded the cellar, backed by his men’s resounding cheers. The pack of robbers took every last wine bottle from the shelves, shouting and toasting each other until the floor ran red with spilled wine and broken glass. Hannah’s whimpers turned into gurgles, and then disappeared altogether. The bridegroom spoke a command in a language Mary could not understand, and the men’s axes whined against the stone floor as they chopped and carved. In the dimly-lit room, something small and soft flew through the air, down into the bride’s lap. She smelled blood. “Where’s the ring finger?” her fiancée shouted. “Come now, which of you greedy rats took it?” “Not I, sir,” said one robber. “Try little John over yonder.” One by one, the murderers searched each other up and down, yet the finger was nowhere to be found. The poor girl knew in her heart already, but still she dared peek at the soft, bloody thing in her lap. And there it was: Hannah’s ring finger, neatly cleaved. Mary screamed then, whimpered and cried. But the old woman had gagged her well, and no sound escaped. Her fiancée grew impatient. Cursing, he vowed no man would eat a bite until they gave up the finger. “Leave it be,” the old seamstress chided, and silence fell. “I’ll find it when I tidy the place tomorrow. You boys should let an old woman eat sometime.” The cannibals muttered and grumbled, but it was only a finger and the groom let it pass. They took to eating then, chewing and tearing at the raw flesh all night like a pack of wild animals. As for Mary, she stayed hidden behind the barrel. She could not move a muscle all those hours, only held Hannah’s finger safe against her heart and prayed the beasts would choke on their dinner. Morning came. The bridegroom took his band to their rooms above to wash themselves and dress for the wedding. Mary ran out into the woods and would have fled home, but she could not bear to walk the forest path alone. Many from her village would be at the ceremony. The girl huddled behind a large bramble bush in her bridal gown and planned how she might survive her wedding day. Her father brought men and women from her village to fill the manor, bearing small torch lanterns that flickered with cheer. But when Mary entered, all chatter died and every gaze turned upon her. The whole front of her white gown was spattered red with droplets of blood. The bridegroom emerged from the crowd, a relieved grin on his face. His eyes shone a bright yellow-gold. “My love, you’re late. And what has befallen your dress? Were you hurt along the way?” Mary smiled. “How kind of you to ask! Gather around, all, and I shall tell you. Last night, my lovely fiancée gave me a map and bade me travel to him. I obeyed and took my friend Hannah with me, only to find his home empty and quite frightening. Down in the cellar, an old woman told me he was a thief and a murderer, so she hid me. But my friend was less fortunate. When my fiancée returned, he and his men chopped her into pieces and ate her before my very eyes. I know what you all must be thinking: there is no proof. But there is, right here in my hands.” She opened her bloodied hands before the audience and held out her friend’s finger. Hannah’s parents stood among the crowd, and knew it for their daughter’s finger. They screamed and tore their hair, as the robber bridegroom rushed towards Mary. But the village people grabbed him and hunted his men down with their torches. They chopped the murderous band into a thousand pieces, and gave the bridegroom’s house to Mary. She lived a long, happy life, and never saw hide nor hair of those men for the rest of her days. The end. Red Riding Hood II My grandmother finished her story. “And I never did see those men again,” she said softly, meeting my gaze with a wide-eyed look. She stared at my trembling hands. “Now my dear, tell me why you are holding that axe.” Her eyes pierced into me, those golden eyes that once burned blue as my own. I tried to answer her, but the words stuck in my throat. “Grandmother?” I whispered. “Is that story true?” She threw back the covers, and the smell of grass and dirt spread through the room. Thick chunks of rough white fur sprouted from her flesh, and her face seemed to flicker before my eyes. “Is that story true?” she echoed, with a great voice beyond human or animal. Both the wolf and my grandmother’s cries melted into one hollow roar. Children, I could not turn against her. I dropped the axe and turned to run, but she was upon me in a heartbeat. Her mouth grew, teeth grazing my shoulder. She curled me up inside her hands, and swallowed me whole. I fell through the long, dark pit of her throat, and landed in a cavernous river of bitter water. But children, I could still hear her from the inside. She was sobbing. The water swayed with her slow, clumsy movements, jostling me from side to side. “I’m so sorry,” she cried. The ax’s iron head dragged against the floor. “It was my fault, Hannah, all mine. Please forgive me.” I felt her swing the blade, and her flesh split open like taffy. Light poured through the bloody escape she’d given me, and I crawled out from her stomach. Her eyes were glazed with death and I knew she was gone, yet I still stayed at her side. I could not tell you how long I sat there, but it must have been over a day. When I awoke, she was stiff and her huntsman neighbor stood over us, shaking me by the shoulder. And that, my children, is why I am afraid of wolves. As their mother finished her story, Jack and Jill stared in shared horror, surrounded by flaky breadcrumbs. A bolt of lightning flashed outside, and both children jumped at the answering thunder. Red Riding Hood opened her arms, and the two ran to hug her. “Don’t worry,” she assured the children. “My grandmother killed the wolf. Wherever his soul might be, he cannot come for our family ever again.” Jill shivered. “I don’t want to go to school anymore. What if the wolf eats us?” “Can we stay at home tomorrow?” Jack asked. “Please, mother?” But Red Riding Hood shook her head. “Every child in the world must go to school,” she told the two. “The wolves may stare, but so long as you always wear your enchanted cloaks, they cannot harm you.” She pointed to the axe beside her bed. “Besides, the forest wolves know who I am. If they dare to harm the two of you, I will gather the townspeople and hunt them down myself.” She smiled. The two children felt a little better. “Could you walk with us to school tomorrow?” Jill asked. “Of course,” their mother promised. “Now you must try to get some sleep.” She took the two children to their beds, tucked them in, and sang them a little lullaby. Just as the children began to fall asleep, there came a loud knocking upon the cottage door. Jill leaped out of bed. “It’s the wolf!” she screamed. Behind her, Jack grabbed at his toy bat. But Red Riding Hood laughed. “Look out the window, children,” she said. “It’s only your father.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75614861/chapters/197739546	{"authors": ["evilspinach"], "language": "English", "title": "swinging by my neck from the family tree (the fates already fucked me sidways)"}
It's Okay He didn't know why he did it. He didn't mean to make a mess. He really didn't. Debby was out of town for the week with her friends and Tyler and Jenna had gone shopping. He was all alone in the house, with his thoughts. With the text. ‘We already tried to accept you as our "son", but we cannot accept this Joshua. You know that it is wrong to be with more than one person. Let alone two other women. Don't come around our house until you fix yourself.’ At first he was confused. He had told his parents over 6 months ago. They said they didn't mind who he loved. They lied. Now he was on the cold bathroom floor. His thy was covered in blood and cuts, the floor covered in vomit. He didn't stop the first time he got sick, because he deserved it. He was a stupid girl trying to be a boy and he was in love with two women.He deserved the pain and discomfort. His eyes felt heavy. They always did after he would cry and scream like he'd just done. "We're back!" Jenna giggled as Tyler followed behind her with her half the bags. "We got food!" She shouted when there was still no sign of Josh. Maybe he's upstairs of drumming?" She looked over at Tyler. "I'll go look for him," Jenna had told Tyler after they'd put up the cold groceries and the Taco Bell in the fridge. “Leave me to put the food up,” Tyler muttered playfully. ‘You're fine,” Jenna looked at him playfully before walking towards the staircase. She checked their bedroom and saw no one. She turned to leave the room and that's when she saw him in the bathroom connected to their bedroom. "Tyler! Bedroom!" She yelled and went over to Josh. He was covered in bis own throw up and had dried blood on his thigh. His head rested on the closed shower. She kneeled down beside him and wiped a dried tear from his check. "Joshie, can You wake up for me?" she whispered softly. Josh whined and pushed his head into Jenna's hand. "Mm tired," Tyler's footsteps could be heard as he ran down the hallway to them. Josh opened his eyes and looked around, remembering all that had happened and where he was. "No." "What? What's wrong?" He panted as he looked around the bedroom before finding them in the bathrooms "Oh Joshie," Tyler slowly walked towards them, but Josh shook his head and tried to scoot further away from the two. "It's okay bud, we're not mad," Tyler grabbed the first aid bit and an old towel. "I'm Sorry! I didn't mean to make a mess!" Josh covered his face. Tyler put his hand over Josh's and gave a small squeeze. "We don't care about the mess. We care about you and right now, getting you Cleaned up," Tyler slowly pulled Josh's hands away from his fake, giving him every opportunity to pull away, "Do you want to take a bath?" Josh looked down at the ground at Tyler's question. We can stay with you or let you have a moment to yoursellf, but we're going to stay in the bedroom, Tyler explained. Can you stay?" Josh asked quietly. "Please.", "Of course Joshie," Jenna rubbed Josh's shoulder. "I'll go get you some clothes, " she stood up."Th start the bath?” She asked him and he nodded. "Let's move so I can start the tub Joshie," Tyler whispered and helped Josh up. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked as he started the bathtub. “Um, Mom texted me. They don't want me around anymore. Until I fix myself,x Josh whispered. “Something about how they tried to accept me but loving more than one person and two other women was wrong,” Josh started to cry again. "I'm sorry, I know I broke our promise.” “It's okay Joshie, accidents happen. I'm sorry that you had to be alone when that happened. You know it's not true right? It's okay,” Tyler put the towel on the ground over the mess. “Hope this is an okay outfit,” Jenna came into the bathroom. Josh looked up and smiled. “I assume it is,” she smiled and set the outfit on the counter. "Stop the water, it'll overflow," Jenna walked over to Josh and ran her hands through his curly hair. "Debby texted me,” Jenna said and she noticed Josh tense. "I didn't tell her anything, but we should tell her. You know she won't be upset, love,” she helps slowly take off Josh's shirt. "Don't tell her yet, please. I don't want to ruin her week,” Josh looked up at Jenna after his shift was taken off. "Do you want to know what she said?” Jenna asked and Josh nodded, "She's coming home early, because she missed, us to much" Jenna smiled when Josh smiled. “There's our Joshie, now lets get in the tub alright?" Jenna suggested. Josh stood up slowly and took off his boxer before sitting down in the bathtub. “Did you already talk to Ty? She asked softly after a moment. The two men nodded yes. “Alright. I'm glad you talked to someone.” Josh laid in the bath for about 15 minutes before deciding to wash off and get out. He'd winced when he cleaned his thighs, but Jenna and Tyler told him it was okay. When he got out of the tub he dried off and put his boxers on, before Tyler asked him to sit on the toilet seat. Josh sat down and held Jenna's hand. When Tyler had	It's Okay He didn't know why he did it. He didn't mean to make a mess. He really didn't. Debby was out of town for the week with her friends and Tyler and Jenna had gone shopping. He was all alone in the house, with his thoughts. With the text. ‘We already tried to accept you as our "son", but we cannot accept this Joshua. You know that it is wrong to be with more than one person. Let alone two other women. Don't come around our house until you fix yourself.’ At first he was confused. He had told his parents over 6 months ago. They said they didn't mind who he loved. They lied. Now he was on the cold bathroom floor. His thy was covered in blood and cuts, the floor covered in vomit. He didn't stop the first time he got sick, because he deserved it. He was a stupid girl trying to be a boy and he was in love with two women.He deserved the pain and discomfort. His eyes felt heavy. They always did after he would cry and scream like he'd just done. "We're back!" Jenna giggled as Tyler followed behind her with her half the bags. "We got food!" She shouted when there was still no sign of Josh. Maybe he's upstairs of drumming?" She looked over at Tyler. "I'll go look for him," Jenna had told Tyler after they'd put up the cold groceries and the Taco Bell in the fridge. “Leave me to put the food up,” Tyler muttered playfully. ‘You're fine,” Jenna looked at him playfully before walking towards the staircase. She checked their bedroom and saw no one. She turned to leave the room and that's when she saw him in the bathroom connected to their bedroom. "Tyler! Bedroom!" She yelled and went over to Josh. He was covered in bis own throw up and had dried blood on his thigh. His head rested on the closed shower. She kneeled down beside him and wiped a dried tear from his check. "Joshie, can You wake up for me?" she whispered softly. Josh whined and pushed his head into Jenna's hand. "Mm tired," Tyler's footsteps could be heard as he ran down the hallway to them. Josh opened his eyes and looked around, remembering all that had happened and where he was. "No." "What? What's wrong?" He panted as he looked around the bedroom before finding them in the bathrooms "Oh Joshie," Tyler slowly walked towards them, but Josh shook his head and tried to scoot further away from the two. "It's okay bud, we're not mad," Tyler grabbed the first aid bit and an old towel. "I'm Sorry! I didn't mean to make a mess!" Josh covered his face. Tyler put his hand over Josh's and gave a small squeeze. "We don't care about the mess. We care about you and right now, getting you Cleaned up," Tyler slowly pulled Josh's hands away from his fake, giving him every opportunity to pull away, "Do you want to take a bath?" Josh looked down at the ground at Tyler's question. We can stay with you or let you have a moment to yoursellf, but we're going to stay in the bedroom, Tyler explained. Can you stay?" Josh asked quietly. "Please.", "Of course Joshie," Jenna rubbed Josh's shoulder. "I'll go get you some clothes, " she stood up."Th start the bath?” She asked him and he nodded. "Let's move so I can start the tub Joshie," Tyler whispered and helped Josh up. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked as he started the bathtub. “Um, Mom texted me. They don't want me around anymore. Until I fix myself,x Josh whispered. “Something about how they tried to accept me but loving more than one person and two other women was wrong,” Josh started to cry again. "I'm sorry, I know I broke our promise.” “It's okay Joshie, accidents happen. I'm sorry that you had to be alone when that happened. You know it's not true right? It's okay,” Tyler put the towel on the ground over the mess. “Hope this is an okay outfit,” Jenna came into the bathroom. Josh looked up and smiled. “I assume it is,” she smiled and set the outfit on the counter. "Stop the water, it'll overflow," Jenna walked over to Josh and ran her hands through his curly hair. "Debby texted me,” Jenna said and she noticed Josh tense. "I didn't tell her anything, but we should tell her. You know she won't be upset, love,” she helps slowly take off Josh's shirt. "Don't tell her yet, please. I don't want to ruin her week,” Josh looked up at Jenna after his shift was taken off. "Do you want to know what she said?” Jenna asked and Josh nodded, "She's coming home early, because she missed, us to much" Jenna smiled when Josh smiled. “There's our Joshie, now lets get in the tub alright?" Jenna suggested. Josh stood up slowly and took off his boxer before sitting down in the bathtub. “Did you already talk to Ty? She asked softly after a moment. The two men nodded yes. “Alright. I'm glad you talked to someone.” Josh laid in the bath for about 15 minutes before deciding to wash off and get out. He'd winced when he cleaned his thighs, but Jenna and Tyler told him it was okay. When he got out of the tub he dried off and put his boxers on, before Tyler asked him to sit on the toilet seat. Josh sat down and held Jenna's hand. When Tyler had finished cleaning Josh up he put the alien themed band aids on him. Josh smiled and blushed a little when Tyler and Jenna kissed his thigh. “Thank you, I'm sorry,” he apologized again. “It's okay, stop apologizing babe,” Jenna put her hands on both sides of his face while Tyler put the kit back under the sink. “Do you want to go lay on the couch till Debby gets home? She said it’ll only be like an hour or two since she apparently has been on her way home since yesterday,”Jenna ran her thumb under his eyes and Josh nodded his head yes. “Do you want Ty to carry you down stairs?” He nodded his head yes and Tyler walked over and carefully picked up the older man. Josh hid his head in Tyler’s shoulder and when they made it down to the couch he refused to let go of Tyler to be sat down. Tyler sat down with Josh in his lap still hiding and Jenna walked over to the table to grab the TV remote. Josh was too out of it still to care what was put on the TV so Jenna just put something on in the background for comfort. Josh moved to sit in Jenna's lap and rested his head on her shoulder. Jenna wrapped her arms protectively over the curly haired man and Josh reached out to hold Tyler's hand. I love you guys, thank you." "There's nothing to thank us for love. Jenna kissed his forehead. "We love you too, " Tyler kissed Josh's hand. Josh smiled and his eyes watered, but he closed his eyes tight. "It's okay to cry Joshie," Tyler squeezed Josh's hand in an attempt to comfort him. “I know, I just don't wanna. I'm so sleepy, "Josh pushed his head is to the look of Jenna's neck. “You can Sleep Joshie, we'll be here When You walk up,” Jenna whispered and ran her hand through his hair again. Josh nodded and relaxed. "Love You Joshie, "She kissed the top of his head. He mumbled something inaudible, but most likely an ‘I love you too.’ Once they knew Josh was asleep Tyler spoke. “His parents had messaged him. They say it's wrong to be with more than one person and they still see him as a "girl." So even worse that he's with two women,” Tyler noticed Jenna's instant anger. "They say they don't want him over till he “fixes” himself. I told him that they're wrong. I don't know if he belives me though.” “If they can accept him, they don't deserve him. We'll help him realize it's okay,” Jenna looked down at the sleeping man. Tyler nodded his head and smiled at the scene in front of him. Two of the loves of his life in front of him and the other on her way home of him. His boy being held while he slept safely. A little over an hour later the front door opened and Debby appeard. She set her bags down and walked to the living room where she saw the other three adults. She smiled at the sight of Josh asleep on Jenna, and holding Tyler's hand, but frowned when she noticed the old tears and obvious signs of a breakdown. "What happened to Joshie?" she whispered and gave Jenna and Tyler a kiss before sitting down beside Jenna. “We came home from the store and found him in the bathroom. He had relapsed and was covered in his own vomit. Apparently his parents texted him and told him he's not aloud over till he "fixes himself", because he can't love more than one person, and not two women,” Jenna said with a hint of anger at the mention of his parents. Debby's jaw clenched but she didn't say anything, just nodded in understanding and put her hand over Josh's free one. Josh must have sinced the new person, he whined and pushed even more into Jeana. When he noticed the new, but familiar hand he opened his eyes excitedly and smiled. “Hi,” he jumped on to her and giggled. “I missed you." "I missed all of you guys so much, Debby smiled and kissed Josh softly. Josh looked at Debby and then back at Tyler and Jenna and frowned. “You know,” he whispered and looked down at his thighs. “Yeah I do, but it's okay Joshie. I'm not mad, just happy Jen and Ty helped you and that I'm here now,” Debby kissed Josh's forehead and gave him a small squeeze. That's when Josh knew. It didn't matter what others thought about him, not even his own parents. He loved these three and nothing could change that. They made him feel loved and seen more than anyone ever had.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75614921	{"authors": ["Dun on the Drums (DavidSheen35)"], "language": "English", "title": "It's Okay"}
THE RILEY EFFECT the first time someone refers to you as simon’s wife, you almost lose your damn mind. you’re in your office helping a baby-faced recruit fill out some documents, when he thanks you and calls you mrs. riley. “i’m sorry, what did you just call me?” you have to refrain from scowling, because who the hell is mrs. riley? the recruit stares at you for a moment before repeating what he just said. “i called you mrs. riley,” he responds with a frown fixed on his face. “aren’t you married to lieutenant riley? he said–” married!? you shut that down quickly. “your lieutenant is delusional.” you hold up your hand to show him your ring finger. “do you see a ring on my finger?” you ask, almost laughing when his eyes widen and he starts apologizing immediately. “i–i’m so sorry, mrs. riley. i mean ma’am!” shit, now he’s calling me ma’am. “please don’t apologize, it’s quite alright.” it’s not his fault his lieutenant has been spreading lies about his marital status. despite you reassuring him that everything was fine, the recruit stammers out another apology then flees your office. you sigh as you watch him go. you can only imagine what he’ll say to simon the next time he sees him. she called you delusional, sir. turning back to the stack of paper on your desk with a groan, you pick up your pen to resume your work. you spend the next forty five minutes preparing reports, scheduling meetings, and answering your emails. you’re so engrossed in your work, you don’t hear simon entering your office without knocking. he just lets himself in like he belongs there. it isn’t until you hear a throat clearing, that you become aware of another presence in the room with you. your head snaps up quickly at the sound, your eyes immediately honing in on simon. you give the behemoth of a man looming in your doorway a look of exasperation. he stares at you for a moment with soft amber eyes, before shutting the door and tugging his hoodie off. you watch him as he tosses it onto the couch, along with the book he has tucked up under his arm. there’s just something about the way simon makes himself at home in your office that pisses you off. when he meets your gaze again, you start in on him immediately. “has anyone ever taught you some manners? you can’t just walk into someone’s office without announcing yourself. i don’t barge into your shit.” simon takes a step towards your desk with a smirk on his face. “you don’t come to my office at all, sweetheart.” he grins when you glare at him. “because i have no desire to do so,” you reply, rolling your eyes at him. “now, was there something you needed lieutenant riley? did you want to explain to me why you have that recruit of yours calling me mrs. riley?” simon doesn’t respond right away. he busies himself with the blue stress ball you keep on your desk. you open your mouth, ready to give him a piece of your mind— because you’re not about to let him stand there and ignore you —when he sets the ball back down and takes his mask off. the words die in your throat when simon’s face comes into view. he runs a hand through his curly blonde locks with a ghost of a smile on his lips. he knows exactly what he’s doing, distracting you like this. he always seems to lose the mask whenever he realizes you’re two seconds away from wringing his thick ass neck. when you’ve got a good look at simon, the fire returns to your eyes and you demand an explanation. what you don’t expect, is for simon to be so damn transparent with you. simon wants you to be his wife. he wants to put a ring on your finger. he wants the wedding, the reception, the fucking honeymoon. he wants to take care of you, keep you on his cock every night until his name is all you know. simon wants you to be his in every sense of the word, he needs it. “i’m willing to wait for you to come to your senses, sweetheart.” “come to my senses?” you stare at him in disbelief, before glowering. “the audacity of you to come into my office thinking you can speak to me this way. you can’t just–” simon cuts you off, not giving a shit about your little rant. “don’t care. i’ll speak to my wife however i want.” you almost let out a scream of frustration, because you know he’s dead serious. “keep dreaming, you big blonde bastard! i wouldn’t marry your crazy ass even if you were the last man on earth!” you’ve finally reached your limit with simon. it was time for his ass to go. you roll your chair away from your desk to stand, smoothing down your skirt on the way to the door. you wrench it open with more force than necessary, pointing while you order him to leave. he’s overstayed his welcome. simon moves away from your desk, but he doesn’t leave. he doesn’t plan to. he bullies his way into your space until your back is pressed up against the open door. “you think i’m crazy?” you lift your chin and fold your arms across your chest, refusing to be intimidated by him. “you’ve got folks walking around here calling me mrs. riley. for fuck’s sake, simon, you	THE RILEY EFFECT the first time someone refers to you as simon’s wife, you almost lose your damn mind. you’re in your office helping a baby-faced recruit fill out some documents, when he thanks you and calls you mrs. riley. “i’m sorry, what did you just call me?” you have to refrain from scowling, because who the hell is mrs. riley? the recruit stares at you for a moment before repeating what he just said. “i called you mrs. riley,” he responds with a frown fixed on his face. “aren’t you married to lieutenant riley? he said–” married!? you shut that down quickly. “your lieutenant is delusional.” you hold up your hand to show him your ring finger. “do you see a ring on my finger?” you ask, almost laughing when his eyes widen and he starts apologizing immediately. “i–i’m so sorry, mrs. riley. i mean ma’am!” shit, now he’s calling me ma’am. “please don’t apologize, it’s quite alright.” it’s not his fault his lieutenant has been spreading lies about his marital status. despite you reassuring him that everything was fine, the recruit stammers out another apology then flees your office. you sigh as you watch him go. you can only imagine what he’ll say to simon the next time he sees him. she called you delusional, sir. turning back to the stack of paper on your desk with a groan, you pick up your pen to resume your work. you spend the next forty five minutes preparing reports, scheduling meetings, and answering your emails. you’re so engrossed in your work, you don’t hear simon entering your office without knocking. he just lets himself in like he belongs there. it isn’t until you hear a throat clearing, that you become aware of another presence in the room with you. your head snaps up quickly at the sound, your eyes immediately honing in on simon. you give the behemoth of a man looming in your doorway a look of exasperation. he stares at you for a moment with soft amber eyes, before shutting the door and tugging his hoodie off. you watch him as he tosses it onto the couch, along with the book he has tucked up under his arm. there’s just something about the way simon makes himself at home in your office that pisses you off. when he meets your gaze again, you start in on him immediately. “has anyone ever taught you some manners? you can’t just walk into someone’s office without announcing yourself. i don’t barge into your shit.” simon takes a step towards your desk with a smirk on his face. “you don’t come to my office at all, sweetheart.” he grins when you glare at him. “because i have no desire to do so,” you reply, rolling your eyes at him. “now, was there something you needed lieutenant riley? did you want to explain to me why you have that recruit of yours calling me mrs. riley?” simon doesn’t respond right away. he busies himself with the blue stress ball you keep on your desk. you open your mouth, ready to give him a piece of your mind— because you’re not about to let him stand there and ignore you —when he sets the ball back down and takes his mask off. the words die in your throat when simon’s face comes into view. he runs a hand through his curly blonde locks with a ghost of a smile on his lips. he knows exactly what he’s doing, distracting you like this. he always seems to lose the mask whenever he realizes you’re two seconds away from wringing his thick ass neck. when you’ve got a good look at simon, the fire returns to your eyes and you demand an explanation. what you don’t expect, is for simon to be so damn transparent with you. simon wants you to be his wife. he wants to put a ring on your finger. he wants the wedding, the reception, the fucking honeymoon. he wants to take care of you, keep you on his cock every night until his name is all you know. simon wants you to be his in every sense of the word, he needs it. “i’m willing to wait for you to come to your senses, sweetheart.” “come to my senses?” you stare at him in disbelief, before glowering. “the audacity of you to come into my office thinking you can speak to me this way. you can’t just–” simon cuts you off, not giving a shit about your little rant. “don’t care. i’ll speak to my wife however i want.” you almost let out a scream of frustration, because you know he’s dead serious. “keep dreaming, you big blonde bastard! i wouldn’t marry your crazy ass even if you were the last man on earth!” you’ve finally reached your limit with simon. it was time for his ass to go. you roll your chair away from your desk to stand, smoothing down your skirt on the way to the door. you wrench it open with more force than necessary, pointing while you order him to leave. he’s overstayed his welcome. simon moves away from your desk, but he doesn’t leave. he doesn’t plan to. he bullies his way into your space until your back is pressed up against the open door. “you think i’m crazy?” you lift your chin and fold your arms across your chest, refusing to be intimidated by him. “you’ve got folks walking around here calling me mrs. riley. for fuck’s sake, simon, you just told me you wanted to marry me. we’re not even in a relationship, we’re barely even friends. what am i supposed to think when you say shit like that?” simon doesn’t reward you with the response you want. he just looks you up and down, his lips curled up into a smirk, “mmm, you’re so pretty when you get worked up like this. think you’d look even prettier crying on my cock.” your small sound of disgust makes him laugh. it’s low, mean. and you just might hate him for it. when simon finally decides to put an end to his bullshit and give you some space, you sag against the door, trembling slightly. this has to be some form of harassment, you think to yourself when your eyes land on that infuriating man. much to your surprise, simon is already watching you like a goddamn hawk from where he’s seated on your couch. he has one arm stretched out over the backrest with his legs spread obscenely wide. “you see something you like?” he doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on his thighs. “no,” you reply coldly on the way back to your seat, fully intending to ignore him since it looks like he won’t be leaving your office any time soon. when you look away from your computer screen every now and then, simon is still seated in the same position he was in before you sat down. he’s quietly reading the book he brought with him. the only noise you hear from him is the soft sounds of pages being turned. you do find it hard to believe that he actually has the decency to let you finish your work in peace. you think you like him better this way, quiet and not trying to piss you off every chance he gets. simon almost seems normal when he’s not running his mouth. you spare him another glance before turning back to your computer, silently wishing for time to pass quickly. and of course it’s the blonde menace who decides when your cut off time is. he closes his book, walks right up to your desk and pries your pen out of your hand. “hey–” “hi, baby,” he croons, removing the pen from your line of sight completely when you try to snatch it back. another pet name? “i don’t have time for your games, simon. why did you interrupt me?” “you’ve been doing overtime all week. you’re done for the day.” you open your mouth to speak, to question him about his knowledge of your work hours, but you think better of it when he pins you with a warning look. no wife of his is going to work herself to death. “fine,” you relent, no longer willing to engage in a battle you won’t win, even if you do wish to wipe the look of satisfaction off of simon’s face with your fist. you catch yourself sulking a little while simon gathers his belongings and announces his departure. when he asks if you would like to walk with him to the mess hall for dinner, you decline. and when he starts phishing for answers, wanting to know where you’ll be, you tell simon to fuck off and mind his own business. “that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble. i’ll allow it today, just this once.” simon figures he’s tortured you enough for one day, so he decides to leave you be. for now.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75614866/chapters/197739571	{"authors": ["kyletogaz"], "language": "English", "title": "THE RILEY EFFECT"}
Radio Killed The Video Star It’d been a year and Vincent still hadn’t figured out how to regain his cult following like on Earth. He had the few followers that died with him who had helped him build a small company focused on his humble beginnings—the weather and news. He was lucky to find eccentric personalities like Tom Trench, who respected Vincent immensely having remembered him from when he was alive. It was a little unsettling to have people here who knew Vincent as he were on Earth, in such a new place and domain where the hierarchy was unstable at best and non-existent at worst. Powerful overlords reigning supreme in the Pride Ring, though Lucifer and Lilith were still figureheads and ruled over the ring, they seldom interfered with the politics of the ring aside from Lilith who spent her time uplifting demon voices. He’d tried to get Lilith on one of his broadcasts, that was sure to get him noticed, but the small little TV demon had yet to get close enough for the chance. It was frustrating and slightly humiliating that he was struggling so much to regain the power and influence he found so easily on Earth. Murdering there had been easy, but here? Everyone was on edge, everyone had a weapon, and the odds could quickly turn against you. It was also slightly unsettling to hear these radio broadcasts that would sometimes go out, showcasing the terrified and tortured screams of overlords as they were ruthlessly murdered by the person everyone had nicknamed the Radio Demon. It was unsettling, but there was a part of Vincent that also saw it as a golden opportunity. Exciting, even. He came to respect this Radio Demon and even found him inspiring with how radio had changed the face of entertainment and led to Vincent’s realm of video broadcast. It was just a coincidence that Vincent had found the Radio Demon himself one afternoon, intimidating a soul who had likely overstepped in their domain. Vincent had smirked, watching the scene at first with intrigue as the Radio Demon interrogated and humiliated this person who scrambled and sweat profusely at their helplessness. “Perhaps you should be the next voice on the radio tonight, since you seem so inclined to disrespect me, you wretch.” He hissed, his voice filtered through his staff with a microphone on it. Vincent stepped forward from where he had been watching, striking confusion in the unnamed sinner. The Radio Demon, however, was unphased. His eyes only sliding over to Vincent’s fame with a spark of intrigue. “I think just audio is far too light of a punishment. You should consider letting all of Pentagram City watch as his body gets torn from limb.” Vincent suggested, glancing at the Radio Demon to gauge his reaction. Part of himself was thrumming with anxiety, wondering briefly if now maybe he had overstepped into the overlord’s domain. But his smile just seemed to widen and sharpen, displaying his rows of yellow teeth sure to tear into flesh just as easily as a steak knife. “Then you’d have a memento of the occasion, free to watch and relive as you please.” The Radio Demon flicked his wrist, and a slender, black tentacle whipped out from behind his suit and slammed the sinner into the wall at the back of the alleyway, his scream of pain making the other demon’s ear twitch delightfully. He turned to face Vincent completely now, the TV demon’s heart racing faster as the man clad in red stepped forward into his space, his smile widening and his eyes narrowing on the man in front of him. Vincent felt heat creep up his neck to his jaw as he was inspected closely by the overlord, every muscle in him screaming at him to run and hide, but he stiffened his spine and stared the demon back down, refusing to appear a coward to the man he so dearly respected and had been hoping to find for months. The Radio Demon tilted his head slightly, a low buzzing sound coming from him that grew louder and more eerie before it snapped back and he straightened, his smile looser now. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, dear, but my you do seem to have a taste for destruction and torture.” He stated cheerfully, no longer the same intimidating and terrifying demon Vincent had just witnessed moments before. It nearly gave him whiplash. “The name’s Alastor! Quite a pleasure to be meeting you.” He held out his hand that was purely black aside from his red fingertips—or would they be considered claws? “Vincent,” he says back, taking Alastor’s hand in a friendly greeting. His entire body was buzzing with the excitement of Alastor’s approval and oh! The opportunities that stood right in front of him. “Your broadcasts are impressive. You died what, thirty years ago? How long did it take for you to gain the rank of an overlord?” He asks excitedly, hoping that Alastor might be willing to share some of the secret that got him there. Alastor chuckles slightly, his smile seeming to draw a little tighter at Vincent’s question. “Well, my, haven’t you heard the stories? I’d	Radio Killed The Video Star It’d been a year and Vincent still hadn’t figured out how to regain his cult following like on Earth. He had the few followers that died with him who had helped him build a small company focused on his humble beginnings—the weather and news. He was lucky to find eccentric personalities like Tom Trench, who respected Vincent immensely having remembered him from when he was alive. It was a little unsettling to have people here who knew Vincent as he were on Earth, in such a new place and domain where the hierarchy was unstable at best and non-existent at worst. Powerful overlords reigning supreme in the Pride Ring, though Lucifer and Lilith were still figureheads and ruled over the ring, they seldom interfered with the politics of the ring aside from Lilith who spent her time uplifting demon voices. He’d tried to get Lilith on one of his broadcasts, that was sure to get him noticed, but the small little TV demon had yet to get close enough for the chance. It was frustrating and slightly humiliating that he was struggling so much to regain the power and influence he found so easily on Earth. Murdering there had been easy, but here? Everyone was on edge, everyone had a weapon, and the odds could quickly turn against you. It was also slightly unsettling to hear these radio broadcasts that would sometimes go out, showcasing the terrified and tortured screams of overlords as they were ruthlessly murdered by the person everyone had nicknamed the Radio Demon. It was unsettling, but there was a part of Vincent that also saw it as a golden opportunity. Exciting, even. He came to respect this Radio Demon and even found him inspiring with how radio had changed the face of entertainment and led to Vincent’s realm of video broadcast. It was just a coincidence that Vincent had found the Radio Demon himself one afternoon, intimidating a soul who had likely overstepped in their domain. Vincent had smirked, watching the scene at first with intrigue as the Radio Demon interrogated and humiliated this person who scrambled and sweat profusely at their helplessness. “Perhaps you should be the next voice on the radio tonight, since you seem so inclined to disrespect me, you wretch.” He hissed, his voice filtered through his staff with a microphone on it. Vincent stepped forward from where he had been watching, striking confusion in the unnamed sinner. The Radio Demon, however, was unphased. His eyes only sliding over to Vincent’s fame with a spark of intrigue. “I think just audio is far too light of a punishment. You should consider letting all of Pentagram City watch as his body gets torn from limb.” Vincent suggested, glancing at the Radio Demon to gauge his reaction. Part of himself was thrumming with anxiety, wondering briefly if now maybe he had overstepped into the overlord’s domain. But his smile just seemed to widen and sharpen, displaying his rows of yellow teeth sure to tear into flesh just as easily as a steak knife. “Then you’d have a memento of the occasion, free to watch and relive as you please.” The Radio Demon flicked his wrist, and a slender, black tentacle whipped out from behind his suit and slammed the sinner into the wall at the back of the alleyway, his scream of pain making the other demon’s ear twitch delightfully. He turned to face Vincent completely now, the TV demon’s heart racing faster as the man clad in red stepped forward into his space, his smile widening and his eyes narrowing on the man in front of him. Vincent felt heat creep up his neck to his jaw as he was inspected closely by the overlord, every muscle in him screaming at him to run and hide, but he stiffened his spine and stared the demon back down, refusing to appear a coward to the man he so dearly respected and had been hoping to find for months. The Radio Demon tilted his head slightly, a low buzzing sound coming from him that grew louder and more eerie before it snapped back and he straightened, his smile looser now. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, dear, but my you do seem to have a taste for destruction and torture.” He stated cheerfully, no longer the same intimidating and terrifying demon Vincent had just witnessed moments before. It nearly gave him whiplash. “The name’s Alastor! Quite a pleasure to be meeting you.” He held out his hand that was purely black aside from his red fingertips—or would they be considered claws? “Vincent,” he says back, taking Alastor’s hand in a friendly greeting. His entire body was buzzing with the excitement of Alastor’s approval and oh! The opportunities that stood right in front of him. “Your broadcasts are impressive. You died what, thirty years ago? How long did it take for you to gain the rank of an overlord?” He asks excitedly, hoping that Alastor might be willing to share some of the secret that got him there. Alastor chuckles slightly, his smile seeming to draw a little tighter at Vincent’s question. “Well, my, haven’t you heard the stories? I’d assume someone who claims to be a fan would want to know just about everything there is to know about their favorite radio star.” His voice was light and teasing and the heat pooling at Vincent’s neck only seemed to spread up to his cheeks. He was right, Vincent should’ve been doing his research on Alastor if he’d hoped to speak to him or get him on his show. Vincent shakes it off quickly, though. His charisma was nothing if not his best quality and he laughs, smiling crookedly. “Perhaps you might be willing to enlighten me over some scotch? My treat.” He offered, letting his sultry and seductive voice come through with a hand offered. Alastor’s own hand tightened on his staff as he closed his eyes and hummed absent-mindedly. “I’m more of a whiskey guy.” He responds dismissively, and Vincent felt his own smile tightening at the response. This guy was going to make everything difficult, wasn’t he? And Vincent would be lying if he didn’t find that somewhat attractive. “Whatever you’d like.” He bit out, fighting to keep his voice calm and even. Alastor opened his eyes again and his smile grew wide. “Offer accepted. I’m quite good pals with the barkeep just down the street, we’ll head there and get an enjoyable discount.” Alastor hums, turning the opposite way and beginning to walk. Vincent blinks in surprise but then jogs to catch up to him. “You know, alcohol tastes best when it doesn’t cost a thing. You know, back in my time, a single drink of whiskey could cost you three dollars! Absolutely ridiculous.” Vincent rolled his eyes at the comment. “I was alive then, too, you know.” He scoffed at Alastor’s arrogance and the red demon’s ears seemed to perk up at it. “Oh? You’re not quite as young as I thought you were. Very interesting.” He mused, Vincent wasn’t sure what to make of his comments but was honestly just glad to be having this opportunity. And what an opportunity it was. Alastor and Vincent formed a budding friendship, meeting weekly—and sometimes more often—to share glasses of whiskey and shit-talk other overlords and the sinners they’d put in their place that week. Hell quickly caught wind of their friendship, and Vincent’s business and power seemed to grow alongside Alastor’s. It was one of those nights, a few years later, that Vincent decided to play his hand. Alastor had been a few drinks in already, but Vincent had decided to avoid drinking as much. “You’re inspiring, really! And when you think about it, modern entertainment actually started with radio.” Vincent rambled, all the things he’d been dying to say since he met Alastor but never truly had the chance to. “Hmm.” Alastor hummed, staring down at his whiskey glass, gently tapping a finger on the side of it. Vincent chuckled, rubbing the back of his TV head anxiously. “Am I boring you with my compliments?” He stuttered out anxiously, hoping the compliments would warm Alastor up to what he was going to propose even though he knew Alastor wasn’t much for ass-kissing by other powerful sinners—only those who had wronged him. “Perhaps.” He mused, smile and eyes relaxed as he now glanced at Vincent with those mesmerizing red eyes, signature smile closed but wide. Vincent blushed, looking away from him suddenly and then back at him, unsure whether to avoid or hold the eye contact. He eventually decided that Alastor would see him looking away as a weakness and elected to stare back at him. “Well, look, I’ll just get to the point.” He promised, leaning further into Alastor’s space—it was loud in the bar so surely, Alastor might have a hard time hearing him! “We’ve been close for a few years now, right? I mean, people know us, they love us.” He states, briefly touching Alastor’s shoulder and grasping for any scrap of reassurance from him. “And with new overlords popping up every day and—and before you hit me with that,” Vincent assumes his best Alastor impression, which was spot on, as usual. He’d only figured out he could perfectly impersonate people’s voices about a month ago and usually loved doing it to make people laugh. “Well, you’re pretty new yourself.” He couldn’t help but feel joy and pride swell within him at Alastor’s silent laugh at the impression. He couldn’t stop the flow of words now! Alastor was happy and relaxed, he was laughing! There’s no way he’d turn Vincent down. “I know, okay. But I’m much more forward thinking, so, it’s in your best interest to hear me out.” He finally says, glancing back at Alastor to read his expression, leaving room for a response. “I’m listening, pal.” Alastor says casually, even though his voice seemed mildly disinterested, Vincent couldn’t help the way his heart raced at Alastor calling him ‘pal’, a friendly nickname! That was the first time! “Barkeep, another whiskey?” He asked, pointing down to his empty glass and smiling wide. The odd bird-like sinner quickly replaced Alastor’s glass with a new one, flicking him a coin in payment. Vincent couldn’t truly pay attention, though, his antennas buzzing with anxiety as he smiled and debated his next words. The silence had stretched for what Vincent felt was too long, though. “So, I’ve been thinking, Alastor,” He starts nervously, glancing back at the red deer demon before turning to face him again. “With your incredible power and my—” Vincent paused; suddenly aware he didn’t have much to contribute to this. Why was Alastor even friends with him? Vincent had yet to make real power strides, sure, his company and business were growing with more employees and more viewers, and he’d finally climbed up to an overlord, what really made him special? Alastor’s smile sharpened as he realized Vincent’s hesitation, resisting the urge to lick across his yellow-stained teeth primed for cannibalism. “Vinny,” He drew out, voice thick with sultry as he snapped Vincent back to the present. “You were saying?” He pressed further, willing Vincent to continue. Vincent didn’t hesitate this time. “We could be unstoppable. Radio and video!” His eyes lit up with excitement and Alastor couldn’t help but feed off the energy, his smile widening more. “Me and you, we could rule hell.” Vincent’s hands grasped his shoulders and Alastor’s microphone buzzed quietly. He hated being touched and though he had mostly grown used to it with Vincent—because that’s just who he was—he still didn’t always like it. He pulled away, relief washing over Alastor until Vincent’s next words. “Together, as partners!” He held a hand out to Alastor and the radio demon stared at it in thought, taking in what Vincent had just said. His eyes slid up to Vincent’s face, realizing he was being entirely serious, and he couldn’t stop the laugh that spilled from his lips. Vincent’s brows furrowed in confusion as Alastor dropped into loud, almost manic laughter at the suggestion. Had he done something wrong? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He couldn’t lose Alastor, not after everything, not after— “Oh! Oh, you’re serious?” Alastor announced almost mockingly, delving into his laughter again. Vincent withdrew his hand, laughing nervously alongside him as his thoughts spiraled quickly. Vincent grasped his arms with his hands, wishing to curl in on himself, to go back and change the conversation, to not have brought this up at all! “I—I just thought—you know, since we’re friends…” Vincent said quietly, dropping his hands to his legs, tightening them into fists. Alastor’s laughter stopped for a moment, his eyes glowing. “Friends?” He repeated, almost mockingly. Then he hummed in thought, tapping the table with a finger. “That’s not quite the impression I got when you said partners.” He smiled cruelly, his eyes sliding over to Vincent in amusement. Vincent tensed, looking up at Alastor. “I—that’s not what I—” “Now, now, don’t go and take it back. You said what you’ve said, dear. I admit, I am intrigued by the potential you hold—though I can’t say I necessarily agree with your medium…” His voice trailed off in thought before snapping back to Vincent. “Why don’t we make a little deal?” Alastor held out his hand now, Vincent’s eyes widened, heart racing even more now. He hadn’t made any deals—not yet. The prospect of it felt…frightening. “I’ll be your…partner…in whatever way that means to you. In return, I’ll help you gain popularity and fame. I’ll control your public image, your business, and help you rise to the top. Just like you did on Earth.” This deal felt…special. What did Alastor gain out of it though? Was he truly willing to be Vincent’s partner? Did he just want a lifelong contract keeping Vincent by his side? Did he…love Vincent that much? The thought sent a ripple of pleasure through him and his features immediately brightened, Alastor’s smile sharpening in turn. “It’s a deal!” He grasped Alastor’s hand and immediately both of their powers shot out in a swirl of green and blue, rippling over the area as everyone in the bar turned to look, whispering at the sight. Vincent had never felt this happy before—there was so much he had to look forward to now! “Just one small detail, Vincent.” Alastor broke through Vincent’s thoughts, who was still currently riding the high. “A public influencer typically has a name they go by—different from their own. How about…” His finger circled the rim of the whiskey glass in thought. “Vox?”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75614871/chapters/197739576	{"authors": ["stuckin2016"], "language": "English", "title": "Radio Killed The Video Star"}
Cold-Blooded “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…” You sing quietly to yourself in your kitchen as you mix milk in with cocoa powder. You stir it around a bit, then put your mug into the microwave, setting the clock for a minute and twelve seconds. You shut the door and start the timer. “Jack Frost nippin’ at your nose…” You take a step back, leaning against the island counter as you watch the mug spin around and around in the microwave. “Yuletide carols… singing…” You hum the rest of the line, realizing you don’t actually remember the words. Instead of continuing the song, you mindlessly restart it from the beginning. “Chesnuts roasting on an open fire… Jack Frost nippin’ at your nose…” There’s a knock at the door. You turn and look at your front door, furrowing your brows. It’s nine o’clock at night—who the hell would come by at this hour? Did your roommate forget something? She’s supposed to be spending the night at her boyfriend’s. The timer goes off just then and you open the microwave, setting your now-heated hot chocolate on the stove before cautiously approaching the door. You squint, looking through the peephole. It’s… a man. A complete stranger. You can’t see him very well, but from what you can tell, he’s got pale, spiky hair and is wearing… a strikingly blue suit and sunglasses? You squint harder, wondering if you’re just imagining his strange appearance. Who the fuck is he? And why is he here? Normally, you don’t answer your door at all—especially not at night—unless it’s pizza or someone you know. But the way he looks has you so baffled—and admittedly curious—that you somehow end up opening the door, and then you’re face-to-face with him. Okay, so you weren’t imagining anything. He’s an older man, whose hair you can now see is icy blue in color, and his pinstriped suit, while also blue, is a much darker shade. His tie, you realize, is an icicle; obviously a fake one, since it isn’t melting. He removes his sunglasses, revealing a vibrant pair of blue eyes, and smiles wide like a salesman about to offer you the deal of a lifetime. “You rang?” is the first thing he says. You stare at him, confused. “Uh… you rang. I mean—you knocked.” “I did, didn’t I?” He chuckles. “I thought that’d be much more polite than simply showing up inside. You are a lady, after all.” Showing up inside? What the fuck? “I’m sorry, can I help you?” “A better question is, can I help you,” he responds, a sly look on his face. “Heard that song you were singing just now. Got a little Jack Frost on your mind?” Wait—he’d heard you singing? Has he been listening to you out here? You’re getting more weirded out by the second, so you cut to the chase. “Uh, who are you?” He gestures to himself. “Isn’t it obvious?” Briefly, you look him up and down. You don’t have a clue who he’s supposed to be. He has pointy ears—is he some kind of elf? Is this a costume? You shake your head. “...No?” “Really? But I just—” The man clicks his tongue, annoyed, and rolls his eyes. He mutters something under his breath, something that sounds like “Nobody ever gets it.” It isn’t long before he’s collecting himself, though, then he’s smoothing down the front of his suit and summoning another businessman smile. “Allow me to introduce myself, then,” he drawls. “I am the”—he poses confidently, like he’s about to take a bow—“Jack Frost.” You blink. “Jack Frost.” He beams. “The one and only.” You stare at him for three seconds longer. Then you promptly shut the door on him. “Wait—hey!” You redo the deadlock, turning away from the door and going back into the kitchen. What a fucking weirdo. You return to your hot chocolate, dipping in your spoon to give it another good stir. You take hold of the mug, about to lift it, when all of a sudden, you hear something behind you, like a quiet poof. A chill runs down your spine, like someone just traced it with an icy finger. You shiver a bit, despite the warm mug in your hands. What was that? “Excuse me,” someone says. “It is very rude to shut the door on someone like that.” You whip around, damn near dropping the mug. Standing on the other side of your island counter is the same man you’d just met—“Jack Frost.” He wears a disgruntled expression. He’s in your apartment. How—How did he— “What the fuck?” you utter, your eyes darting back and forth between him and your front door—which is still completely locked. “What the—How the hell did you get in here?” “It’s called magic, sweetheart. Perks of being a legendary figure.” He sniffs the air and his eyes brighten. “Oooh—is that hot chocolate? Can I have some?” “No.” A bit shakily, you set your mug back down. “No—you cannot have some. You’re not—not supposed to be—” “Not supposed to be here?” Idly, he pulls out one of your barstool chairs and takes a seat. “Well, I’m sure you’re not used to men materializing in front of you, but I’m no ordinary man, am I?” He grins, leaning forward on his elbows. “I’m Jack Frost.” What is happening to you right now? Are you hallucinating?	Cold-Blooded “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…” You sing quietly to yourself in your kitchen as you mix milk in with cocoa powder. You stir it around a bit, then put your mug into the microwave, setting the clock for a minute and twelve seconds. You shut the door and start the timer. “Jack Frost nippin’ at your nose…” You take a step back, leaning against the island counter as you watch the mug spin around and around in the microwave. “Yuletide carols… singing…” You hum the rest of the line, realizing you don’t actually remember the words. Instead of continuing the song, you mindlessly restart it from the beginning. “Chesnuts roasting on an open fire… Jack Frost nippin’ at your nose…” There’s a knock at the door. You turn and look at your front door, furrowing your brows. It’s nine o’clock at night—who the hell would come by at this hour? Did your roommate forget something? She’s supposed to be spending the night at her boyfriend’s. The timer goes off just then and you open the microwave, setting your now-heated hot chocolate on the stove before cautiously approaching the door. You squint, looking through the peephole. It’s… a man. A complete stranger. You can’t see him very well, but from what you can tell, he’s got pale, spiky hair and is wearing… a strikingly blue suit and sunglasses? You squint harder, wondering if you’re just imagining his strange appearance. Who the fuck is he? And why is he here? Normally, you don’t answer your door at all—especially not at night—unless it’s pizza or someone you know. But the way he looks has you so baffled—and admittedly curious—that you somehow end up opening the door, and then you’re face-to-face with him. Okay, so you weren’t imagining anything. He’s an older man, whose hair you can now see is icy blue in color, and his pinstriped suit, while also blue, is a much darker shade. His tie, you realize, is an icicle; obviously a fake one, since it isn’t melting. He removes his sunglasses, revealing a vibrant pair of blue eyes, and smiles wide like a salesman about to offer you the deal of a lifetime. “You rang?” is the first thing he says. You stare at him, confused. “Uh… you rang. I mean—you knocked.” “I did, didn’t I?” He chuckles. “I thought that’d be much more polite than simply showing up inside. You are a lady, after all.” Showing up inside? What the fuck? “I’m sorry, can I help you?” “A better question is, can I help you,” he responds, a sly look on his face. “Heard that song you were singing just now. Got a little Jack Frost on your mind?” Wait—he’d heard you singing? Has he been listening to you out here? You’re getting more weirded out by the second, so you cut to the chase. “Uh, who are you?” He gestures to himself. “Isn’t it obvious?” Briefly, you look him up and down. You don’t have a clue who he’s supposed to be. He has pointy ears—is he some kind of elf? Is this a costume? You shake your head. “...No?” “Really? But I just—” The man clicks his tongue, annoyed, and rolls his eyes. He mutters something under his breath, something that sounds like “Nobody ever gets it.” It isn’t long before he’s collecting himself, though, then he’s smoothing down the front of his suit and summoning another businessman smile. “Allow me to introduce myself, then,” he drawls. “I am the”—he poses confidently, like he’s about to take a bow—“Jack Frost.” You blink. “Jack Frost.” He beams. “The one and only.” You stare at him for three seconds longer. Then you promptly shut the door on him. “Wait—hey!” You redo the deadlock, turning away from the door and going back into the kitchen. What a fucking weirdo. You return to your hot chocolate, dipping in your spoon to give it another good stir. You take hold of the mug, about to lift it, when all of a sudden, you hear something behind you, like a quiet poof. A chill runs down your spine, like someone just traced it with an icy finger. You shiver a bit, despite the warm mug in your hands. What was that? “Excuse me,” someone says. “It is very rude to shut the door on someone like that.” You whip around, damn near dropping the mug. Standing on the other side of your island counter is the same man you’d just met—“Jack Frost.” He wears a disgruntled expression. He’s in your apartment. How—How did he— “What the fuck?” you utter, your eyes darting back and forth between him and your front door—which is still completely locked. “What the—How the hell did you get in here?” “It’s called magic, sweetheart. Perks of being a legendary figure.” He sniffs the air and his eyes brighten. “Oooh—is that hot chocolate? Can I have some?” “No.” A bit shakily, you set your mug back down. “No—you cannot have some. You’re not—not supposed to be—” “Not supposed to be here?” Idly, he pulls out one of your barstool chairs and takes a seat. “Well, I’m sure you’re not used to men materializing in front of you, but I’m no ordinary man, am I?” He grins, leaning forward on his elbows. “I’m Jack Frost.” What is happening to you right now? Are you hallucinating? “I’m crazy,” you say to yourself. “You are not real.” “Oh I assure you, I am very real,” he says slyly. “Need some solid proof?” Before you know what he’s doing, he’s picking up a pomegranate from your fruit bowl. You watch, speechless, as he blows icy air onto the fruit, his face turning blue as his cold breath completely engulfs the pomegranate in ice. Jack relaxes, complexion reverting to its natural pale shade, and he smiles at you, now holding an entirely frozen pomegranate. Real, actual magic. What. The. Fuck. You lean over the counter, staring at the crystalline fruit. You tap it—it’s frozen solid. “You just—froze that?” you ask in disbelief. He sets the pomegranate down and nods in the most self-satisfied way. “I can freeze a lot more than just that, doll,” he says. “But I don’t wanna show off.” You still can’t believe this is happening. “What are you?” “I told you,” he replies. “I’m Jack Frost.” “Who even is Jack Frost?” “Who is Jack Frost?” he repeats, agitated. “Someone worth knowing, thank you very much. I’m a legendary figure, just like the big fat guy that delivers presents every year. Except everybody only ever knows his name, not mine. Does anyone ever bother learning about me? No! All I get is a couple of folk tales and one stupid line in one stupid song.” It all feels insane, but remarkably, it’s starting to make sense. “You’re saying you’re—what, like Santa? Like a winter spirit, or something?” “Better than Santa,” Jack insists. “I don’t hide out in the North Pole all year, slaving away making toys for snotty kids. I actually enjoy being out in the world, having fun, unlike some holier-than-thou beings.” “There are other beings like you?” you ask. “And Santa?” “Oh, sure,” he says casually. “Father Time, Sandman, whatever, you name it—but they’re all hopeless sticks-in-the-mud. Boring old farts that never get out. I, on the other hand, know how to live a little.” Father Time? Sandman? Your head is spinning. You can barely handle the concept of Santa actually being real, let alone all those other figures. Best to take things one at a time. “So, uh… what do you do?” you decide to ask. “I mean, obviously Santa makes toys…” “Me? Sweetheart, I do whatever I want,” he answers, like there’s nothing simpler. “Cause some snow days here and there, make a little mischief. Punish a few brats, every now and again. I’m a free man—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He sighs. “But… I won’t lie. It’s not always fun and games, this life I live. It’s a lonely existence, sometimes. Especially when… no one really knows who you are.” You hadn’t really thought about it like that—but now that you are thinking about it, you guess you understand. You’d never really thought about the name “Jack Frost” outside of the one Christmas song and a couple of movie depictions. You knew the character existed, sure, but you’d never truly seen him as an icon on par with Santa. You’d certainly never believed he was real, nor known he would look like this. But you suppose that’s his point. “I’ll admit, it’s hard not to be envious of the big guy in red,” Jack continues. “I mean, he’s got it all—the products, the movies, the adoring fans! Why can’t I have something like that, huh? I work hard too! All year round!” He gestures dramatically, then shrugs, shaking his head. “It’s not fair, really. Why does he get all the love and attention, and I get zilch?” You can think of several reasons—the biggest one being that Santa probably actually cares about kids, and Jack clearly sounds like he hates them. Not that you blame him, necessarily. You’re about to comment on the matter, but evidently, Jack isn’t finished talking. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking,” he says, sitting upright in his chair. “Why shouldn’t I get that same love and attention? All I need is to make a real impression. Really show the people what I’m capable of. Show ‘em I can do everything Saint Nick can do, and do it better. Right?” He chuckles. “I can do that—no problem! In fact, there’s this little thing I plan to get going very soon. I’m calling it: Frostmas.” “Frostmas?” “The new and improved Christmas!” he says confidently. “Courtesy of yours truly. Got big plans for that one. I can handle most of the work myself—the snowstorms, the marketing—but! Naturally, I’m gonna need some extra help.” He leans forward, eyeing you with interest. “Y’see—what is Santa without his helpers?” he drawls. “His loyal servants that do his bidding, day in and day out. His elves.” He smiles. “I’m gonna need a lot of ‘em, but I’ve gotta start somewhere. So… how would you like to be my elf, sweetheart?” It’s such a bewildering question, it takes you a second to process. “Your… elf.” “Precisely,” he says. “You seem like a smart girl. Good head on your shoulders. How’d you like to work for a real legendary figure? A better Santa?” You can’t help it. You laugh. What? What on Earth is he talking about? “I’m not an elf,” you say plainly. “It’s a figure of speech,” he responds, waving his hand. “What I mean is, I need some kind of helper. Someone who’s loyal to me—someone I can count on. You’d have benefits, of course—” “What kind of benefits?” you ask skeptically. He hesitates, clearly put on the spot. “Well—Well, benefits, you know. Good ones,” he rushes out. “We can always discuss the details later. B-But the important thing, here, you see, is that you’d be working for the most powerful being in the world. That is the biggest benefit of all, am I right?” He laughs. He clears his throat and leans in, looking you right in the eye. His eyes are some of the bluest you’ve ever seen. “So,” he says, grinning, “what do you say?” You hold his gaze for several heartbeats, keeping him in anticipation. He doesn’t know it, but you don’t actually need to think about this. Smiling wryly, you simply say, “No.” Jack blinks. “Come again?” “Sorry, no,” you say, crossing your arms. “That is a… really interesting offer, to say the least, but I have no intention of being your ‘elf,’ or whatever it is you want.” His grin turns to a frown. He wrinkles his nose, perplexed. “Why not?” You snort. “Well, for one, I already have a job. It pays the bills. I’ve got a life, and trust me, it is weird enough. Also, you are like, the least trustworthy person I’ve ever met.” “Least trustwo—” He sputters, slapping a hand over his heart. “Untrustworthy? Moi? You wound me, sugarplum. I have been nothing but honest with you since I got here!” “You mean since you let yourself into my apartment?” “Oh, come on. You haven’t exactly kicked me out, have you? You must like me a little.” You give him a “Really?” look. “I’m not so sure yet.” “Well, then, what do I have to do to convince you?” he asks, rising from his seat. He steps around the counter towards you. “Honestly, doll, what’ll it take to get you to be my elf? I’m a man of many talents, as you’ve seen. I can freeze whatever—or whomever you want! Freeze your neighbor’s godawful little dog, or that annoying coworker you just wanna get rid of! You’ve gotta have one, right?” Admittedly, the image of bitchy BethAnn as an ice statue is a pretty thrilling thought, but you’re not that spiteful. “Sorry,” you say, shrugging. “I just don’t trust you.” Jack sucks his teeth. He’s irritated, but he hasn’t given up yet. “Then how can I make you trust me?” he implores, taking a step closer to you. “There must be something I can do. Some wish I can grant, perhaps?” You’re not sure you have any wishes—at least, no wishes he can grant. If it was Santa making you the offer, you’d probably ask for a new car, or maybe half a million bucks; you’re pretty sure he could make that work, but you doubt Jack has the same “gifting” capabilities. There’s really nothing he can do for you. Nothing that would convince you to willingly become his servant, anyway. Although… You study him curiously—his height, his outfit, the general look of him. He appears entirely human, apart from the pointy ears and uniquely freeze-dried hair. He’s probably hundreds—if not thousands—of years old, and he looks much older than you, but in a finely-aged silver fox sort of way. He’s not that tall, but he’s got a handsome face and a cute nose, and dimples in his cheeks. He reminds you a little of one of your old college professors—one you used to watch dreamily during lectures and giggle about with your friends after class. Okay, Jack is… actually pretty attractive. Unconventional-looking, for sure, but you’re kinda into that. You don’t tell many people, but you’ve always had a thing for older men. Is all of him human, you wonder? Jack chuckles, and it breaks you out of your trance. You blink, and find him smiling at you. But it’s a different kind of smile than his usual one; it seems to go beyond just smug. He looks like he knows something you don’t, something juicy, and that expression gives you a strange sort of chill. Why is he smiling like that? “See something you like?” he asks, smirking. You flush, realizing you must’ve been staring at him. You consider playing it off, trying to change the subject, but he’s already caught on. “Ah, I get it now,” he says knowingly. “You’re looking for something a little more… physical. I can work with that.” He grins. “So you like your men cold-blooded, hm?” “Okay—hold on a second,” you say, laughing nervously. “I didn’t say anything about that.” “Oh, but you’re thinking it, aren’t you?” he purrs. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re curious about me. I like a little curiosity.” He steps closer. “Perhaps I should satisfy yours.” Your heart rate picks up speed, and you take a few steps back. “Whoa, pump the brakes,” you say, holding out your hand to stop him. “What are you suggesting here?” “An arrangement, of course,” he replies. “We have a little roll in the snow, so to speak, and you become my elf.” You roll your eyes. “I don’t wanna be your elf.” “Then how about something else?” he suggests. “Every Santa needs his Mrs. Claus. His invaluable other half.” “You’re asking me to be your wife?” you ask, bewildered. “My partner,” he clarifies. “My equal. My confidant. Far more important than any old elf. You’d be my number one in everything. You’d have your own share of what’s mine.” You’re still so puzzled by this. “But—why me? You barely know me.” “Oh, I plan to get to know you,” Jack responds with a smirk. “We can get to know each other all you want.” He steps towards you again, but this time, you let him come to you. Once he’s right in front of you, your hands come up instinctively to stop him—only to splay across his chest. He’s… warmer than you expected. His coat is pretty cold, a little dry, but you can feel something warmer underneath. His… heart? Does he have a heart? You can’t feel anything beating. You definitely have a heart, and it’s currently pounding inside your ribcage. He’s so close to you now, and he smells like pine and frost. Fitting. “What do you say?” he asks, his voice low. “Want to get familiar with Jack Frost?” You’re trying to think, but despite your best efforts, most of your blood has found a home between your legs and is no longer supplying your brain. When was the last time you’d gotten laid? Way too long ago. There’s a man right in front of you, and he wants you, and he smells good, and you know it’s probably a bad idea to trust him but you’re not so sure you can help yourself. “Do you, um…” Flustered, you avoid looking at him directly. “Do you have, um… you know…” You glance downward, hoping he’ll catch your drift. Jack understands. Chuckling, he asks, “Want to find out?” He takes your hand and guides it down his body, bringing you to his crotch. Through his pants, you feel a telltale shape—one that’s unmistakably there, and hard, and definitely not cold. You release a soft breath. “It’s, uh… warm.” He smiles. “Not all of me is cold.” Your heart does a flip. He brings your hand up to his mouth, running it over his lips. “So,” he coos, his icy breath tickling the back of your hand, “do we have a deal?” You’re stupid. You really are. You’ve only just met the guy, and you’ve barely thought this through, but right now, you’re willing to agree to anything if it means you get to sleep with him. This is a truly once in a lifetime opportunity, and you’d be damned if you passed it up. You have the whole apartment to yourself all night, anyway. Fuck it. “Okay—Okay, deal,” you utter. “Can we—Can we talk details later?” His eyes gleam, and he laughs low. “Works for me.” He lets go of your hand and leans in, bringing a palm to your jaw. Then suddenly, he’s kissing you. The moment your lips meet his, you feel a shock of cold, like you just kissed a frozen pole. His kiss is fresh, almost sharp like mint, making your lips tingle in a shockingly pleasant way. The kiss is only chaste for a few seconds; Jack is eager, sucking and nipping at you, and it isn’t long before his tongue is demanding entry. Without thinking, you welcome it into your mouth, a soft moan escaping you at the cold slickness of it. He hums, pleased by the sound, and grips your jaw as he kisses you harder. You kiss him back, your own eagerness growing by the second. Your hands slide up his neck, finding the back of his head, and you card your fingers through brittle, icy hair. It’s cold, and it’s definitely not soft, but you don’t care. He grunts, and you lick into his mouth, tasting peppermint. His hands leave your jaw, wandering down your back, gripping your waist, and when he bites down on your lower lip, you whimper. He makes a hungry sound, releasing your lip with a delighted laugh. “Oh, you’re so cute,” he breathes, squeezing your ass. “Such cute little noises. Got any more for me?” He slips one hand between your legs, rubbing you lightly through your pajama shorts, and a moan tumbles out of you. He chuckles. “Oooh, that’s a good one.” You lean into him, letting him slide his hand under the waistband of your shorts. He easily finds your panties, testing the wet fabric with two fingers. “What’s this?” he asks playfully. “Naughty girl. All riled up by a little kissing?” You make a soft, pleading sound, tugging on the front of his coat. He laughs. “You want it?” Jack purrs. “You want me to touch you?” Yes, God yes, you want him to touch you. “Please.” “Please, what?” “Please touch me,” you murmur, “Jack.” He grins. “Attagirl. That’s how you use your words.” He takes you by the hip, pressing you up against the counter, then he slips a finger under your panties. The finger is cold when it enters you and you let out a mewl, your walls clamping down around it. Jack shivers. “So warm, sweetheart,” he says under his breath. “God, that’s warm…” He wastes no time pumping his finger, stroking your insides in earnest. Every curl, every push and pull drives you wild, the numbing cold of his finger tickling and teasing you in ways you’d never thought possible. The cold is a stark contrast to the heat of your core, and its presence makes you feel like he’s weaving his frost within you, cooling and caressing the deepest, most sensitive parts of you. It has you arching your back against the counter, mindlessly thrusting your hips in time with his hand. Jack watches you, fascinated. “That’s a good girl,” he coos. “All warm and wet for me. Does it feel good?” You nod drunkenly. “Mmm—Mhmm.” He hums. “I wonder… how much more you can take.” Deftly, he slides in a second finger, pulling a pathetic cry from your lips. You grab onto his coat collar. You’re trying not to be so loud—it’s getting late, and you have neighbors—but the more he touches you, the harder it is to hold back. “You’re just a kitten, aren’t you?” he teases. “All those sweet little cries. What other sounds can you make?” You whine, gripping his coat as he keeps stretching you with his fingers. It feels so good—you just need him to touch your clit. “Please,” you choke out. “Can you… please…” He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Hm?” “Can you—” You gasp as he hits a sweet spot. “Touch me—please—” “Touch you?” He purses his lip, thinking. He brushes his thumb over your clit, but only for a second. “Here?” You moan and buck your hips, needing his thumb to come back. “Yes. Please.” “Hmm…” He toys with your clit, flicking it here and there but never quite rubbing it the way you need him to. “Why? You want to cum?” You nod hard. “Please.” Jack tilts his head curiously. “Do you now?” This time, he brings his thumb to your clit and keeps it there, and the way he rubs at it has your eyes rolling back. You hold onto his coat for dear life, mewling at the onslaught of sensations, and he laughs, leaning in closer. “Do you need it?” he says into your ear. You shudder, gripped with pleasure. “I need it.” “Do you need me?” “Yes.” There’s a low, pleased sound in his throat. “Say it.” “I need you, Jack. Please.” “Ohh, so polite,” he croons. “You’re on my nice list for sure.” “Please,” you beg. You’re so close, so fucking close. Jack eyes you ravenously, drinking in the sight of you. It’s like he’s feeding off of your desperation, your desire—and it’s turning you on. He grins, concentrating, and you throw your head back, your pleasure climbing and climbing within you, hurtling towards its peak— Then, without warning, he rips his fingers from you, pulling his hand right out of your shorts. You wail at the sudden loss and gape at him, ready to fucking slap him for tearing your orgasm away from you, but then he sticks his two fingers—the ones that were just inside you—into his mouth and sucks them clean. He moans as he takes them out of his mouth, and your pussy throbs. He meets your eyes. Without saying anything, he practically lunges for you, and he’s kissing you again. He’d been eager before, but now he’s almost aggressive. Jack kisses you fiercely, desperately, nipping with sharp teeth and licking into your mouth like he needs to taste every inch of you. You kiss him back with just as much fervor, clawing at his coat and grinding against the thigh he’s slotted between your legs. He cages you in, cupping the back of your head as the two of you eat at each other. You’re still worked up over your lost orgasm, and you take out your frustration on him, biting down on his lower lip and tugging just like he did to you earlier. In response, he growls, and suddenly, you’re being hoisted up off the floor, legs wrapped around his waist. You can’t stop kissing him. You don’t want to stop kissing him, even though you’re quickly running out of air and you’re half-convinced he’s intentionally sucking it out of your lungs. All of a sudden, Jack breaks the kiss with the wettest, filthiest pop. The two of you stare at each other, panting, and you realize how flushed he looks, his normally pale cheeks stunningly rosy. “Where are we doing this?” he breathes. Oh shit. We’re really doing this. “U-Uh, bedroom,” you stutter, pointing past him. “Down the hall.” “Mm. Too far,” he mutters. Shifting you into a bridal position, he carries you into the living room just beyond the kitchen, promptly tossing you onto the couch. You hit the cushions with an oof, watching as Jack hurriedly shucks off his coat. He’s wearing a blue pinstriped vest that matches his coat, and your eyes linger on his hands as he starts to unbutton it. He’s got nice hands. Really nice hands. Remembering you should be taking your clothes off, not gawking at him, you rush to remove your shirt, lifting it up over your head and throwing it to the floor. You reach for your shorts, but before you can wriggle out of them, Jack is suddenly on top of you, grinning. You look up at him, heart racing. He’s now missing his vest and icicle-tie, but is otherwise still mostly clothed. “Ah, ah, ah,” he chides, taking you by the hips. “You’re my present, and I get to do the unwrapping.” You’re speechless as he greedily pulls down your shorts—and panties along with them. Once he’s thrown them over his shoulder, as carelessly as a child throwing away Christmas wrapping, he kneels back and spreads your legs, gazing at your exposed pussy like he’s just discovered the Holy Grail. He brings his head down, his cold breath wafting over your wet core, and the sensation makes you gasp and shiver at once. He looks up at you, smiling between your legs. “So sensitive,” he says playfully. “I hope you don’t mind, sweetheart, but I plan on having more than just one little taste of you.” His tongue comes out, licking an icy stripe up your opening, and you immediately forgive him for denying you your orgasm earlier. The second he breathes into you, he’s already reduced you to a mess. You whine as cold air chills your soaked entrance, making your inner walls tingle and contract like nothing you’ve ever felt. The frostiness stings for just a heartbeat, then his shockingly warm tongue is there to soothe your flesh, chasing the cold away. Jack licks and sucks at you like you’re candy, like he’s never tasted anything so sweet, and he won’t stop until he’s had his fill. God, you don’t want him to stop. Ever. “Jack,” you whimper, writhing against his mouth. “Jack, Jack—” He hums into you, pressing down on your hip to keep you still. He lavishes the outside of you, dragging his tongue up and down your opening, then he finally, wickedly slips it all the way in, parting your walls with ease. All you can do is cry out. “Jack,” you wail, gripping the cushion beneath you. “Fuck, Jack, please—” Jack groans as he tastes you, feasting on the nectar you’re spilling for him. One hand still holding your hip, he grips your thigh with the other, curling his tongue within you like there’s something deep inside he’s trying to reach—something perfect, something delicious. At the same time, his nose bumps against your clit, giving you that pressure you’d been desperate for. His breath is cold, and yet his mouth is warm—and it feels fucking amazing. It’s all too much and yet not enough. “Jack,” you plead, struggling against him. You want to grind on his face. You want more. “Fuck, fuck, please—” His low moan sends a chill through your body, and you moan with him as his nose continues to rub your clit, rapidly guiding you back to the heights of your pleasure. It’s only been a few minutes, but all that buildup and you’re close again. Devastatingly close. “Please,” you beg. “Make me cum. Jack. Please, make me cum…” He hears you. He knows what you need. And this time, he’s going to give it to you. You grab him by the hair, making him grunt as you hold him firmly against your pussy. You’re not letting him go anywhere. You’re not letting him deny you a second time. “Jack. I need you. I need you, please—” He knows you’re close; he has to. He’s devouring you like a man starved, and you let him. You surrender to him willingly, eagerly. You’re going to cum. Your voice is pitching higher and higher, your words coming out in short, harsh breaths. “Jack, Jack, please, please, I’m gonna—” So close. So close. So close! “Fuck, fuck, I’m—I’m—” You come undone. It’s the most intense orgasm you’ve had in forever. You shatter for him, wailing up at the ceiling as your body seizes and pleasure cascades through you in tidal waves, making you arch and shudder. Jack doesn’t let go of you, holding you down as you cum and drinking you in like your essence alone—your warm, liquid pleasure—can keep him alive. It’s only when you’ve stopped trembling, when you’ve finally released your hold on his hair, that you feel him starting to draw back from you. Your head falls back, and you try to catch your breath. Your heart is beating hard inside your chest, and your drenched pussy is throbbing just as hard. You still can’t believe that just happened. You’re going to need days—no, weeks—to process the fact that a legitimate winter spirit just went down on you and gave you the best orgasm of your life. When you look up, though, and find Jack kneeling above you, wrenching his cock out of his open pants, you realize you won’t even have a few minutes to process anything. He grasps himself with one hand, stroking the shaft of a painfully hard cock that’s just as flushed as his face. It’s not the biggest you’ve ever seen, but it looks like it’ll fit perfectly, and in the state you’re in, the mere sight of it is enough to make your jaw drop. He pants and gazes down at you, lips still shimmering with what can only be your juices, and your heart skips a beat. He laughs breathlessly and inches forward, keeping your legs spread as he lines himself up with you. “Alright, sweetheart,” he says, in a low voice that makes you clench around nothing. He drapes himself over you, hands on either side of your head. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” Then he pushes in. You’re already so stretched open, so goddamn soaked, that barely any resistance meets him as he enters you. His cock is colder than most—enough to catch you by surprise—but it’s alive and pulsing, and the heat of your walls has it warming up in seconds. You whine out and throw your head back as he pushes, pushes, pushes, thrusting deeper and deeper like he has to get inside you as fucking quickly as possible. You wrap your leg around him, your body instinctively trying to draw him in. Before you know it, he’s all the way inside, and the two of you moan loudly together as he bottoms out. Fuck. You were right. He does fit perfectly. Jack gasps, shuddering as he adjusts to the feeling of you. “O-Oh, you—you little angel,” he mutters, hissing like the heat of your cunt could melt him. “You’re s-so—so warm. So—goddamn—warm.” He starts to thrust—little by little, harder and harder. You whimper and grip his shoulders as he fucks into you, his pace picking up faster than expected. Panting, he moves one hand to support himself on the arm of the couch, and when you tighten around him, he lets out what sounds like a whimper of his own. He looks down at you, a feverish look in his blue eyes, and something tells you he’s already addicted to the way you feel. It thrills you. He sighs. “It’s been so long,” he says breathlessly. “So long since I’ve had someone as warm and perfect as you…” A part of you is a little irritated he’s bringing up past partners, but the rest of you is too cockdrunk, too pleased by his praise to care. You feel perfect to him. You’re the one he’s inside of right now. You’re the one currently getting screwed into the couch. Not a bad way to spend a Friday night. He hums, smiling down at you admiringly. “What a pretty thing you are,” he coos. “My lovely girl, all mine…” You moan softly, tugging on his shirt. “Yes,” he breathes. “We’re going to have… so much fun together…” Jack leans down just as you’re tilting your chin up, and then the two of you are kissing again, as madly and hungrily as before. Your hands fly to his head, raking your fingers through his hair, and he moans into your mouth. Absentmindedly, you feel the shapes of his pointy ears, and, unable to resist temptation, you break the kiss to bring your lips to his earlobe. You latch on with your mouth and suck, earning a throaty sound of surprise from him. He half-moans, half-laughs as you suck and tug on his ear. “Two can play at that,” he says, gently fisting your hair and pulling you off of him. You unlatch your mouth with a squeak and fall back, and Jack is quick to take advantage of your exposed neck. He trails cold bites and kisses up your throat, each one making you shiver, then he nips at your jaw and ear. He breaks away and drags his tongue up the side of your neck, and all you can do is squirm and tighten hard around his still-pounding cock. He doesn’t seem to be getting tired at all. You wonder if he ever will. “Had enough of me yet?” he murmurs into your ear. “No,” you murmur back. “Oh?” he purrs. “You want more?” “Mmmh—Mhmm.” “What was that?” “Mm—Yes.” “Yes, what…?” God, you can barely think anymore and he knows it, the smug bastard. He’s toying with you, and you fucking love it. But that doesn’t mean you’ll give him what he wants. “Fuck me,” you tell him. “What’s that?” he says, lifting his head to study your face. “Making demands, are you?” You pull on his shirt collar. “Fuck. Me.” “Ohohoho, that’s not very polite,” he says sternly. “Nice girls say please.” You smile impishly. “I’m not a nice girl.” Jack tilts his head, slowing his pace, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve actually pissed him off. But the gleam in his eyes tells you that all you’ve done is excite him. “That’s right,” he says slyly. “My mistake. You're really on the naughty list, aren't you?” All of a sudden, he’s fucking into you harder and faster than ever, yanking a startled moan from your throat. Keeping himself upright, he sets a new, punishing pace that has you damn near screaming. You hook both legs around him and grab onto his shoulders, desperate to keep yourself tethered to the mortal plane. You can hardly keep your eyes open, but Jack’s haven’t left your face. He chuckles low. “Is this what you wanted?” he asks. “Naughty girl?” The only thing that comes out of you is a shrill, breathy whine. With the tone he just used, he might as well have called you a dirty little slut. Somehow, this feels even more erotic. Fuck. You’re so swollen, your aching walls strangling him more and more with each second. You love this, you don’t want this to be over, but you don’t know how much more you can take. Jack isn’t human; he could probably fuck you like this for days on end, never tiring. If only you could handle that. This won’t be the last time you’ll have him like this. Right now, you need to find out what he can really do. “Jack—” You gasp, fighting to speak while he’s slamming into you. “Need you—to cum—” “What’s that, kitten?” he teases, slowing down just enough to frustrate you. “I’m having a little trouble understanding you…” You growl, yanking on his shirt insistently. “Cum in me, just fucking cum in me—” His eyes widen, but he doesn’t lose his composure. “Oh? Is that what you want?” He laughs in between pants. “You want me to fill you up?” “Fuck—Yes.” “You want Jack Frost to give you his baby?” “Yes,” you moan out, not even thinking about what you’re saying. Fuck, right now nothing sounds better than that. Having him slam into you, fill you to the brim and get you— Wait. Wait. For a split second, your sanity returns to you, and you quickly ask, “Wait, are you even able to—” “Oh, I can if you want to,” Jack answers breezily. “Just a little magic mojo and—” “Can I just have the”—you struggle to get the words out—“regular version? No baby?” He sighs dramatically. “Oh, alright. Just tell me if you change your mind…” You’re so beyond fucked out, the next minute or so is a blur. Jack uses you like his personal toy, making you see stars, and everything feels hazy. It’s getting colder in the room, and you can’t tell if it’s your imagination or not. You don’t know where you end and he begins; all you know is you feel so fucking good. He’s close. You can feel it in the way his cock twitches, the way he breathes harshly into your neck. His hips stutter and his hands grasp the couch cushions. You need him to cum. You need it more than anything. “Jack,” you utter, running your nails up his neck. “Cum for me.” He groans into your ear, his movements faltering. “Cum for me. Please cum for me.” He makes a beautiful pained sound, and you know he’s right there. The room is even colder now, frosty air raising gooseflesh all over your naked body. You gasp as he grits his teeth and suddenly thrusts hard, forcing himself as deep inside you as he can go. Moaning, Jack spills into you, filling you with something wet and thick and blissfully cool. You’ve never felt anything like it before, and you moan with him as you take every drop of it, holding him close while he pumps you full. He jerks and shudders, then finally goes still, nestling his face between your neck and shoulder. You shiver, closing your eyes. When you reopen them several seconds later, you can hardly believe what you see. It’s snowing in your living room. Tiny, delicate snowflakes are falling seemingly from nowhere, drifting down onto you and Jack. One lands on your nose like a cold little kiss, then quickly melts. Another lands on your arm. There’s only one explanation for this—and that happens to be the man lying on top of you. The man in question lifts his head after a long moment, blinking sleepily. It takes him a second, but he notices the snowflakes and chuckles. “Ah,” he murmurs. “Sorry about that. Snow—it has a mind of its own, you know.” He props himself up and smiles at you, a remarkably soft look in his eyes. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, admiring you. “Well, that, my dear,” he says pleasantly, “was sensational.” He hums a couple sing-songy notes. “Let’s get fixed up, shall we? Get warmed up with, let’s say… some hot chocolate?”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610781	{"authors": ["hummingbirdwitch"], "language": "English", "title": "Cold-Blooded"}
The Shape of My Greed The apartment door clicked shut behind Seongje with the softest exhale of sound, the deadbolt sliding home like a whispered secret. 1:27 a.m., the digital clock on the microwave told him in cold green light. He toed off his shoes at the door, lining them up with military precision so they wouldn’t clatter, then padded barefoot down the hallway, every footfall muffled against the worn hardwood. The air smelled faintly of the jjigae Beomseok had made earlier; garlic, anchovy stock, a trace of perilla leaves, now cooled now into something comforting and domestic. He’d been pulling night shifts for three weeks straight, ever since Dongha came down with that brutal flu. Seongje hated it; the bed always felt too big without him, and Beomseok hated sleeping alone even more, though he’d never say it out loud. Pride or stubbornness, maybe both. In the bathroom he stripped fast, shirt and jeans dropped into the hamper without ceremony. The mirror showed him hollow-eyed, stubble shadowing his jaw, but he barely glanced at his reflection. He brushed his teeth, splashed icy water on his face, then let the towel fall. No underwear tonight; he knew how warm Beomseok ran, how the younger man turned their bed into a furnace. Just loose gray sweatpants, the drawstring left untied, fabric hanging low on his hips as he killed the light. The bedroom door was already ajar. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the half-closed blinds, painting silver bars across the duvet. Beomseok lay on his side facing the center of the bed, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched out as if he’d fallen asleep waiting for someone to fill the empty space. His breathing was slow, deep, almost soundless. Lips slightly parted, lashes fanned dark against his cheeks. He looked younger like this, softer, every sharp edge smoothed away by sleep. Seongje’s pulse gave a single hard thud behind his ribs. He’d always thought the word pliant was made for moments like this: the way Beomseok’s body curved unconsciously toward the dip in the mattress Seongje usually occupied, the way his thighs had fallen open just enough under the thin sheet. Vulnerable. Trusting. Beautiful in a way that made Seongje’s mouth go dry. Was it wrong, wanting him like this? Maybe. But Seongje had never pretended to be good. And Beomseok, God— Beomseok had looked him in the eye months ago, voice steady, cheeks pink, and said he wanted to be taken apart when he couldn’t fight back. Wanted to wake up already ruined, already claimed. The memory lived under Seongje’s skin like a low, constant hum. They hadn’t had time to indulge it lately. Life had been hospital shifts and missed dinners and falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch. But consent once given didn’t expire, not between them. Not when trust was this absolute. Seongje eased the door shut until the latch barely whispered. Then he lifted the edge of the duvet and slid in behind Beomseok, careful, so careful. The mattress dipped; Beomseok made a small sound in his throat but didn’t wake. He was a heavy sleeper, another small mercy. Seongje slipped one arm beneath the pillow and neck both, cradling Beomseok’s head, drawing him back until the younger man’s spine met his chest. Heat bloomed instantly where their skin touched; Beomseok’s worn t-shirt soft, his body fever-warm even through cotton. Seongje pressed closer, closer, until there was no space left between them. The ridge of his half-hard cock settled against the plush give of Beomseok’s upper thigh, sweatpants doing nothing to hide how quickly he was filling out. Beomseok sighed in his sleep, a slow exhale that ghosted across Seongje’s forearm. His leg shifted, instinctive, making room, and Seongje bit back a groan at the perfect slide of fabric against fabric, skin against skin where the sheet had ridden low. He stayed very still, breathing through his mouth, letting the hunger settle into something patient and molten. Moonlight caught on the fine hairs at Beomseok’s nape; Seongje watched them glow silver and thought, Mine. Not in the ugly way people assumed. Mine to protect. Mine to ruin. Mine to put back together every single morning. Beomseok’s pulse beat slow and steady beneath Seongje’s palm where it rested over his heart. Seongje’s heart answered, faster, possessive, helplessly in love. He pressed his lips to the warm skin just below Beomseok’s ear; no kiss yet, just the promise of one, and waited to see if sleep would hold. The first roll of Seongje’s hips was barely movement at all; just a slow, deliberate drag of cotton over skin, the head of his cock catching on the seam of his sweatpants and then sliding along the warm, smooth plane of Beomseok’s thigh. The friction was perfect, maddening. He swallowed the sound that wanted to crawl out of his throat and did it again, deeper this time, letting his length settle heavy and hot between Beomseok’s legs. Beomseok’s breath stuttered. Seongje froze, nose buried in the soft hair	The Shape of My Greed The apartment door clicked shut behind Seongje with the softest exhale of sound, the deadbolt sliding home like a whispered secret. 1:27 a.m., the digital clock on the microwave told him in cold green light. He toed off his shoes at the door, lining them up with military precision so they wouldn’t clatter, then padded barefoot down the hallway, every footfall muffled against the worn hardwood. The air smelled faintly of the jjigae Beomseok had made earlier; garlic, anchovy stock, a trace of perilla leaves, now cooled now into something comforting and domestic. He’d been pulling night shifts for three weeks straight, ever since Dongha came down with that brutal flu. Seongje hated it; the bed always felt too big without him, and Beomseok hated sleeping alone even more, though he’d never say it out loud. Pride or stubbornness, maybe both. In the bathroom he stripped fast, shirt and jeans dropped into the hamper without ceremony. The mirror showed him hollow-eyed, stubble shadowing his jaw, but he barely glanced at his reflection. He brushed his teeth, splashed icy water on his face, then let the towel fall. No underwear tonight; he knew how warm Beomseok ran, how the younger man turned their bed into a furnace. Just loose gray sweatpants, the drawstring left untied, fabric hanging low on his hips as he killed the light. The bedroom door was already ajar. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the half-closed blinds, painting silver bars across the duvet. Beomseok lay on his side facing the center of the bed, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other stretched out as if he’d fallen asleep waiting for someone to fill the empty space. His breathing was slow, deep, almost soundless. Lips slightly parted, lashes fanned dark against his cheeks. He looked younger like this, softer, every sharp edge smoothed away by sleep. Seongje’s pulse gave a single hard thud behind his ribs. He’d always thought the word pliant was made for moments like this: the way Beomseok’s body curved unconsciously toward the dip in the mattress Seongje usually occupied, the way his thighs had fallen open just enough under the thin sheet. Vulnerable. Trusting. Beautiful in a way that made Seongje’s mouth go dry. Was it wrong, wanting him like this? Maybe. But Seongje had never pretended to be good. And Beomseok, God— Beomseok had looked him in the eye months ago, voice steady, cheeks pink, and said he wanted to be taken apart when he couldn’t fight back. Wanted to wake up already ruined, already claimed. The memory lived under Seongje’s skin like a low, constant hum. They hadn’t had time to indulge it lately. Life had been hospital shifts and missed dinners and falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch. But consent once given didn’t expire, not between them. Not when trust was this absolute. Seongje eased the door shut until the latch barely whispered. Then he lifted the edge of the duvet and slid in behind Beomseok, careful, so careful. The mattress dipped; Beomseok made a small sound in his throat but didn’t wake. He was a heavy sleeper, another small mercy. Seongje slipped one arm beneath the pillow and neck both, cradling Beomseok’s head, drawing him back until the younger man’s spine met his chest. Heat bloomed instantly where their skin touched; Beomseok’s worn t-shirt soft, his body fever-warm even through cotton. Seongje pressed closer, closer, until there was no space left between them. The ridge of his half-hard cock settled against the plush give of Beomseok’s upper thigh, sweatpants doing nothing to hide how quickly he was filling out. Beomseok sighed in his sleep, a slow exhale that ghosted across Seongje’s forearm. His leg shifted, instinctive, making room, and Seongje bit back a groan at the perfect slide of fabric against fabric, skin against skin where the sheet had ridden low. He stayed very still, breathing through his mouth, letting the hunger settle into something patient and molten. Moonlight caught on the fine hairs at Beomseok’s nape; Seongje watched them glow silver and thought, Mine. Not in the ugly way people assumed. Mine to protect. Mine to ruin. Mine to put back together every single morning. Beomseok’s pulse beat slow and steady beneath Seongje’s palm where it rested over his heart. Seongje’s heart answered, faster, possessive, helplessly in love. He pressed his lips to the warm skin just below Beomseok’s ear; no kiss yet, just the promise of one, and waited to see if sleep would hold. The first roll of Seongje’s hips was barely movement at all; just a slow, deliberate drag of cotton over skin, the head of his cock catching on the seam of his sweatpants and then sliding along the warm, smooth plane of Beomseok’s thigh. The friction was perfect, maddening. He swallowed the sound that wanted to crawl out of his throat and did it again, deeper this time, letting his length settle heavy and hot between Beomseok’s legs. Beomseok’s breath stuttered. Seongje froze, nose buried in the soft hair at his nape, every muscle locked. One heartbeat. Two. Beomseok shifted, a sleepy, confused little sound vibrating in his chest, thigh muscles flexing once as if chasing the pressure that had vanished. His lashes fluttered against the pillow, but his eyes stayed closed. After an endless second, the rhythm of his breathing smoothed out again, deep and trusting. Seongje exhaled shakily and started over. Slow, filthy grinds now; hips rolling in tiny, greedy circles, sweatpants growing damp where precome soaked through. Each forward push nudged the sheet lower, baring more of Beomseok’s hip, the waistband of his own boxers peeking out. Seongje’s hand slid from Beomseok’s chest down to his stomach, palm spread wide, anchoring him while he fucked against that perfect thigh like it was the only thing keeping him sane. Beomseok made another small noise, higher this time, and his leg twitched, drawing up an inch, opening himself without knowing it. The new angle was devastating. Seongje’s cock slipped higher, sliding along the crease where the thigh met his groin, the heat there dizzying. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, hips snapping once, involuntary and too hard. Beomseok’s brows drew together. His head turned restlessly on the pillow, lips parting on a soft, confused “mmh?” Seongje stopped instantly, sweat cooling on his back. He pressed his forehead between Beomseok’s shoulder blades and counted breaths like a prayer. One, two, three. Beomseok’s body relaxed again, sinking heavier into the mattress, leg falling open once more as though offering itself up. Seongje nearly laughed, ragged and silent. Greedy boy, even asleep. He waited another beat, then started again; faster now, shameless. The bed creaked once, a tiny betrayed sound, and he adjusted, rolling his hips in long, liquid thrusts instead of sharp ones. His free hand slipped under the hem of Beomseok’s shirt, tracing the faint ridges of abs, the dip of his navel, feeling goosebumps rise in the wake of his fingers. Beomseok’s breathing hitched again, staying uneven this time. A soft whine escaped him, dreamy and helpless, hips giving the tiniest roll back, as if his sleeping body already knew what it wanted. Seongje’s control frayed like old rope. He pressed his open mouth to the nape of Beomseok’s neck, tasting salt and sleep-warm skin, and rutted harder, chasing the edge but never quite letting himself tip over. Not yet. He wanted to feel Beomseok wake up on his cock, wanted those hazy, shocked eyes to blink open and realize he was already being used, already dripping, already claimed. Another whimper, louder. Beomseok’s fingers flexed against the sheets. Seongje slowed to an agonizing drag, sweatpants soaked through now, the slide obscene and wet. He could feel his pulse in his throat, in his balls, everywhere. “Shh,” he breathed, soundless against Beomseok’s skin, more for himself than anything. “I’ve got you. Go back to sleep, baby.” Beomseok’s leg hitched higher, instinctive, and Seongje nearly came from that alone. Seongje’s rhythm fractured into something desperate, shallow thrusts, the slick drag of wet cotton over the head of his cock almost too much. Every time Beomseok exhaled, warm and slow, the small shift of his thigh pressed harder against Seongje’s length, milking another helpless pulse of pre-come into the ruined fabric. He couldn’t stop the slide, couldn’t stop the heat pooling low in his belly, couldn’t stop the way his hips jerked forward like they had a mind of their own. His hand under Beomseok’s shirt had gone possessive, fingers splayed wide across the younger man’s ribs, feeling the frantic flutter of his sleeping heartbeat. Beomseok’s body was answering him even now, thighs parting wider, back arching just enough to push his ass against Seongje’s hip as if begging without words. A broken sound caught in Seongje’s throat. He buried his face against the damp nape of Beomseok’s neck and let go. The first pulse hit him like a fist, pleasure punching up his spine, cock jerking hard against Beomseok’s thigh. He came in thick, shuddering waves, soaking straight through the sweatpants, hot and messy, the fabric clinging obscenely to his skin. Each spasm dragged another low, stifled groan from him; he bit down on the meat of Beomseok’s shoulder to keep from waking the entire building. Beomseok stirred again, a sleepy, confused noise vibrating under Seongje’s teeth, but his eyes stayed closed, body melting back into the mattress like he’d decided whatever was happening felt too good to fight. Seongje stayed locked around him, trembling through the aftershocks, hips still rocking in tiny, involuntary circles, smearing come between them in a slick, filthy mess. The room smelled like sex now, sharp and unmistakable, even under the lingering trace of jjigae and laundry detergent. He pressed a shaky, open-mouthed kiss to the faint teeth marks he’d left on Beomseok’s skin, then another to the shell of his ear. “Love you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, raw. “So fucking much.” Beomseok answered with a soft sigh and the unconscious nuzzle of his cheek against Seongje’s bicep, as trusting in sleep as he was awake. Seongje closed his eyes, heart thundering against Beomseok’s back, and let the warmth and the weight and the sticky ruin of his sweatpants anchor him exactly where he belonged. He’d clean them both up later. For now he just held on, breathing in the scent of home, and felt the last tremors fade into perfect, possessive quiet. — Morning light slid through the half-open blinds in thin, pale blades, the kind of winter sun that looked cold but still managed to warm the floorboards where it landed. Beomseok woke slowly, the way he always did when he’d slept too deeply: first the heaviness in his limbs, then the slow creep of awareness that the bed was empty on the other side. The sheets were cool where Seongje should have been, the pillow untouched, the dip in the mattress already sprung back. For one confused heartbeat he thought Seongje hadn’t come home at all, that the night shift had stretched into another double and he’d spent the whole night reaching for a body that never arrived. Then the smell hit him: butter melting in a pan, garlic frying low and sweet, the faint char of kimchi and the richer, darker note of gochujang. Seongje’s hangover jjigae, the one he only made when he felt guilty about something. A sleepy, helpless smile tugged at Beomseok’s mouth before he even opened his eyes all the way. He pushed himself up, rubbing at his face, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The movement pulled at something high on the inside of his left thigh—a quick, bright sting that made him hiss. He froze, frowned, and shoved the blanket aside. His thigh was flushed pink, almost sunburned, the skin tender and slightly swollen in a long, unmistakable stripe from mid-thigh almost to the crease of his groin. A faint pattern of broken capillaries bloomed under the surface, like someone had gripped him hard or rubbed him raw. He brushed his fingers over it and winced; the heat there was still banked, the skin hypersensitive. He genuinely had no memory of doing anything that would leave a mark like that. Not a bruise from the hospital bed rail, not a scratch from the subway. Just… friction. A lot of it. He stared for another second, puzzled, then shrugged into the oversized hoodie abandoned on the chair and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. Seongje was at the stove, back turned, wearing nothing but low-slung pajama pants and the faint red lines Beomseok’s nails had left across his shoulder blades weeks ago. His hair stuck up in every direction; the morning light caught on the faint sheen of sweat at the base of his neck from the heat of the burner. He was humming, some old trot song their mothers both loved, and sliding a perfect golden triangle of gyeran-mari onto a plate already crowded with kimchi fried rice and last night’s leftover jjigae, reborn and bubbling. Beomseok didn’t say anything. He just crossed the small kitchen in three silent steps and wrapped his arms around Seongje’s waist from behind, pressing his face between sharp shoulder blades. He fit there perfectly, cheek against warm skin, inhaling butter and soap and the particular smell that was only Seongje after a long night. “Thought you didn’t come home,” he mumbled, voice still gravel-rough with sleep. Seongje’s hands paused over the pan. Then he set the spatula down, wiped his fingers on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, and covered Beomseok’s linked hands with his own. “Got in late. Didn’t want to wake you. You were out cold.” Beomseok made a small, greedy sound and tightened his hold, rocking them both a little. He could feel the steady thump of Seongje’s heart under his palms. “You’re making up for it with breakfast, I see.” “Guilty,” Seongje said lightly, and turned the burner off. Beomseok let himself be turned around, back pressed to the counter, Seongje’s hands braced on either side of his hips. The older man leaned in, brushed their noses together, then kissed him slow and lazy, morning-sweet. Beomseok sighed into it, chasing the taste of coffee on Seongje’s tongue, forgetting whatever minor mystery his thigh had presented. Until Seongje’s palm skimmed down his side, thumb brushing the hem of the hoodie, and Beomseok remembered. “Wait,” he laughed, catching Seongje’s wrist. He tugged the hoodie up and twisted a little, angling his leg into the light. “Look at this. What the hell did I do?” Seongje’s eyes flicked down. For the briefest fraction of a second something predatory and pleased flashed across his face, gone so fast Beomseok couldn’t catch it. Then it was just mild concern, brows drawing together like he was seeing the mark for the first time. “Huh.” Seongje crouched, fingers gentle as he tilted Beomseok’s thigh toward the window. His touch was careful, clinical almost, the same way he checked IV sites at work. “Looks like rug burn. Or… maybe the sheets bunched up weird? You toss a lot when you’re alone.” Beomseok frowned, doubtful. “It’s only one thigh. And it’s, like… perfectly straight.” Seongje made a sympathetic noise, thumb stroking soothing circles just above the pink skin, nowhere near sensitive enough to make Beomseok flinch. “Could’ve been the way you were curled up. Or maybe you kicked the blanket and rubbed against the mattress seam. Happens.” Beomseok squinted at him. Seongje’s face was the picture of innocent worry, eyes wide, mouth soft. He even clucked his tongue. “Poor baby. Want me to kiss it better?” The teasing lilt was exactly the right shade of fond. Beomseok felt his suspicion wobble, then collapse under the warmth in Seongje’s gaze. He huffed a laugh, cheeks going pink. “You’re ridiculous.” Seongje stood, pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead, then another to the corner of his mouth. “Sit. Eat. I’ll put some aloe on it after.” He steered Beomseok to the table, pulled out a chair, loaded his plate like he was feeding a convalescent. Beomseok let himself be fussed over, thighs sticking slightly to the wooden seat when he shifted, the faint throb in the marked skin a puzzling little reminder he couldn’t quite place. Across from him, Seongje poured barley tea, steam curling between them, and smiled like a man who had slept better than he had in weeks. Beomseok took a bite of rice, cheek bulging, and decided the mystery wasn’t worth solving on an empty stomach. Whatever it was, it didn’t hurt that much. And Seongje was home, humming again, bare feet brushing his under the table. Some things were more important than unexplained friction burns and some secrets were small, warm, and entirely Seongje’s to keep. — The pattern settled in like a secret rhythm, Seongje guarded with the same fierce precision he used to stitch wounds in the ER. For the next few weeks, his shifts bled into the early hours, the hospital’s fluorescent hum following him home on the last train. He’d slip through the door around 2 a.m., the apartment silent except for the faint hum of the fridge, and find Beomseok already lost to sleep; curled fetal under the duvet, one hand fisted in the pillow where Seongje’s head should be. The air would carry traces of whatever Beomseok had cooked alone: ramyeon one night, bibimbap the next, always with extra gochujang because he knew Seongje liked the burn. Seongje never woke him. Instead, he’d strip down to nothing or just his boxers, slide in behind that warm, pliant body, and let the hunger take over. Slow at first, always; his cock hardening against the soft give of Beomseok’s thigh or the curve of his ass, rutting in deliberate drags until the friction built to something unbearable. He’d come silently, or as close to it as he could manage, spilling hot and messy against skin or fabric, biting his lip bloody to stifle the groans. Afterward, he’d clean up with a damp cloth, gentle as a thief, erasing the evidence before dawn cracked the blinds. Beomseok would wake to faint aches, pink-flushed thighs, a sticky residue he blamed on sweat or restless dreams to then puzzle over them in the mirror, prodding the tender spots with a furrowed brow. “Must’ve kicked the bed frame again,” he’d mutter, or “Weird allergy?” But Seongje would shrug it off over breakfast, all innocent eyes and distracting kisses, his secret tucked away like a blade in his pocket. He never let it slip. Not once. It was his to savor, this quiet claiming, and Beomseok’s confusion only sharpened the edge of it, made the next night burn hotter. Until the night it fractured. It was a Thursday, or maybe Friday; days blurred in the haze of overtime. Seongje got home at 1:52 a.m., the subway’s stale air still clinging to his coat as he locked the door. The apartment smelled of mandu he’d left in the freezer, now thawed and steamed by Beomseok earlier, a half-eaten bowl still on the counter like a breadcrumb trail of loneliness. He kicked off his shoes, skipped the shower this time; too eager, too wired from a twelve-hour shift of codes and chaos and headed straight for the bedroom. Beomseok was on his back tonight, unusual for him, arms flung wide as if he’d collapsed mid-reach for something. The sheet had slipped low, bunching at his waist, exposing the faded band of his boxers and the soft plane of his stomach rising and falling in deep, even breaths. Moonlight striped his chest, catching on the faint trail of hair below his navel, and Seongje’s mouth watered. He stripped fully this time, clothes pooling on the floor, his cock already half-hard from the anticipation that had built on the train ride home. The mattress dipped as he climbed in, careful, always careful. He settled between Beomseok’s legs, easing them apart with gentle pressure; first one thigh, then the other, until he could slot himself there; chest to chest, skin to skin. Beomseok murmured something incoherent, a sleepy protest that dissolved into a sigh, but his eyes stayed shut, lashes unmoving. Seongje pressed his face to the crook of Beomseok’s neck, inhaling the clean scent of soap and faint sweat, and rolled his hips once, experimentally. The slide of his cock against Beomseok’s boxer-clad groin was electric; a hot, dry friction that made his breath hitch. He started slow, as usual, almost routinely: long, languid thrusts, his length dragging along the growing bulge in Beomseok’s boxers, feeling it twitch in response even in sleep. Precome slicked the way after a few passes, turning the grind wet and obscene, the fabric between them growing damp. Seongje’s hands roamed; one pinning Beomseok’s wrist loosely to the pillow, the other sliding under his shirt to thumb a nipple, feeling it pebble under his touch. Beomseok’s breathing quickened, a soft whine escaping his parted lips, hips shifting unconsciously to meet the pressure. God, he was responsive even like this, body arching into it like it knew who it belonged to. Seongje picked up the pace, hips snapping sharper now, the bed frame giving a faint creak in protest. He was close already; too close, the build-up from days of this ritual coiling tight in his gut. His cock throbbed against Beomseok’s, separated only by thin cotton, each thrust smearing more mess, the heat between them turning feverish. He buried a groan in Beomseok’s shoulder, teeth grazing skin, and rutted harder, chasing the edge with single-minded greed. That’s when Beomseok stirred. Really stirred. A confused hum vibrated in his throat, brows knitting as his free hand twitched against the sheet. His lashes fluttered, once, twice, and then his eyes cracked open, hazy and unfocused in the dim light. “Hyung…?” The word was slurred, sleep-thick, but it hit Seongje like ice water. He froze mid-thrust, cock still pressed heavy and leaking against Beomseok’s now-obvious erection, heart slamming against his ribs. Beomseok blinked slowly, awareness seeping in like dawn. His gaze dropped between them, taking in the tangled limbs, the sheet kicked aside, the slick shine on his boxers where Seongje had been grinding. Confusion flickered across his face, then sharpened into something hotter; surprise melting into realization, cheeks flushing deep red. “What… you…?” He shifted, thigh brushing Seongje’s hip, and the movement dragged an involuntary gasp from both of them. Seongje didn’t move, didn’t breathe, waiting for the fallout. But Beomseok didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand, the one not pinned, came up to curl in Seongje’s hair, tugging him down. “Don’t stop,” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked, eyes dark with want. “Please, hyung. Don’t stop.” The dam broke. Seongje surged forward, claiming Beomseok’s mouth in a bruising kiss, all teeth and desperation, hips resuming their rhythm with renewed fury. Beomseok moaned into it, legs wrapping around Seongje’s waist, pulling him closer, deeper into the grind. It was messy now, no pretense of secrecy; wet sounds filling the room, Beomseok’s nails digging into Seongje’s back as he bucked up to meet each thrust. Seongje came first, spilling between them in hot pulses, coating Beomseok’s stomach and boxers, the sensation tipping Beomseok over seconds later with a choked cry, his release soaking through the fabric to mix with Seongje’s. They collapsed together, panting, sticky, Beomseok’s fingers still tangled in Seongje’s hair. “How long?” he asked finally, voice soft, no anger, just a quiet wonder. Seongje pressed a kiss to his temple, heart steadying. “Weeks. You said you wanted it.” Beomseok laughed, breathless and fond, pulling him in for another kiss. “I did. But next time… wake me sooner.” Seongje smiled against his lips, the secret no longer his alone, but somehow even sweeter when shared. The kiss deepened, turned feral; Beomseok’s teeth catching Seongje’s lower lip hard enough to draw a copper tang, his fingers tightening in Seongje’s hair until it stung at the roots. Seongje growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating between them, and shoved Beomseok back against the pillows with one hand splayed across his chest. The younger man’s breath punched out in a gasp, but his eyes; dark, dilated, gleaming with that same reckless hunger, begged for more. “Harder,” Beomseok whispered, voice wrecked already, legs tightening around Seongje’s waist like a vice. “Make it hurt, hyung. Like you own me.” Seongje didn’t need to be told twice. He surged forward, pinning Beomseok’s wrists above his head with one bruising grip, the other hand yanking the ruined boxers down and off in a single rough tug. Beomseok’s cock sprang free, still slick from his release, curving hard against his stomach, and Seongje wrapped his fingers around it without preamble; stroking fast, merciless, thumb digging into the slit until Beomseok arched off the bed with a choked cry. “Fuck—yes—” Beomseok’s hips bucked into the vise of Seongje’s fist, chasing the edge of pain that blurred so perfectly into pleasure. His nails raked down Seongje’s back, leaving hot, stinging trails from shoulders to waist, deep enough to break skin in places. Seongje hissed, the burn fueling him, marking him as much as he planned to mark back. He released Beomseok’s cock abruptly, ignoring the whine of protest, and flipped him over onto his stomach with effortless strength. Beomseok went willingly, ass lifting in invitation, face buried in the pillow to muffle his ragged breaths. Seongje pressed down on him, full weight bearing him into the mattress, cock sliding heavy and insistent along the cleft of Beomseok’s ass. “You want to be claimed?” Seongje murmured, voice gravel-rough, teeth grazing the shell of Beomseok’s ear before sinking into the juncture of neck and shoulder. He sucked hard, relentless, drawing blood to the surface in a blooming purple bruise that would ache for days. Beomseok keened, pushing back against him, the friction making them both shudder. Seongje didn’t prep him gently, not tonight. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, slicked himself with quick, efficient strokes, then notched the head of his cock against Beomseok’s entrance and thrust in deep, no warning, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal slide. Beomseok’s body clenched around him, a vice of heat and resistance, and he cried out; sharp, raw, fingers twisting in the sheets. “Too much—hyung, fuck—” But his hips rolled back, greedy, taking more, and Seongje knew that plea for what it was: permission to break him. He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward with enough force to jolt Beomseok up the bed, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the quiet room. Each thrust drove deeper, harder, Seongje’s hand fisted in Beomseok’s hair to yank his head back, exposing the column of his throat. He latched on there next, teeth and lips working another hickey into the pale skin just above the collarbone; then another on his shoulder, his bicep, anywhere he could reach without slowing his pace. Beomseok’s moans fractured into sobs, body trembling under the onslaught, but his hands reached back blindly, nails digging into Seongje’s flanks, scratching long, claiming lines down his thighs as if to say ‘mine’ right back. Sweat slicked between them, the air thick with the scent of sex and salt, the bed creaking in protest under the violence of it. Seongje released Beomseok’s hair to wrap an arm around his waist, hauling him up onto all fours for better leverage; thrusting so deep it punched the breath from Beomseok’s lungs each time. “Look at you,” Seongje rasped, voice breaking with effort, free hand sliding down to pump Beomseok’s leaking cock in time with his hips. “Taking it like you were made for this. For me.” Beomseok’s response was a garbled whine, back arching impossibly, nails finding purchase on Seongje’s back again; raking fresh welts across the already-scored skin, drawing pinpricks of blood that only made Seongje fuck him harder, faster, chasing the white-hot coil tightening in his gut. Beomseok came first again, sudden and shattering, spilling over Seongje’s knuckles with a strangled shout, body clamping down like a fist around him. The vise of it pulled Seongje over seconds later; he buried himself deep, grinding through the pulses, coming in hot, endless waves that left them both shaking. He collapsed over Beomseok’s back, still hilted inside, mouthing lazy, possessive bites along his nape as aftershocks rippled through them. They stayed like that, tangled and marked, breaths syncing in the aftermath. Beomseok turned his head, lips brushing Seongje’s wrist where it draped over him, a soft kiss amid the bruises. “Yours,” he murmured, voice hoarse, satisfied. Seongje pressed one last hickey to the curve of his jaw, tasting sweat and triumph. “Mine,” he echoed, and meant it down to his bones.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610791	{"authors": ["chinlny"], "language": "English", "title": "The Shape of My Greed"}
The Roots of Something Galaëd had always enjoyed twilight, the subliminal glimpse of the sun’s last rays just as it tipped over the horizon, the stars coming alight one by one, the song of birds dimming as the lament of crickets rose, and mist descending from the heights of the Grove to settle on the shores of rivers and ponds where glimmers of embershard would dot the silver ribbons of fog as the night progressed and the fireflies took flight. But here, sunset only carried in its wake the not-so-distant sound of combat, the shattering of the ground where vines broke the very bones of the earth, and the desperate echo of hundreds of souls lost to the dragon, as they cried their last within the Dream. And as night crept slowly on the Tangled Depths, he felt the Call growing stronger - a painful rumble, a wild beast prowling at the confines of his mind. The sound of footsteps, muted as they were by the vegetation and the newcomer’s own stealth, broke his train of thoughts. He turned to see Canach approach, silently asserting him — or maybe asking for permission to come closer — before he sat beside him. The crossing of the jungle had been an endless stream of blood, sap and tears. Tattered victories and bitter losses, half-veiled mistrust and bellowing demands battering against the walls of his sanity. And suddenly, the silence. The calm of the depths. A blessed respite from the dragon’s unrelenting roar — one a soul already lost had sought too… Canach had sheathed his blade and knelt by the mordrem’s side, curiosity demanding to be satisfied — what was it like, succumbing to the Call? How much of your former self remained, entangled in the grip of the dragon? What did it want? One last decisive whisper breaking the mind of one long gone. Canach, thrown to the ground. And Galaëd casting himself between him and the mordrem, sword slashing and repelling the enemy against the cavern wall. The scene was all too familiar, and the fleeting shock on the warrior’s face reminisced of a not so far day when it was Canach at the tip of his sword. A rough whisper broke the silence, and brought him back to the present. “Thank you.” He turned his gaze to the warrior, his own voice stuck in his throat, as if still interred in that cavern beneath the waves. “I regret.” Canach stared at him, questioningly. “Saving me?” “Not meeting you under other circumstances. Judging you as severely as I did… without actually knowing you.” A scoff, and a smirk enlightened the mercenary’s face. “Now, now, Valiant… Are you offering me a chance of redemption?” The Duskbloom breathed out a stiff chuckle. “Quit jesting, it’s hard enough as it is.” “Oh, I’m going to enjoy making my first impression with you. How am I doing so far?” Galaëd laughed — a sound foreign in these depths, one that echoed with a promise of hope. “You’re a prick!” But that didn’t seem to bother him as much as it should.	The Roots of Something Galaëd had always enjoyed twilight, the subliminal glimpse of the sun’s last rays just as it tipped over the horizon, the stars coming alight one by one, the song of birds dimming as the lament of crickets rose, and mist descending from the heights of the Grove to settle on the shores of rivers and ponds where glimmers of embershard would dot the silver ribbons of fog as the night progressed and the fireflies took flight. But here, sunset only carried in its wake the not-so-distant sound of combat, the shattering of the ground where vines broke the very bones of the earth, and the desperate echo of hundreds of souls lost to the dragon, as they cried their last within the Dream. And as night crept slowly on the Tangled Depths, he felt the Call growing stronger - a painful rumble, a wild beast prowling at the confines of his mind. The sound of footsteps, muted as they were by the vegetation and the newcomer’s own stealth, broke his train of thoughts. He turned to see Canach approach, silently asserting him — or maybe asking for permission to come closer — before he sat beside him. The crossing of the jungle had been an endless stream of blood, sap and tears. Tattered victories and bitter losses, half-veiled mistrust and bellowing demands battering against the walls of his sanity. And suddenly, the silence. The calm of the depths. A blessed respite from the dragon’s unrelenting roar — one a soul already lost had sought too… Canach had sheathed his blade and knelt by the mordrem’s side, curiosity demanding to be satisfied — what was it like, succumbing to the Call? How much of your former self remained, entangled in the grip of the dragon? What did it want? One last decisive whisper breaking the mind of one long gone. Canach, thrown to the ground. And Galaëd casting himself between him and the mordrem, sword slashing and repelling the enemy against the cavern wall. The scene was all too familiar, and the fleeting shock on the warrior’s face reminisced of a not so far day when it was Canach at the tip of his sword. A rough whisper broke the silence, and brought him back to the present. “Thank you.” He turned his gaze to the warrior, his own voice stuck in his throat, as if still interred in that cavern beneath the waves. “I regret.” Canach stared at him, questioningly. “Saving me?” “Not meeting you under other circumstances. Judging you as severely as I did… without actually knowing you.” A scoff, and a smirk enlightened the mercenary’s face. “Now, now, Valiant… Are you offering me a chance of redemption?” The Duskbloom breathed out a stiff chuckle. “Quit jesting, it’s hard enough as it is.” “Oh, I’m going to enjoy making my first impression with you. How am I doing so far?” Galaëd laughed — a sound foreign in these depths, one that echoed with a promise of hope. “You’re a prick!” But that didn’t seem to bother him as much as it should.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610796	{"authors": ["Archesa"], "language": "English", "title": "The Roots of Something"}
the traumatic life of leo valdez and friends Leo was huddled on the bottom bunk of his shared bed, shoving all of his important things in his bag, even if he didn't have that many. He was going to run today. No, he didn't know where he was going but he’d go somewhere. He placed some food that would last him about two weeks if he rationed, a few bottles of water, two pairs of clothes and one of the tgree friendship bracelets he made for him, Jason and Piper. They were, no doubt, the kindest people he had ever met. Piper was willing to murder anyone who dared look at Leo the wrong way, her eyes fierce. Not to mention how she put up with his antics, even joining in some days. And Jason, Jason freaking Grace. He was beautiful, but Leo would rather jump into a vat of boiling tar than admit it. Jason's soft, blonde hair swept to the side no matter the weather. The scar on his top lip that Leo wanted to kiss so badly. His blue eyes that Leo often found himself getting lost in. Leo opted to not do that often. He didn't want to think that, maybe, he wasn't straight. Others could be, that wasn't a problem, but he couldn't. That would just get him hurt in the long run. He had witnessed so many kids get hurt in his old foster homes because of being part of that community. He had to reduce his chances. Jason was such a kind soul, and Leo felt bad for leaving him. But, it was for the best. It was tradition after all. Get to a new place, stay for a few days or even weeks, then leave and run till the police find him. At least, he hoped it would be the police. He'd had multiple nightmares of his aunt, Rosa, finding him. Or being kidnapped by someone who had sick, twisted intentions. But he had been on the streets since he was eight. Eight years of this now. He knew how to run under the radar. He finished packing his bag and looked around, checking that everyone else was asleep. It was time. He would sneak out onto the roof and then slide down the gutter. After that, he could pick the lock and get the ladder from the caretaker's shed. And, finally, climb over the wall. Then he'd run. He got up, slipping through the little light that was available into the corridor, going through the service stairs and up onto the roof. He took a deep breath of the fresh, nighttime air before hearing a voice. “Leo? What are you doing here? Why do you have a bag?” A pair of beautiful, azure blue eyes stared down at him, his expression confused. “Oh, hey Jace. I just came to look at the stars because I couldn't sleep. What about you?” Leo lied through his teeth. He wasn't about to confess his plan to Jason. That was dumb. He would probably just tell Leo how he hates him and shove him away. Everyone did in the end. “Leo don't lie. You have a bag. You're leaving.” Jason stated simply, a hint of concern in his tone. “I,” he sighed. “Fine. I am. Happy?” “No, of course not! Why are you leaving? What happened? Did someone say that you should? Who?” “Yeah, my brain.” Leo wanted to say but didn't. He didn't want to show Jason how pathetic and weak he was. How he was struggling like hell with his mental health. That was just plain stupid. “No Jason. It's kind of tradition for me now. I never stay in one place. You and Piper will forget about me anyway. It'll be fine.” Jason stared at him, a look in his eyes that Leo couldn't quite make out. A sort of shocked and betrayed look but, there was a hint of something that Leo couldn't decipher. “Leo,” he started. “We will never forget you. That's impossible. I will never forget you.” he grabbed Leo's arm for emphasis but froze when he saw Leo flinch badly. Immediately, he let go of Leo's arm, allowing his arm to fall limp to his side. His face dropped and concern flooded his veins. “Are you okay Leo?” “I'm fine, yeah. Why?” “You flinched away from me, like you thought I was going to hurt you…” Jason's normally azure blue eyes turned a darker, sapphire, colour. “No, I didn't–” “Don't Leo. Just don't, okay? You can't hide from me. I know I need glasses but I'm not that blind.” He took a long, deep breath. “Leo, has someone hurt you?” “No, never. I don't know why you're asking that, Jace.” Leo managed to crack a smile, but it was shaky. Yes, he had been hurt. He'd been in about 6 Foster homes, and almost all of them were like hell. “Leo, you're sweating. In December.” Jason's voice had become increasingly concerned and Leo was getting worried. He wasn't able to lie or laugh his way out of this one. He was going to back away until he realised he'd fall, alert everyone he and Jason were awake and Jason would get in trouble. That wasn't an option. He could just stab Jason with his pocket knife and run but he wasn't hurting someone he loved. “I, uh,” “Leo, please. Please tell me. I just want to help you. I don't want you suffering when I could help with it. All you have to do is tell me.” “I've had a few shitty foster families I guess.” Jason's face twisted into one of worry and concern. “I'm so sorry Leo. You did	the traumatic life of leo valdez and friends Leo was huddled on the bottom bunk of his shared bed, shoving all of his important things in his bag, even if he didn't have that many. He was going to run today. No, he didn't know where he was going but he’d go somewhere. He placed some food that would last him about two weeks if he rationed, a few bottles of water, two pairs of clothes and one of the tgree friendship bracelets he made for him, Jason and Piper. They were, no doubt, the kindest people he had ever met. Piper was willing to murder anyone who dared look at Leo the wrong way, her eyes fierce. Not to mention how she put up with his antics, even joining in some days. And Jason, Jason freaking Grace. He was beautiful, but Leo would rather jump into a vat of boiling tar than admit it. Jason's soft, blonde hair swept to the side no matter the weather. The scar on his top lip that Leo wanted to kiss so badly. His blue eyes that Leo often found himself getting lost in. Leo opted to not do that often. He didn't want to think that, maybe, he wasn't straight. Others could be, that wasn't a problem, but he couldn't. That would just get him hurt in the long run. He had witnessed so many kids get hurt in his old foster homes because of being part of that community. He had to reduce his chances. Jason was such a kind soul, and Leo felt bad for leaving him. But, it was for the best. It was tradition after all. Get to a new place, stay for a few days or even weeks, then leave and run till the police find him. At least, he hoped it would be the police. He'd had multiple nightmares of his aunt, Rosa, finding him. Or being kidnapped by someone who had sick, twisted intentions. But he had been on the streets since he was eight. Eight years of this now. He knew how to run under the radar. He finished packing his bag and looked around, checking that everyone else was asleep. It was time. He would sneak out onto the roof and then slide down the gutter. After that, he could pick the lock and get the ladder from the caretaker's shed. And, finally, climb over the wall. Then he'd run. He got up, slipping through the little light that was available into the corridor, going through the service stairs and up onto the roof. He took a deep breath of the fresh, nighttime air before hearing a voice. “Leo? What are you doing here? Why do you have a bag?” A pair of beautiful, azure blue eyes stared down at him, his expression confused. “Oh, hey Jace. I just came to look at the stars because I couldn't sleep. What about you?” Leo lied through his teeth. He wasn't about to confess his plan to Jason. That was dumb. He would probably just tell Leo how he hates him and shove him away. Everyone did in the end. “Leo don't lie. You have a bag. You're leaving.” Jason stated simply, a hint of concern in his tone. “I,” he sighed. “Fine. I am. Happy?” “No, of course not! Why are you leaving? What happened? Did someone say that you should? Who?” “Yeah, my brain.” Leo wanted to say but didn't. He didn't want to show Jason how pathetic and weak he was. How he was struggling like hell with his mental health. That was just plain stupid. “No Jason. It's kind of tradition for me now. I never stay in one place. You and Piper will forget about me anyway. It'll be fine.” Jason stared at him, a look in his eyes that Leo couldn't quite make out. A sort of shocked and betrayed look but, there was a hint of something that Leo couldn't decipher. “Leo,” he started. “We will never forget you. That's impossible. I will never forget you.” he grabbed Leo's arm for emphasis but froze when he saw Leo flinch badly. Immediately, he let go of Leo's arm, allowing his arm to fall limp to his side. His face dropped and concern flooded his veins. “Are you okay Leo?” “I'm fine, yeah. Why?” “You flinched away from me, like you thought I was going to hurt you…” Jason's normally azure blue eyes turned a darker, sapphire, colour. “No, I didn't–” “Don't Leo. Just don't, okay? You can't hide from me. I know I need glasses but I'm not that blind.” He took a long, deep breath. “Leo, has someone hurt you?” “No, never. I don't know why you're asking that, Jace.” Leo managed to crack a smile, but it was shaky. Yes, he had been hurt. He'd been in about 6 Foster homes, and almost all of them were like hell. “Leo, you're sweating. In December.” Jason's voice had become increasingly concerned and Leo was getting worried. He wasn't able to lie or laugh his way out of this one. He was going to back away until he realised he'd fall, alert everyone he and Jason were awake and Jason would get in trouble. That wasn't an option. He could just stab Jason with his pocket knife and run but he wasn't hurting someone he loved. “I, uh,” “Leo, please. Please tell me. I just want to help you. I don't want you suffering when I could help with it. All you have to do is tell me.” “I've had a few shitty foster families I guess.” Jason's face twisted into one of worry and concern. “I'm so sorry Leo. You did not deserve that kind of treatment at all.” Yeah, I did. I still do. Leo wanted to say, but he didn't. He was still leaving. Jason wasn't stopping him. “It's fine, I survived,” he said casually. It wasn't that big of a deal. “But did you live?” Jason asked, his voice cracking. Leo was silent, he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Did he live his life? Really? “...of course I did.” He said weakly. “Leo, please. If not for yourself then for me. You being here makes this place all the better, you make it so much brighter. Please, just one more week?” Why did Jason have to be so sweet? “I..” Leo looked at Jason's face, his pleading soft eyes, his beautiful blonde hair, his azure blue eyes that shone in the starlight. “Alright, but just one more week okay superman?” “thank you.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610801	{"authors": ["atlas5190"], "language": "English", "title": "the traumatic life of leo valdez and friends"}
Family Matters The first time it happened, it is early morning. Only a few students are in the Great Hall having breakfast, the majority preferring to get every possible minute of sleep before a day of classes. Catalina is minding her business when the already quiet hall falls into a deafening silence, as if a silencing charm had hit everyone. The sight that greets her when she raises her head from her plate is baffling. Not only because she has never seen Anne Boleyn awake this early since they started at Hogwarts years ago (and she is famous for her love of sleep...people who dared to wake her up had soon learned not to. Or to have plans in place, and possibly a shield charm ready at hand). But because she is not sitting at the Slytherin table. Instead, she has taken a seat at the Ravenclaw one. Next to a younger girl. A first year, Catalina would guess. She looks quite small, and Catalina doesn’t remember seeing her around before. If she has only started recently, it would explain why her face is not a familiar one. The Ravenclaw table is the one with most people in early mornings, but still the girl had been sitting on one end, all by herself, an open book in front of her instead of food. Stereotypically ‘claw. Anne flips the book close and Catalina tenses. There are many reasons why she dislikes Anne, and the Slytherin has plenty of flaws (the Gryffindor keeps an updated list), but she has never been a bully. Or perhaps Catalina has just never caught her? She is debating within herself whether to intervene or not, when the girl looks up, from the cover of the book to the person who closed it. She looks unimpressed but not upset. And...dare Catalina say...pouting? Yes, she can see it clearly as she turns around to face a new arrival. But if she was looking for support, she seems not to find it. Jane Seymour moves the book away and then gives her a nudge with her shoulder, motioning with her head to the food that has now appeared on the table. The girl deflates a bit, but she starts eating, Jane and Anne doing the same. Catalina can’t help but be confused, and glancing around, she can tell others share her same feelings too, from the way they are not-so-subtly staring. Why would two senior Slytherins join a first year Ravenclaw for breakfast? Especially two Slytherins who famously do not get along. Sure, they have house loyalty, but she has heard enough sniping between them to know that they would have preferred not to share a school’s house...or a familiar relationship. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ Catalina freezes. She knows she should not spy, but in her defence the giggling was distracting, even if stifled, and she had wanted to see what could be so funny to prompt such continued hilarity, and in a library of all places. She had certainly not expected to see Jane Seymour with that Ravenclaw girl sitting on her shoulders. ‘Shhh. Did she hear you?’ She assumes the girl meant the librarian. Relieved that she was not discovered, Catalina keeps watching from behind the shelves. ‘Me talking will be the last of your problems if she sees you two,’ Anne Boleyn states, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘I will ask again. What are you doing?’ ‘Getting some books,’ the girl replies. ‘Get down before you get hurt,’ Anne tells her. ‘I put some spells in place,’ Jane grumbles, but she carefully lets the younger girl down. ‘So you remember you are a witch,’ Anne taunts her. ‘Couldn't you just summon the books?’ ‘But how can I Accio them if I don’t know what I am looking for? You need to know the titles to do that.’ Jane looks quite smug as her fellow Slytherin has no reply to offer to the Ravenclaw. ‘We could have used a periscope! Can we make a periscope?’ The girl turns to Jane excitedly. ‘What did you need up there anyway?’ Anne tries to get back her attention, and with that some answers. ‘Unless the first-year curriculum changed drastically since I did it, you already have all the books you need...or they are easily reachable.’ ‘It's not for homework. I already finished that.’ ‘My little smart cookie.’ Anne ruffles her hair. ‘What are you working on? Perhaps I can help you,’ she continues, emphasising the I while throwing a meaningful glance towards Jane. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ the other Slytherin huffs. ‘I’m perfectly capable of helping Kat.’ ‘It just means that you usually don’t grace the aisles of this library all that often.’ ‘We were doing homework together...do you have any? You can sit with us.’ Kat points to a nearby table with three piles of books on it. 'Merlin, yes,’ Anne groans, remembering why she had gone to the library in the first place. ‘Stupid runes.’ ‘Well, not everyone can be academically gifted,’ Jane snarks, clearly enjoying her suffering. The next time Cataline sees the girls together, she has other, more important, things to worry about than what exactly is going on between the three of them. Namely, what in Merlin’s pants Cathy did to end up in a hospital bed unconscious.	Family Matters The first time it happened, it is early morning. Only a few students are in the Great Hall having breakfast, the majority preferring to get every possible minute of sleep before a day of classes. Catalina is minding her business when the already quiet hall falls into a deafening silence, as if a silencing charm had hit everyone. The sight that greets her when she raises her head from her plate is baffling. Not only because she has never seen Anne Boleyn awake this early since they started at Hogwarts years ago (and she is famous for her love of sleep...people who dared to wake her up had soon learned not to. Or to have plans in place, and possibly a shield charm ready at hand). But because she is not sitting at the Slytherin table. Instead, she has taken a seat at the Ravenclaw one. Next to a younger girl. A first year, Catalina would guess. She looks quite small, and Catalina doesn’t remember seeing her around before. If she has only started recently, it would explain why her face is not a familiar one. The Ravenclaw table is the one with most people in early mornings, but still the girl had been sitting on one end, all by herself, an open book in front of her instead of food. Stereotypically ‘claw. Anne flips the book close and Catalina tenses. There are many reasons why she dislikes Anne, and the Slytherin has plenty of flaws (the Gryffindor keeps an updated list), but she has never been a bully. Or perhaps Catalina has just never caught her? She is debating within herself whether to intervene or not, when the girl looks up, from the cover of the book to the person who closed it. She looks unimpressed but not upset. And...dare Catalina say...pouting? Yes, she can see it clearly as she turns around to face a new arrival. But if she was looking for support, she seems not to find it. Jane Seymour moves the book away and then gives her a nudge with her shoulder, motioning with her head to the food that has now appeared on the table. The girl deflates a bit, but she starts eating, Jane and Anne doing the same. Catalina can’t help but be confused, and glancing around, she can tell others share her same feelings too, from the way they are not-so-subtly staring. Why would two senior Slytherins join a first year Ravenclaw for breakfast? Especially two Slytherins who famously do not get along. Sure, they have house loyalty, but she has heard enough sniping between them to know that they would have preferred not to share a school’s house...or a familiar relationship. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ Catalina freezes. She knows she should not spy, but in her defence the giggling was distracting, even if stifled, and she had wanted to see what could be so funny to prompt such continued hilarity, and in a library of all places. She had certainly not expected to see Jane Seymour with that Ravenclaw girl sitting on her shoulders. ‘Shhh. Did she hear you?’ She assumes the girl meant the librarian. Relieved that she was not discovered, Catalina keeps watching from behind the shelves. ‘Me talking will be the last of your problems if she sees you two,’ Anne Boleyn states, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘I will ask again. What are you doing?’ ‘Getting some books,’ the girl replies. ‘Get down before you get hurt,’ Anne tells her. ‘I put some spells in place,’ Jane grumbles, but she carefully lets the younger girl down. ‘So you remember you are a witch,’ Anne taunts her. ‘Couldn't you just summon the books?’ ‘But how can I Accio them if I don’t know what I am looking for? You need to know the titles to do that.’ Jane looks quite smug as her fellow Slytherin has no reply to offer to the Ravenclaw. ‘We could have used a periscope! Can we make a periscope?’ The girl turns to Jane excitedly. ‘What did you need up there anyway?’ Anne tries to get back her attention, and with that some answers. ‘Unless the first-year curriculum changed drastically since I did it, you already have all the books you need...or they are easily reachable.’ ‘It's not for homework. I already finished that.’ ‘My little smart cookie.’ Anne ruffles her hair. ‘What are you working on? Perhaps I can help you,’ she continues, emphasising the I while throwing a meaningful glance towards Jane. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ the other Slytherin huffs. ‘I’m perfectly capable of helping Kat.’ ‘It just means that you usually don’t grace the aisles of this library all that often.’ ‘We were doing homework together...do you have any? You can sit with us.’ Kat points to a nearby table with three piles of books on it. 'Merlin, yes,’ Anne groans, remembering why she had gone to the library in the first place. ‘Stupid runes.’ ‘Well, not everyone can be academically gifted,’ Jane snarks, clearly enjoying her suffering. The next time Cataline sees the girls together, she has other, more important, things to worry about than what exactly is going on between the three of them. Namely, what in Merlin’s pants Cathy did to end up in a hospital bed unconscious. It seems that Anne and Jane have the same question, only theirs is directed towards the first-year Ravenclaw, who is lying three beds away from Cathy’s. ‘Katherine Howard!’ Well, that’s a way to find out her name. ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking? You scared the crap out of us!’ ‘Anne.’ ‘I don’t give a fuck about language, Jane!’ ‘It’s not that.’ ‘Good,’ Anne bites out. ‘Because I heard you cursing your way out of the crowd to get here.’ ‘Well, they should have moved when I asked instead of standing in my way,’ Jane shrugs, clearly unrepentant. They turn towards Kat as she lets out a giggle. ‘Don’t think you are out of trouble, young lady,’ Anne scolds her, albeit gently. ‘What were you thinking?’ ‘Well, Cathy–’ ‘I knew it was her fault!’ Anne growls, standing up. ‘I’m going to make her regret–’ ‘Stop!’ Kat grabs her arm. ‘She didn’t hurt me. I... I think she might be my friend,’ she whispers with some hesitation. ‘She’d be stupid not to want to,’ Jane pats Kat’s hand with a supportive smile. ‘And we could fix that anyway,’ Anne adds. ‘I’m not in kindergarten anymore,’ Kat tells her, lovingly amused. ‘Are you saying you don’t need me anymore?’ Anne acts shocked and hurt, but Catalina can see the subtle signs of relief when Kat replies, ‘I will always need you.’ ‘Cathy would be lucky to have you as her friend,’ Anne then continues. ‘Certainly a step up from the company she currently keeps,’ she sneers towards Catalina. The Gryffindor glares back at her. ‘Anyway, what were you doing?? To end up with more broken bones than teeth??’ ‘Did I break my teeth??’ Kat gasps, bringing a hand to her mouth. ‘No, I meant you have 28 teeth and somehow managed to break 35 bones.’ ‘Oh.’ Kat shrugs it off, seemingly unconcerned about it once that the health of her teeth had been assured. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re fine with breaking 35 bones as long as they are not mouth bones??’ Jane says the same thing Catalina is thinking. Anne looks at her housemate bewildered. ‘Mouth bones??’ ‘What? They are!’ ‘Why do I even bother...’ Anne shakes her head. ‘Go on, Kat.’ ‘Me and Cathy thought...you can fly on brooms, right?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘And Wingardium Leviosa make things fly, right?’ ‘Levitate,’ Anne corrects her. ‘It's not the same thing.’ ‘Go on,’ Jane encourages Kat. ‘We agreed that flying on a carpet would be more comfortable than flying on a broom. And it could accommodate a whole family!!’ Kat gets worked up as she explains their reasoning. ‘Wouldn’t that be so much better??’ ‘Are you telling me that you tried to enchant a carpet to make it a flying carpet?? A second year and a first year??’ ‘I suppose it’s ambitious,’ Jane tries to be diplomatic just as Anne says, ‘You are supposed to be smart!’ ‘Anne!’ Jane reproaches her. ‘Sorry.’ Anne takes a deep, calming, breath. ‘You had me really worried when they told me you were in the hospital wing.’ She takes another breath, closing her eyes, to centre herself. ‘Is it about your obsession with Aladdin?’ ‘I'm not obsessed,’ Kat immediately protests. ‘That's why when you got the Hogwarts letter, the first thing you asked me was if it was possible to get a monkey as a familiar.’ ‘They can be pets!’ ‘I do have monkeys at home,’ Catalina can't help herself butting in. ‘See!’ Kat beams at her. ‘Do you have photos?’ ‘No?’ ‘Oh.’ Kat slumps a bit. ‘I can get them?’ Catalina finds herself suggesting, not liking the disappointed look on the girl's face. ‘Yes!’ Kat perks up. ‘Oh! Can you put a fez on their head?’ ‘Not obsessed my ass,’ Anne mutters. ‘Unless I became utterly senile in the last hour, I quite clearly remember less people here when I left... Did you sneak in?’ the hospital matron asks, hands on her hips. Anne raises her chin defiantly. ‘If you think I’m going to leave her alone...’ As Jane stands up, nodding in agreement, Catalina can’t help thinking that it takes guts. To talk like that to a member of staff. ‘Why didn’t you just ask?’ The matron rolls her eyes as the girls struggle to find an answer. ‘Your cousin told me to let you in, if you wanted.’ ‘Of course we were going to come! How could you think–’ ‘Wait!’ Anne interrupts Jane. ‘When did she say that?’ They were present when their cousin had woken up. ‘She was still awake when they brought her in. She made sure to tell me that, before passing out. I still have no idea how she managed that, considering the extent of her injuries.’ Anne and Jane look at Kat horrified. ‘I have high pain tolerance?’ she offers sheepishly. Anne’s horrified gaze turns murderous, and Catalina feels like she is missing something, not that it is any of her business. The library is usually quiet, but as Catalina enters an aisle, it becomes utterly silent. Unnaturally silent. She extends an arm to the side to stop Cathy. Safest place in the world or not, it is better to be safe than sorry. Especially as she already got scolded for letting Cathy get hurt under her supervision, no matter if they are in different years and different houses and it is physically impossible to keep an eye on her all the time. Well, unless you have something like Mad-Eye Moody’s magical eye. Or use a spell. Some kind of trace. Alright. There are ways. But even if Catalina knew how, she doesn’t think Cathy would appreciate any of them. She knows she would absolutely hate that, if it was her. She casts some spells to try to suss out any potential danger. The results are underwhelming. The only recent spell she can detect is a charm to create a silent bubble, which, while unusual, is not exactly surprising in a library. Catalina advances cautiously and she almost sees the air rippling in front of her eyes, before she adjusts her focus and takes in what the bubble is protecting. Boleyn is half-reclined in an alcove, with Kat lying on her, held securely by her cousin’s arm around her back, clearly asleep. Cathy gasps as Anne waves a hand and the page of the book hovering over them turns. ‘Can you do that? Can you teach me? It would be so quicker to take notes. And no strained hands holding books. Oh, is it wandless magic?’ ‘Let’s go before we wake her up and Boleyn curses us.’ Catalina pulls her away, unwilling to admit she doesn’t know how. Stupidly brilliant Boleyn. She needs to step up her game. She can’t have the Slytherin show her up like that. ‘If you wake Kat up, I will curse you myself.’ ‘Eep!’ Both onlookers let out undignified squeals as Jane’s voice surprises them. ‘Where are you coming from?? Didn’t hear you at all. How do you do it?’ ‘I slither-in.’ Cathy giggles at Jane’s reply. ‘Kat says you love bad puns.’ ‘There is no such a thing as a bad pun,’ Jane states, before letting out a yelp as she is hit by a Stinging Hex. All three turn around. Anne is staring at them, her expression half glaring and half smug. ‘Let’s move to a less dangerous zone,’ Catalina tells Cathy, starting to walk away. ‘Do you know any good remedy against nightmares?’ ‘Are you having problems sleeping?’ ‘Oh, not for me. For Kat. She usually stays up late with me, but every time I’ve seen her snoozing off, I’ve also seen her having nightmares, and usually waking up because of them. I don’t blame her for not wanting to sleep...’ ‘And why do you stay up late?’ ‘Annie!’ Boleyn is as quick to put her wand away as she had been whipping it out to point it at Catalina. ‘Kat!’ She swirls around. ‘What’s up? Wait. Aren’t you supposed to be studying with Jane? Merlin knows that she needs all the help she can get.’ ‘You know that is not true.’ Catalina thinks Kat meant to be reproachful, but she just looks cute, especially as she adds, fidgeting, ‘I wanted to go somewhere.’ Cousin or not, Catalina can see why Boleyn has a soft spot for the girl. ‘Did you give her the slip?’ Kat looks at her from under her lashes, a small, sheepish smile on her lips. ‘My little snake,’ Anne coos proudly while fixing the navy and silver tie, just as Jane arrives jogging. ‘There you are,’ the Slytherin pants out, bending over slightly and resting her hands on her knees as she catches her breath. ‘A first year, Seymour,’ Anne points out. ‘I got distracted for one second,’ she protests. ‘You weren’t distracted. You were focused on your work,’ Kat corrects her. ‘But I’m sorry for not telling you, Janey.” ‘Not your fault. Your cousin should know better than to think we can keep you on a leash.’ ‘She is also your cousin,’ Kat reminds her. ‘Unfortunately,’ both Slytherins exclaim at the same time. ‘I don’t mean to be overprotective.’ In the background, Catalina raises an eyebrow to herself at Anne’s words. That's exactly how it looks. ‘It’s fine. I know it’s because you care. And I like spending time with you both. Just...not all the time.’ ‘Where did you want to go, anyway?’ Jane asks. ‘To get a snack.’ ‘I could do with one,’ Anne comments. ‘I have to go back to my work.’ ‘Sorry again, Janey.’ ‘There is nothing to be sorry for,’ the Slytherin draws her into a quick hug, before departing. ‘Let’s go Annie. You can come too!’ Kat grabs Catalina’s arm and starts to drag them both. Since the Gryffindor had given her pictures of her pet monkeys – she got some questions from her parents, especially about the hats, but it was worth it, if only to get one over Anne Boleyn – she seems to be in Kat’s good graces. As Kat is in hers, after hearing all the good things Cathy had to say about her friend. Catalina can’t say the same for her cousin, as them having their wands pointed at each other just a few minutes ago proved. ‘Wait! Where are we going? This is not the way to the dungeons.’ ‘I’m not coming to the dungeons!’ Catalina had thought they would go to the Ravenclaw tower, not into the snakes’ den. ‘Nobody wants you there anyway,’ Anne snipes at her. Kat does not reply but keeps walking until she stops in front of a painting of a fruit bowl. She tickles a green pear, and as soon a door handle appears. ‘Kitchens,’ she then announces once they are inside, with a sweeping gesture. ‘Best place to get snacks. Hello everyone!’ ‘Miss Kat!’ multiple elves greet her enthusiastically. ‘I thought we weren’t supposed to know where the kitchens are,’ Anne starts once they are sitting down, a spread of nibbles in front of them. She supposes there are good reasons for that. Everyone would be nipping in to get extra food all the time if they knew. ‘How did you find out?’ ‘Me and Cathy found a first edition of ‘Hogwarts: A History’ in the library and it had a map, so we copied it and decided to explore the castle and see if it’s still accurate, and if not, to update it.’ ‘Well, at least there is nothing dangerous about it, unlike your last exploit with Cathy,’ Anne comments, before noticing the awkward smile on her cousin’s lips. She puts down her glass. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing!’ ‘Kat...’ Anne’s voice holds a warning tone, which is perceived clearly by the younger girl, who slumps a bit in her seat. ‘Promise you won’t try to stop us.’ ‘I do not like this,’ Anne states, and Catalina has to agree. Considering their history, she isn’t sure the two girls together can be trusted to make sensible decisions. ‘I promise,’ the Slytherin relents, ‘but I reserve the right to try and convince you to stop.’ Kat’s eyes dart around, before leaning towards her cousin, ‘There are secret passages.’ ‘To where?’ ‘Oh, you know, between classrooms, to and from common rooms, to outside, to the library, to the kitchen...’ ‘What did you just say?’ ‘To the kitchen?’ ‘There are secret passages to outside?? You would not leave your favourite cousin in the dark, would you?’ ‘How do you know that Jane is not my favourite?’ ‘The horror. The audacity. I can't believe I have been betrayed in such a way!’ Anne throws herself back in her seat, a hand on her forehead, the other clutching at her chest. ‘Is your friend ok?’ an elf not so subtly whispers to Kat. ‘She is my cousin. My favourite first cousin. And yes, she is okay, just a drama queen.’ ‘First because I'm the best!’ Anne informs the creature, perking up. ‘That's not how it works,’ Kat tells her with a smile. ‘Anyway, I can’t tell you because we swore with Cathy to keep it secret.’ ‘Did you take a vow?’ Anne asks seriously, and Catalina braces herself for the answer. Had it been any other first year involved, she would have laughed at the thought, but with Kat and Cathy she can't exclude the possibility. ‘We pinky promised.’ Anne sags in relief, before nodding solemnly. ‘I see.’ ‘I can ask her if I can tell you?’ Kat suggests, before turning to Catalina. ‘And if Cathy says yes, you can ask her to tell you too?’ ‘Wait, wait, wait, nobody said anything about telling her too!’ Catalina didn’t have high hopes when she made the trip back to King’s Cross Station to see if she could find her bracelet. It doesn’t have a particular sentimental value, but it annoys her to have lost it, so she wants to make sure that she has looked everywhere she can, since she can’t exactly check on the Hogwarts Express nor go back to school. What she certainly was not expecting was to see Kat sitting on a bench, near Platform 9, staring down at the hands in her lap, looking quite dejected. ‘Kat?!’ ‘Oh! Hi Catalina! What are you doing here?’ ‘I came back to look for something. What are you still doing here?’ she asks back. ‘Waiting to be picked up.’ ‘It’s been hours!’ ‘She is really busy?’ Kat offers, not at all convincingly. It must have shown on Catalina’s face, because the younger girl slumps in the bench even more than she had been. 'She probably forgot,’ she admits. ‘What are you going to do?’ ‘Wait until she or anyone else remembers?’ ‘It has been hours,’ Catalina repeats, not wanting to flat-out say “what if they don’t remember?”. ‘Do you have an alternative way to get home?’ ‘I don’t have enough money for a taxi. And I don’t even know if they would let me take one by myself.’ ‘A taxi,’ the older girl repeats, mouthing the word. ‘A car. With someone driving you around. For money.’ ‘A car.’ ‘A muggle way of transportation,’ Kat explains, seeing the problem. 'Oh, like the Knight Bus but smaller!’ ‘How much does it cost?’ ‘More than what I have.’ Kat plunges a hand in her pocket and then opens her fist to reveal some coins and a single note. ‘Would have called Anne, but they don’t have a phone at the manor.’ ‘A phone.’ ‘Like a floo call but only with your voice?’ she once again tries to translate for someone unfamiliar with muggle terms. ‘Anyway, do what you need to do. You don’t have to worry about me.’ Catalina wonders if those words have ever helped. ‘I can’t in good conscience leave you here alone.’ It’s more than what can be said about her family, she thinks, and the surprised expression on Kat’s face seems to confirm it. ‘Where do you live?’ ‘Chesworth House. Horsham. It’s in Sussex.’ ‘Aright.’ Catalina scratches her head. ‘I have never been there.’ ‘In a muggle area.’ ‘We can check the Floo network map and see if there is something close by.’ The nearest connected fireplace still has them walking a good mile, but it’s better than nothing, and at least Kat had the forethought of shrinking her luggage before leaving the school grounds, so they don’t have to lug around a whole, full, trunk. Hard to remain inconspicuous among muggles while dragging something like around. ‘This is it,’ Kat tells her, walking up to the few steps. Catalina is not one to judge; she knows not everyone lives in manors, and the house is decently sized for being muggle, but there is something off about it. She can’t quite put her finger on it. It’s not particularly neglected, nor derelict. But there is something about it that gives Catalina the hives. The door opens, revealing a stern-looking woman. She peers down her nose. ‘Oh. It’s you.’ There is a marked lack of enthusiasm or affection considering she has not seen Kat for months (Cathy told her Kat had spent Christmas with at Hogwarts). ‘Did she bother you?’ Catalina shakes herself off as she realises she has been addressed. ‘Oh no, I just accompanied her,’ she replies with her most charming smile. ‘Well, get in and stop bothering her.’ The woman gives Kat a sharp nod. ‘Did you thank her?’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ As soon as Kat is inside, Catalina is bidden goodbye, quite abruptly if formally. She was probably expected to leave the second she was allowed to, because as she stands, quite shocked, on the steps, watching the door close, she hears the woman speaking again. ‘You missed dinner time, so you will have to do without.’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘And don’t even try to sneak into the kitchen at night. I will know. And you won’t like what happens.’ ‘Yes, ma'am. No, ma’am.’ As if it isn’t her fault that Kat was late. She forgot to pick her up! Catalina fumes as she walks back to the Floo point. And she knows muggles don’t have elves that can cook for them at any time, or magic, but she is sure she could have given Kat some bread and cheese, if nothing else! By the time she is back home, she has a plan. She might be a Gryffindor, but she isn’t completely reckless. She wants to be sure that there is a need, before staging an intervention. Being strict is not a punishable offense, but if there is more going on... forgetting to pick her up and not being worried about her point towards neglect, and denying her food points towards abuse... if that is true, she cannot in good conscience leave Kat there. Her first stop is Diagon Alley, at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, to buy a modified version of Extendable Ears. By now every magical household has spells against their use, as well as other privacy spells, but luckily, she is going to a muggle house. A Disillusionment Charm and Extendable Ears will do the job perfectly. And her trusty broom in case she needs to peer in on the second floor. The first day she observes nothing out of the ordinary, except for the absolute coldness Kat is shown. But it seems that as long as they are on time for meals, Kat and the other girls who live there get fed. She does her chores. She reads. Catalina supposes it could be just a regular summer break for muggles. Still, she decides to come back the next day, just to make sure. She doesn’t know if she is happy she did or not, as she watches in horror a man supposedly there to teach Kat piano taking every chance instead to put his hands on her, with actions progressively less and less justified by him adjusting her posture. Catalina can feel herself vibrating with rage as Kat tries to surreptitiously dodge his attempts, orientating herself away, adjusting her stance or her clothes, standing still and showing no reaction as he encroaches on her space. A lightbulb hanging from the ceiling explodes. Catalina at first thinks that the relief she feels is because the man had stepped away from the younger girl...before realising it had been her. She had not had an episode of accidental magic since she had been a child. But she supposes that while stopping herself from cursing him, she had to channel her hate into something. The man finally leaves, but Kat remains sitting on the piano bench, immobile, fists clenched on her thighs. Catalina wonders why she is not rushing to leave the room too, but as the woman from the first day appears, she realises Kat had been waiting for her. ‘Mr Mannox said you were not cooperative. I’m doing you a favour by getting you private lessons. And don’t even try to start again with those baseless accusations of yours. Mr Mannox is an upstanding young man, and I won’t have you ruin his good name with your lies.’ She grabs Kat’s chin and tilts her head up so she is looking at her. ‘Do you understand me?’ ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Good. I expect to hear nothing but good things from him next week.’ Catalina thinks she might have established a speed record as she marches to the Floo point powered by pure, burning, rage. It has not diminished by the time she arrives at Hever Manor and she sets her eyes on Anne. ‘You!’ She shoves her. ‘How can you leave her there?’ ‘What are you talking about?’ The Slytherin is so taken aback by the outburst that she does not even complain about the manhandling. ‘You claim to love her, to protect her, and yet you leave her...there,’ Catalina spats. ‘Give me one good reason why I should not curse you right now.’ ‘First of all, because it’s illegal and you are in my house which would make it assault and a crime, and legally prosecutable. Not to mention that I still don’t know what the bloody hell you are talking about.’ ‘Kat. Or have you forgotten about her already?’ she snarls. The blood visibly drains from Anne’s face. ‘What do you know?’ ‘I know that if forgetting to pick her up or denying her dinner was not enough, that woman is letting that … animal near Kat, not believing Kat–’ she chokes, trembling with anger. ‘I know that if she was my cousin, I would never let her stay there.’ ‘Don’t you think I tried?!’ Anne explodes, her eyes watering. ‘I asked my parents to adopt her. To foster her. To kidnap her if that was what it took. But they refuse. Won’t lower themselves to ask a muggle and won’t risk their reputation by making the situation public. Or breaking laws. Or even just bending the rules a bit. As long as Agnes has the guardianship, they won’t do anything.’ ‘So you are leaving her there the whole summer?’ Catalina asks, horrified. ‘No! Look, I just came back, and they will keep a tight leash on me for a while. Couple of weeks and they will get tired as they always do, and I will go and pick Kat up and have her stay with me. Jane’s brother is home, and we want to keep Kat as far as possible from him.’ ‘That’s unacceptable.’ 'Listen, I would go and get her right now in this exact moment if I could. But I need to play the long game. If I play nice now, my parents will close an eye to me having her over for the rest of the summer. But the one time I tried to...well, they sent me to France the whole summer and Kat was stuck there. My hands are tied for now.’ Catalina storms out. She might accept Boleyn’s reasons, but she refuses to accept the situation. She won’t live with herself knowing she left Kat there without trying to help her. Keep it within the rules? She can do that. The next morning finds Catalina back in Horsham, looking nothing like herself thanks to another trip to the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for an ageing potion. Being meant for pranks it will not last long, but she trusts it will be enough. Add some Transfiguration spells to alter her appearance and it’s an older woman with short blonde hair and sharp facial features the one who asks to talk to Mrs Howard. That woman, Boleyn had called her Agnes, is quick to accept that she is an envoy from the Ministry wanting to take Kat away to keep an eye on her and make sure that her magic does not get her in troubles with non-magical folks. Catalina is not sure if her story is believable or if the woman is just eager to get rid of Kat. She signs the papers granting her temporary custody of the girl without a second glance and Catalina regrets having spent all night awake to craft a legally-sound looking document. Sure, she might be not of age yet, but with carefully worded phrases and mentions of her family, she is fully convinced that she has worded it in a way that would stand up to scrutiny...not that it will ever come to that. Nobody needs to know. She will take Kat away and get her to Boleyn. At that point nobody could complain that it was not legal because Catalina would have given her full permission. If Catalina had any doubt about what she was doing – and she had none – they would have disappeared while she waited for Kat to come downstairs after packing. She has been told to get her stuff together because she was leaving... no explanation, no questions, no choice. Agnes doesn’t even wait around to say goodbye, but she leaves them in the entrance with a warning to Kat not to bring further shame upon herself and to the family. At least Catalina doesn’t have to worry about potential breaches of the Statutes of Secrecy as she casts a Shrinking charm on Kat’s luggage. She has...borrowed one of her mother’s spare wands so that underage magic won’t get flagged. And Agnes is not around to witness the spell...not to mention that she already has knowledge of magic being Kat’s guardian. Previous guardian. ‘Don’t you want to know where we are going?’ Catalina asks as they leave the house. ‘Will it change anything? Do I have a choice?’ Kat’s reply is polite to a fault, yet pointed and defeated at the same time. ‘Of course!’ She stops. ‘It’s me, Catalina!’ ‘That explains why we are walking and not apparating,’ Kat comments, continuing to walk. ‘That’s all?’ She expected more of a reaction. ‘Where are we going?’ ‘I’m taking you to your cousin.’ ‘Which one?’ ‘Boleyn.’ ‘Does she know?’ Kat questions at her cautiously. ‘Not that I’m not grateful.’ ‘Not exactly. But look, she said the main problem was having you over without legal permission... and now, as your temporary guardian, I can grant that permission.’ Once they arrive at Hever Manor Catalina has to repeat that again to Anne, who – no matter how reluctant she is to show gratitude and appreciation for her ‘rival’ – can’t hide how happy she is to have her cousin with her, her arm never leaving the younger's girl shoulders since they have hugged upon arrival. She is still at Boleyn’s place when a silvery lioness appears. ‘Catalina de Trastámara y Trastámara, Infanta de Aragón y Castilla. Come. Home. Now. Me and your father need to talk to you. Ahora.’ ‘You just got fullnamed,’ Anne snickers. ‘Hope you aren’t into too much trouble,’ Kat instead sounds quite worried and Catalina suspects that her idea of trouble, and especially of punishment, is much different, and harsher, than what Catalina has ever experienced. ‘What did you even do?’ Anne asks, curiosity winning over. ‘I might have borrowed a wand...’ Anne looks reluctantly impressed, before schooling her face. ‘Better not to keep them waiting.’ Kat launches herself to hug Catalina. ‘Trastámara,’ Anne calls just as the Gryffindor, having thrown the Floo powder into the fireplace, is stepping into the green flames. ‘Thank you.’ ./././ ‘I thought I asked Kat to come.’ ‘And I thought I wouldn’t have to see you again until September and yet, here we are.’ ‘You didn’t have to come. Like I said, I asked Kat,’ Catalina repeats. ‘If you think I’d let her walk alone into the lions’ den, you are even crazier than I thought.’ ‘A Gryffindor joke? Really?’ ‘We appreciate family loyalty, don’t we, Catalina?’ The three girls turn, the presence of the two adults having gone unnoticed until then. ‘Miss Boleyn, it’s a pleasure to finally meet after hearing so much about you.’ Anne sends a suspicious glance towards Catalina. ‘And Katherine, lovely to meet you too. I’m Isabella, and this is my husband Ferdinando.’ Anne moves her eyes back to the adults, calculating and suspicious at why her cousin was Katherine and not Miss Howard, before getting distracted by Kat curtsying. ‘What are you doing??’ she hisses at her younger cousin. ‘I don’t know,’ Kat whispers back panicky. ‘They look like royalty and it felt right.’ Both adults chuckle, before the man speaks, ‘You might be wondering why we asked you to join us today.’ ‘Indeed, we are,’ is the polite answer Anne gives. Catalina is sure it is only because her parents are there. Had she said that, she has no doubts she would have gotten a far more colourful reply. ‘Katherine, do you know what this is?’ Isabella gestures with a hand towards the wall. ‘Family tapestry?’ Kat steps a bit closer. ‘Oh, you don’t have any burnt spots.’ ‘Burnt spots?’ the woman repeats, confused. Kat’s lips twitch at the thought that she sounds just like her daughter. Or more likely, Catalina sounds like her mum. ‘Yes, before I was sent to my step-grandmother’s house, I remember we used to have one like this. But some names could not be read, as if they were burnt off with cigarettes... now that I think about it, cigarettes probably can’t damage it, can they?’ she adds while looking at Anne, who grimaces and nods in confirmation. ‘Cigarettes?’ ‘But no, we might shun some, but we do not remove people from the family. And of course, we had hopes that it would expand one day, but you can imagine our surprise yesterday when we found that a new name appeared on the tapestry...’ ‘Is that...me?’ ‘Is it a joke?’ Anne asks at the same time, having noticed the name of her cousin on the family tree too. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to tamper with this kind of magic?’ Catalina scoffs. ‘But if it’s real, it means that your family magic recognises her.’ ‘We felt a change yesterday. Both of us. When we came home, we talked about it, as you can imagine, it’s not a common happenstance. And we could not figure it out. The last time we felt something like that was when my sister had her baby, but still, it felt different. So of course we came to check the tapestry. We thought perhaps a distant cousin had eloped or something...and here you were. That was why the family magic had awoken. What we felt was the magic awakening and expanding, as well as incorporating you–’ ‘How is it possible?’ ‘That’s what we wanted to know too. The line was connected to Catalina, so we called our dear daughter,’ Isabella sends a look to said girl, her tone a bit sarcastic, ‘and asked if she knew anything about it.’ Everyone stares at the Gryffindor. ‘You know the document Agnes signed?’ ‘It said nothing about blood adoption.’ Anne had read it to make sure that it was tight enough that her parents could not argue with it, and she had been impressed. Not that she would ever say so to Catalina. ‘How she spelled it, involving the family, promising protection and guidance...she unknowingly invoked an ancient ritual,’ Ferdinando explains. ‘What does that mean for me?’ Kat speaks up for the first time since the discovery. ‘It means you will never have to return to Chesworth House,’ Catalina tells her. ‘We understand you might want to stay with your cousin, but you will always have a place with us,’ Isabella continues. ‘In this family we take care of our own.’ ‘I can...clean. I can cook!’ ‘We have elves for that,’ Isabella gently, if a bit confused, points out. Kat suddenly looks panicked. ‘I can...’ Her eyes dart around wildly. ‘Sew!’ ‘You don’t need to do anything.’ ‘But then how will I earn my keep?’ Ferdinando looks at Anne, whose expression is understanding, if heartbroken. ‘Earn?’ ‘Yes, as my step-grandmother always says, she is not a charity and things are not free. You have to work if you want to eat.’ The three Trastámara stare at her dumbfounded. ‘Well,’ Isabella starts, clearing her throat. ‘We run things differently here. We consider it our duty to take care of Catalina...and now you. We might ask you to do chores or help out, like we do with Catalina, but food, clothes, every necessity...books, school supplies – Lina told us you are very smart – you will never lack. None of that will ever depend on you...earning your keep,’ she repeats the phrase with curled lips of disapproval. ‘Do you want to see the monkeys?’ Catalina says, noticing how overwhelmed Kat looks, and how she clearly has no idea of how to react. ‘Yes!’ She perks up. ‘Please!’ ‘Why don’t you show her around, where she will stay too?’ Isabella suggests. ‘I wouldn’t want to put Catalina out,’ Kat glances uncertain at the Gryffindor, as if to check how upset she is. ‘You will have your own room here. And in every other property that we own or visit,’ taking a guess at the misunderstanding, Ferdinando clears it up. ‘Really? All mine??’ Kat looks from one adult to the other, incredulous. ‘You can even choose which one you want,’ Isabella smiles at her. ‘Lina, you know which ones to show her?’ Catalina nods and starts to lead Kat away. ‘Annie, have you heard??’ Kat grabs her cousin and pulls her along. ‘My own room!’ ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ Ferdinando asks quietly once the door closes behind them. ‘We agreed.’ ‘I was talking about leaving Catalina with Miss Boleyn.’ ‘They have to start getting along, for Katherine’s sake. I’m sure they will behave,’ Isabella tells him, before waving her wand. ‘Mothers have eyes on the back of their head, but a little magic helps.’ She winks at her husband as the spell lets them listen to what is happening. ‘Will have to key it to Katherine too.’ ‘Just because you are helping Kat, it doesn’t mean I like you.’ They can hear Anne hissing. ‘Aw, but we are family now,’ Catalina’s tone is a mocking one. ‘Jane is my real cousin, and I still don’t like her.’ ‘I’m legally Kat’s parental figure,’ Catalina replies, mischief in her voice. ‘Don’t you dare.’ ‘So technically–’ ‘I’m going to kill you,’ Anne growls. ‘I’m your aunt,’ Catalina carries on, unfazed by the threat. ‘Annie! Looks at the monkeys!’	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610811	{"authors": ["kiarcheo"], "language": "English", "title": "Family Matters"}
Inheritance of Shadows Smoke drifted through the courtyard in thick, choking clouds, turning the air metallic with blood and ash. Spells still echoed faintly in the distance, but the battle was over. Voldemort lay defeated. The war was won. But Harry Potter was dead. Hermione’s knees hit the stone beside him before she’d even registered she was moving. “Harry,” she whispered, pushing back his messy hair with shaking fingers. “Harry, wake up. Please—wake up.” His glasses lay cracked beside him. His face was too still. Too pale. Too wrong. Ron hovered near Hermione, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His voice cracked. “He’ll be okay. He survived worse, didn’t he? He—he always comes back.” Hermione didn’t look up. “Not this time,” she said, barely breathing the words. “Not this time, Ron.” “What do we do?” Ron whispered. Hermione drew in a sharp breath, eyes hardening as she looked at the objects Harry had fought so long to unite. The Elder Wand. The Resurrection Stone. The Cloak. “Harry didn’t want them used again,” she said. “No one should ever wield this kind of power.” Ron nodded quickly. “Right. So let’s break ’em. Chuck ’em into the lake. Burn them.” Hermione lifted the Elder Wand. Even touching it felt wrong—cold, heavy, ancient. “I’ll destroy them,” she murmured. “For him.” Ron took a step back. “Be careful, Hermione. Please.” Hermione placed all three Hallows in a circle before her and raised her wand. “Finite Incantatem—” The ground trembled. A wind roared around them, swirling the Hallows off the stone floor. Hermione gasped as they rose into the air, spinning like they were caught in a vortex. Ron shouted, “Hermione, move!” The Hallows ignited into silver-white mist, a brilliant storm of magic that wrapped around Hermione’s arms, her chest, her throat—every inch of her. Her scream tore through the courtyard as the magic carved its way into her. Ron lunged forward, catching her by the shoulders. “Hermione! Talk to me! What’s happening?!” She collapsed against him, eyes glowing an unnatural, shimmering gold. Shadows rippled beneath her skin—alive, moving. Finally she looked up at Ron, chest heaving. “The Hallows didn’t break,” she whispered. “They chose me.” And then she fainted into Ron’s arms, the mist still sinking into her like ink.	Inheritance of Shadows Smoke drifted through the courtyard in thick, choking clouds, turning the air metallic with blood and ash. Spells still echoed faintly in the distance, but the battle was over. Voldemort lay defeated. The war was won. But Harry Potter was dead. Hermione’s knees hit the stone beside him before she’d even registered she was moving. “Harry,” she whispered, pushing back his messy hair with shaking fingers. “Harry, wake up. Please—wake up.” His glasses lay cracked beside him. His face was too still. Too pale. Too wrong. Ron hovered near Hermione, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His voice cracked. “He’ll be okay. He survived worse, didn’t he? He—he always comes back.” Hermione didn’t look up. “Not this time,” she said, barely breathing the words. “Not this time, Ron.” “What do we do?” Ron whispered. Hermione drew in a sharp breath, eyes hardening as she looked at the objects Harry had fought so long to unite. The Elder Wand. The Resurrection Stone. The Cloak. “Harry didn’t want them used again,” she said. “No one should ever wield this kind of power.” Ron nodded quickly. “Right. So let’s break ’em. Chuck ’em into the lake. Burn them.” Hermione lifted the Elder Wand. Even touching it felt wrong—cold, heavy, ancient. “I’ll destroy them,” she murmured. “For him.” Ron took a step back. “Be careful, Hermione. Please.” Hermione placed all three Hallows in a circle before her and raised her wand. “Finite Incantatem—” The ground trembled. A wind roared around them, swirling the Hallows off the stone floor. Hermione gasped as they rose into the air, spinning like they were caught in a vortex. Ron shouted, “Hermione, move!” The Hallows ignited into silver-white mist, a brilliant storm of magic that wrapped around Hermione’s arms, her chest, her throat—every inch of her. Her scream tore through the courtyard as the magic carved its way into her. Ron lunged forward, catching her by the shoulders. “Hermione! Talk to me! What’s happening?!” She collapsed against him, eyes glowing an unnatural, shimmering gold. Shadows rippled beneath her skin—alive, moving. Finally she looked up at Ron, chest heaving. “The Hallows didn’t break,” she whispered. “They chose me.” And then she fainted into Ron’s arms, the mist still sinking into her like ink.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610816?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["TellMoiATale"], "language": "English", "title": "Inheritance of Shadows"}
I'm Ugly, Disgusting, And Filthy For Sure Egbert didn't want to believe that it was his fault. Everything that had happened during SBURB, that is. It was unavoidable, he knew damn well that it was unavoidable. So goes the magic of Skaia, or whatever it was causing his suffering. It could've been Skaia, it could've been Doc Scratch, it could've been Lord English, it could've been The Condesce; it really could have been anything, overall it was just the game altogether. He had never tried to pinpoint one specific thing that caused his spiral, Egbert didn't care anymore — frankly, he was trying to repress all the memories the best that he could. It hadn't been working out in his favor, but that didn't stop him from continuing to attempt. It felt pathetic, and overall he knew it was in vain, but he just wanted to forget. He would do anything to be able to forget all of what he had witnessed. It was hurting him, and that had led to him hurting himself. All of that pain, all of that suffering, and for what? To try and save a universe that was doomed from the start? To try and create something where nothing was meant to be? All of that just to play a stupid game? He felt selfish; maybe he was. He gripped the counter in front of him tighter, taking a deep breath. He had just puked into his bathroom sink. He hadn't even been strong enough to make it to the toilet, and that only made him feel worse about himself. It had been mostly bile and water, couldn't recall the last time he had eaten something. His throat was raw and his mouth was tangy, and even breathing was simply irritating it more. It was still in the sink now, and he was staring directly down at it. It smelt vile, and it was. He could still taste it too. He wasn't sick, rather he figured the biohazard was coming from a place of stress, but this certainly wasn't the first time this had happened. He figured it wouldn't be the last either. He was about to the point where he was debating just giving up cleaning the sink altogether; was almost out of white vinegar to clean the drain anyway, and he didn't plan to leave his house to get more any time soon. The drain was already clogged anyway. He was just going to let it fester, he didn't have the energy to keep cleaning his illness anymore. Any normal person may consider that thought disgusting, he considered it rational. There was no point in fixing a problem if the problem was just going to come straight back to haunt you — Egbert figured he had learned that lesson the hard way. He slid down after a moment onto the bathroom floor, lazily flipping himself over to press his back against the cabinets. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, though not attempting to do it gently. He took a deep breath, though it was a meaningless effort to try and make himself feel better. He never wanted things to end like this. He would do anything to go back in time and prevent SBURB from ever being released, but that wasn't his power. He was the Breath guy, the windy guy. It seemed so silly in retrospect; though maybe that was what Egbert was meant to be. A pathetic mockery of a human being. It felt right to say. Everything just felt so hopeless now — ever since the Retcon. Right. The Retcon. It hit him in that moment. That was what the exact cause of all of his issues were — the Retcon. Everything had been bad, but that just made it worse. Witnessing everybody that he cared for die, seeing guts hanging out of stomachs and seeing blood pooling under the bodies of the innocent, seeing what happened to Terezi. He was bound to be destroyed after that, he felt stupid for not having this hit him sooner. He probably was stupid though, so he guessed it shouldn't come as much of a surprise that this point — he had never been one for hubris. I mean for fucks sake, at the moment he was preferring to sit in his own muck rather than just get up and clean. It wasn't that hard, he knew that, he just didn't have the energy. He didn't have the energy for much these days. He glanced down at his shirt, there was sick on it as well. When was the last time he had even done laundry? Probably way too long ago if he couldn't even remember it. It was putrid. HE was putrid. And this point getting better just felt like more of an obligation, so he had given up on trying to fix himself. He knew that it was worrying the people around him, but they had no idea how he felt. Sure, they had gone through SBURB with him, but none of them had gone through SBURB like he had. None of them would understand. Spare for Dave, maybe, but he certainly wasn't going to bring that up — Dave was notorious for being shit with his own feelings, Egbert couldn't imagine him trying to deal with other people as well. Egbert felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Speak of the devil. It took a bit of effort, his entire body still feeling weak and heavy, but he got his cellphone out. Just as he thought, it was a message from Dave. Something about asking to hang out? Egbert couldn't	I'm Ugly, Disgusting, And Filthy For Sure Egbert didn't want to believe that it was his fault. Everything that had happened during SBURB, that is. It was unavoidable, he knew damn well that it was unavoidable. So goes the magic of Skaia, or whatever it was causing his suffering. It could've been Skaia, it could've been Doc Scratch, it could've been Lord English, it could've been The Condesce; it really could have been anything, overall it was just the game altogether. He had never tried to pinpoint one specific thing that caused his spiral, Egbert didn't care anymore — frankly, he was trying to repress all the memories the best that he could. It hadn't been working out in his favor, but that didn't stop him from continuing to attempt. It felt pathetic, and overall he knew it was in vain, but he just wanted to forget. He would do anything to be able to forget all of what he had witnessed. It was hurting him, and that had led to him hurting himself. All of that pain, all of that suffering, and for what? To try and save a universe that was doomed from the start? To try and create something where nothing was meant to be? All of that just to play a stupid game? He felt selfish; maybe he was. He gripped the counter in front of him tighter, taking a deep breath. He had just puked into his bathroom sink. He hadn't even been strong enough to make it to the toilet, and that only made him feel worse about himself. It had been mostly bile and water, couldn't recall the last time he had eaten something. His throat was raw and his mouth was tangy, and even breathing was simply irritating it more. It was still in the sink now, and he was staring directly down at it. It smelt vile, and it was. He could still taste it too. He wasn't sick, rather he figured the biohazard was coming from a place of stress, but this certainly wasn't the first time this had happened. He figured it wouldn't be the last either. He was about to the point where he was debating just giving up cleaning the sink altogether; was almost out of white vinegar to clean the drain anyway, and he didn't plan to leave his house to get more any time soon. The drain was already clogged anyway. He was just going to let it fester, he didn't have the energy to keep cleaning his illness anymore. Any normal person may consider that thought disgusting, he considered it rational. There was no point in fixing a problem if the problem was just going to come straight back to haunt you — Egbert figured he had learned that lesson the hard way. He slid down after a moment onto the bathroom floor, lazily flipping himself over to press his back against the cabinets. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back, though not attempting to do it gently. He took a deep breath, though it was a meaningless effort to try and make himself feel better. He never wanted things to end like this. He would do anything to go back in time and prevent SBURB from ever being released, but that wasn't his power. He was the Breath guy, the windy guy. It seemed so silly in retrospect; though maybe that was what Egbert was meant to be. A pathetic mockery of a human being. It felt right to say. Everything just felt so hopeless now — ever since the Retcon. Right. The Retcon. It hit him in that moment. That was what the exact cause of all of his issues were — the Retcon. Everything had been bad, but that just made it worse. Witnessing everybody that he cared for die, seeing guts hanging out of stomachs and seeing blood pooling under the bodies of the innocent, seeing what happened to Terezi. He was bound to be destroyed after that, he felt stupid for not having this hit him sooner. He probably was stupid though, so he guessed it shouldn't come as much of a surprise that this point — he had never been one for hubris. I mean for fucks sake, at the moment he was preferring to sit in his own muck rather than just get up and clean. It wasn't that hard, he knew that, he just didn't have the energy. He didn't have the energy for much these days. He glanced down at his shirt, there was sick on it as well. When was the last time he had even done laundry? Probably way too long ago if he couldn't even remember it. It was putrid. HE was putrid. And this point getting better just felt like more of an obligation, so he had given up on trying to fix himself. He knew that it was worrying the people around him, but they had no idea how he felt. Sure, they had gone through SBURB with him, but none of them had gone through SBURB like he had. None of them would understand. Spare for Dave, maybe, but he certainly wasn't going to bring that up — Dave was notorious for being shit with his own feelings, Egbert couldn't imagine him trying to deal with other people as well. Egbert felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Speak of the devil. It took a bit of effort, his entire body still feeling weak and heavy, but he got his cellphone out. Just as he thought, it was a message from Dave. Something about asking to hang out? Egbert couldn't really see, his eyes were bleary and his head was light. It made sense. Egbert had agreed to go to his house to play some games about a week prior, but it never came to fruition because Egbert just couldn't manage to force himself out of bed. Couldn't force himself to even try to act like things were okay when he knew that they weren't. He knew that his friends were worried for him, and they very well had all the reason to be. If Egbert had to guess, this was probably a ploy to get him to go to some kind of party so he would be forced to interact with people. He didn't glorify Strider with a response, rather pulling the bathroom trash can closer to himself. The bag was almost overflowing with random junk, but Egbert didn't care. He pulled the bag out with a bit of a struggle, pulling it closed. He quickly tossed his phone into the now empty can, before dropping the bag down again. Out of sight, out of mind. There was probably a smarter way to go about that, like putting it in the cabinet or something, because he certainly was going to forget about it in about half an hour, but he didn't care. He knew he couldn't sit on his bathroom floor forever. Especially not with the puke directly about him — the odor was bound to start driving him insane eventually. But for right now, it was nice. The floor was cold, and he liked that. He found himself laying down after a moment. A bit unsanitary, but he didn't really care. He let out a small sigh. He was a bit more comfortable like this, at the very least. He didn't get that much living here. Hell, he didn't even like living in this house — it felt too cramped. He had debated asking his dad if he could move back in a few times, but he didn't want him worried. He didn't want to be a burden, either, and he already knew that he would be. He figured the more he stayed out of peoples lives, the better that it would be for them. He didn't want them worried about something as insignificant as he was anyway. He hated this. He hated being like this. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, digging his nails in. He wanted to rip his chest open and just pull himself apart — pull out anything he didn't like, turn himself into a new person. He knew it didn't work that way, but he'd be lying if he said that it wasn't the most tempting thing. He probably didn't have the strength to do it though, and that just made him feel worse. It was a good thing he couldn't hurt himself, but he wanted to. He felt like it was the only thing that would make him any form of whole again. Maybe he couldn't tear, but he could scratch. He lifted his shirt after a moment, not daring to look. He didn't want to admit he was really about to go THIS far. His nails met his skin. He dragged them across his stomach in a flash. And it hurt. It did. But something about it released a pressure off of Egberts shoulders immediately. It… didn't mean anything. It didn't have to mean anything. There was no blood, and he was only going to do it once. Once, and never again. … But it did make him feel better. That was all that mattered. He lowered his shirt again, before curling himself up into the fetal position, letting out a long breath. He still felt uncomfortable, and he could still smell the foul bile that lingered on his shirt and in the air, but it was… a little better. It didn't elevate the feeling of filth, though. He was disgusting, and he knew that. His phone started ringing in the trash can. He was going to be here for a while.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610826	{"authors": ["kittisaurous"], "language": "English", "title": "I'm Ugly, Disgusting, And Filthy For Sure"}
A World That was Evan hadn’t expected adapting to the wasteland to be easy. But he also didn’t expect it to be this hard either. He hadn’t slept most nights. Between the radiation sickness that left him feverish and delirious, to the raider attacks that had him nearly collapsing from exhaustion, it was nearly impossible for him to get a good night’s rest. Then there was Preston. Preston Garvey had insisted on inserting himself into every situation Evan had without even giving Evan a chance to tell him to go away. Evan would never complain out loud. Of course. Preston was the heart and soul of Sanctuary Hills, and that made him an extremely important figure amongst the people here. So it wouldn’t do Evan any good to get on their bad side. And despite all that. Evan was suffering. On good days, his head spun so bad he couldn’t stand. On the worst days, he was too weak to get out of bed. He was assured by multiple people that he was just getting used to the radiation in the air. Which was wild to Evan, since back in the day, radiation wasn’t something scientists ever encouraged people to “get used to”. But honestly, the radiation sickness wasn’t the worst part. It was the thoughts. Some days, he’d catch himself staring up at the hill, where he knew the vault was, and he’d fantasise about walking into that place, and going to sleep for the rest of his life. As the sun drew further down the horizon, Evan realised that he hadn’t left his bed all day. His head was throbbing, his chest tight and his limbs felt like lead, not to mention he hadn’t kept down anything for the last week. The bed was barely comfortable, and Evan missed his old bed, the one that was destroyed many years ago. Preston was knelt beside him, a cloth pressed in his hand, which he’d been using to help ease Evan’s fever, and the throbbing behind his skull. Again, Preston had inserted himself into the situation without giving Evan a chance to protest. Which was both sweet, and very, very infuriating. “Your fever’s not getting any better, man.” Evan scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You’ve literally had my tongue down your throat, and the best pet-name you can come up with is Man?” Evan tried to sit up, but everything in his body told him not to. Preston pressed a firm hand to Evan’s shoulder. “You need to lie down. You aren’t going to get better if you keep jumping out of bed. This kind of healing takes time.” Again, Evan rolled his eyes. “To my knowledge, no one else has been as sick from the radiation as I have been.” Preston sighed and dabbed the cloth against Evan’s forehead. The water dripped down Evan’s face, it was refreshing, and nice, it managed to dull the aching that pulsed behind his eyes and forced the ringing in his ears to take a break. “Your from a time that didn’t have so much stuff in the air, I’m pretty sure you didn’t have to deal with the kind of rads we do now. Nora went through it too. I know she did, even if she won’t admit it.” Preston leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Evan’s nose. His eyes locked with Evan’s, but it only lasted a moment. Things had been weirdly tense between them. They had a few nice moments together, but between a lack of privacy, and everything going on in Evan’s head, there hadn’t been much time for… feelings. Evan felt awful for it, adding to the list of things to feel awful about, he liked Preston, he really did, but Preston was a busy man, he liked to help people. And Evan felt like that was all he was, someone Preston could help. He was scared. The moment Evan got his shit sorted, Preston would find the next person that needed him, and discard Evan like last year’s Christmas gift. Which Evan still hadn’t figured out if Preston celebrated, they didn’t really have dates. It could have been Christmas for all Evan knew, and he had just been here, in bed, nearly dying. “How are you feeling?” Preston’s voice went soft, careful, like he was talking so someone on the brink of sanity. And to be fair. He was. Evan laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His blond curls framed his face in a way that made him look angelic, which would have been cute, but Evan also felt like he was dying. “My mouth tastes like vomit, my head hurts, my stomach hurts, I feel tired, and I’m really hungry, but I can’t keep anything down.” He breathed. Preston looked frustrated. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He lightly and playfully smacked Evan with his damp cloth. But then, quickly went back to being gentle, as he pressed his hand into Evan’s palm. “How has this all been for you, the change, the… the…” He paused, no one really knew what to call Evan’s situation. Displacement? That never seemed right, because Evan was in his home, where he was supposed to be, he was just in the wrong time. But Preston stuck with that word, because it was the only word that seemed right. “Displacement.” Evan wanted to pretend he didn’t hear Preston. It was easier to ignore it than confront it after all. But he also needed to tell	A World That was Evan hadn’t expected adapting to the wasteland to be easy. But he also didn’t expect it to be this hard either. He hadn’t slept most nights. Between the radiation sickness that left him feverish and delirious, to the raider attacks that had him nearly collapsing from exhaustion, it was nearly impossible for him to get a good night’s rest. Then there was Preston. Preston Garvey had insisted on inserting himself into every situation Evan had without even giving Evan a chance to tell him to go away. Evan would never complain out loud. Of course. Preston was the heart and soul of Sanctuary Hills, and that made him an extremely important figure amongst the people here. So it wouldn’t do Evan any good to get on their bad side. And despite all that. Evan was suffering. On good days, his head spun so bad he couldn’t stand. On the worst days, he was too weak to get out of bed. He was assured by multiple people that he was just getting used to the radiation in the air. Which was wild to Evan, since back in the day, radiation wasn’t something scientists ever encouraged people to “get used to”. But honestly, the radiation sickness wasn’t the worst part. It was the thoughts. Some days, he’d catch himself staring up at the hill, where he knew the vault was, and he’d fantasise about walking into that place, and going to sleep for the rest of his life. As the sun drew further down the horizon, Evan realised that he hadn’t left his bed all day. His head was throbbing, his chest tight and his limbs felt like lead, not to mention he hadn’t kept down anything for the last week. The bed was barely comfortable, and Evan missed his old bed, the one that was destroyed many years ago. Preston was knelt beside him, a cloth pressed in his hand, which he’d been using to help ease Evan’s fever, and the throbbing behind his skull. Again, Preston had inserted himself into the situation without giving Evan a chance to protest. Which was both sweet, and very, very infuriating. “Your fever’s not getting any better, man.” Evan scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You’ve literally had my tongue down your throat, and the best pet-name you can come up with is Man?” Evan tried to sit up, but everything in his body told him not to. Preston pressed a firm hand to Evan’s shoulder. “You need to lie down. You aren’t going to get better if you keep jumping out of bed. This kind of healing takes time.” Again, Evan rolled his eyes. “To my knowledge, no one else has been as sick from the radiation as I have been.” Preston sighed and dabbed the cloth against Evan’s forehead. The water dripped down Evan’s face, it was refreshing, and nice, it managed to dull the aching that pulsed behind his eyes and forced the ringing in his ears to take a break. “Your from a time that didn’t have so much stuff in the air, I’m pretty sure you didn’t have to deal with the kind of rads we do now. Nora went through it too. I know she did, even if she won’t admit it.” Preston leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Evan’s nose. His eyes locked with Evan’s, but it only lasted a moment. Things had been weirdly tense between them. They had a few nice moments together, but between a lack of privacy, and everything going on in Evan’s head, there hadn’t been much time for… feelings. Evan felt awful for it, adding to the list of things to feel awful about, he liked Preston, he really did, but Preston was a busy man, he liked to help people. And Evan felt like that was all he was, someone Preston could help. He was scared. The moment Evan got his shit sorted, Preston would find the next person that needed him, and discard Evan like last year’s Christmas gift. Which Evan still hadn’t figured out if Preston celebrated, they didn’t really have dates. It could have been Christmas for all Evan knew, and he had just been here, in bed, nearly dying. “How are you feeling?” Preston’s voice went soft, careful, like he was talking so someone on the brink of sanity. And to be fair. He was. Evan laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His blond curls framed his face in a way that made him look angelic, which would have been cute, but Evan also felt like he was dying. “My mouth tastes like vomit, my head hurts, my stomach hurts, I feel tired, and I’m really hungry, but I can’t keep anything down.” He breathed. Preston looked frustrated. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He lightly and playfully smacked Evan with his damp cloth. But then, quickly went back to being gentle, as he pressed his hand into Evan’s palm. “How has this all been for you, the change, the… the…” He paused, no one really knew what to call Evan’s situation. Displacement? That never seemed right, because Evan was in his home, where he was supposed to be, he was just in the wrong time. But Preston stuck with that word, because it was the only word that seemed right. “Displacement.” Evan wanted to pretend he didn’t hear Preston. It was easier to ignore it than confront it after all. But he also needed to tell someone. “I hate it here.” Evan’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, but it’s all I can say. I hate it. I want to go back. I want to go home.” Despite what Evan thought was going to happen, Preston didn’t try and stop him. Didn’t try to tell him that he was already home, didn’t try to tell him that things would get better, he just squeezed Evan’s hand and stroked his hair out of his face. “I’m sorry.” He murmured. “Is there anything I can do?” Evan didn’t answer, not right away anyway. He rolled on his side, tugging his hand out of Preston’s grip, his back was to Preston, and he kept on crying. “No.” He muttered, hoarse and fragile. “Just… Just leave me alone for a while.” Preston didn’t argue. He knew better. He stood, looked over Evan for a while, and left the room they were in. ~~~ “He’s not talking to me about it.” Preston sat at the bar with Nora, a beer bottle that had long since gone hot in his hand. “Every time I try to ask how he’s doing, he either dodges the question, or breaks down. I want to help him, but he’s making it impossible.” Preston looked at the Sole Survivor, her dark eyes and pale skin looked almost ghostly in the fluorescent light. Nora didn’t judge, not usually, so that judgemental look she gave Preston was quite scary. “Have you ever taken into consideration that he is giving you an answer. He said he hates it here. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe he is telling you what you need to know. You just don’t like his answer.” She took a swig out of her own beer, downing her fourth bottle of the night like it was nothing. “Cait’s not a good influence on you.” Preston folded his arms against his chest. Nora rolled her eyes. But she kept talking. “Evan had a life before all of this. He probably had a family, a job, friends. Things that people don’t really value in this world were things he probably loved. This world is different. I know how it feels. It’s scary. I’m still scared sometimes.” Her breath came out shaky. Preston looked the woman up and down. “But you came to accept the changes in the world. How?” Nora looked at him for a second, a flicker of disgust flashed across her face. Before it became softer, more understanding. “I had something to focus on. In my quest to find my son… I was so focused on him that I completely missed how much the world had changed, and before I knew it I had come to accept the world for what it was.” Preston swallowed. “What else does he have to focus on? Other than… the world.” Nora shrugged, her confidence wavered. “That’s the problem. You can’t force something like that onto him. He’s scared, Preston, and he has every right to be. Compared to the world he’s from, this world is awful.” She fidgeted with her beer bottle, “And honestly, his choice in company leaves much to be desired.” Preston felt that burn so hot, he nearly needed an ice pack. “What do you mean?” Nora shrugged. But spoke anyway. “You and I have done this dance before, Preston, and I have realised, through absolutely no fault of your own, you aren’t the most… affectionate person.” She had gotten another beer. “You tend to keep people, even those you care about, at arm’s length, you treat them as projects, as something to fix, to help. In a friend, those qualities are great, but as a lover, a partner…” She trailed off, “I don’t think it’s what he needs. He needs someone who can treat him like a partner, an equal, not an object that’s broken.” Preston felt his face flush. In a world where everything was broken or breaking, there needed to be someone who could hold it all together. Preston had dedicated his life to fixing problems. To helping those around him, because it’s what the Minutemen did. It was what he wanted to do. To make the world a little better every day. He thought that was what Evan needed. Someone to fix his problems, someone to hold him together. But maybe what he really needed was someone to collect the pieces and keep them safe when they shattered. Not someone who would put him together, not someone who would keep him from breaking, someone who would let him break and let him piece himself together when he was ready. Preston hadn’t really thought about it that way. He had always thought that everything needed to be okay. It needed to be right. Fixed. He pushed his chair back, his head filled with a new perspective of what he could do. Then he heard screaming. Everyone stood, some readied weapons, some looked like they were going to run, but Preston recognised that scream. Even if he’d never heard it before, he knew. “Evan.” His voice came out as a strangled breath as he sprinted from his seat. They weren’t far from where he’d left Evan, he hadn’t meant to leave for too long, but time seemed to get away from him. When he got to the house Evan had been staying in, the house Evan had claimed to be his before the bombs went off. Evan was being held back by Cait, originally and Irish cage fighter, and another settler that Preston had honestly forgotten the name of. Evan was thrashing, his eyes wild and crazy. His face was covered in salt, sweat and tears. His chest was moving fast, frenzied and panicked. “Let me go!” He cried out. “Let me go!” Nora ran up behind Preston, but Preston pushed her back. “Let him go Cait.” “If I let ‘im go, he’ll tear this place apart.” She struggled against him. Nora drew in a sharp breath. “Let him go, Cait.” She repeated. Cait looked like she was going to protest, but she did as she was told. The moment Evan was let go, he looked around, dazed and confused. He wasn’t here right now. Wasn’t present in the moment. He fell to his hands and knees. His body shuddered, his chest heaved with every breath. “I want to go home.” He repeated, his voices frantic and breathy, “I want to go home, I want to go home.” Preston took a careful step forward. He knelt down in front of Evan, there were quite a few people watching. Preston gave Nora a pleading look, a look that seemed to tell her everything she needed to know. She clapped her hands, which made Evan flinch, “Alright everyone. Shows over, let’s leave him alone now.” Everyone listened, some better than others, and they moved out. Evan was still muttering to himself, crying to go home. When they were finally alone, Preston placed a hand on Evan’s shoulder and carefully lifted him to face him. Evan’s eyes were hollow, gone. Void of all emotion. Preston wrapped his arms under Evan’s and pulled him into a hug. Evan didn’t move, didn’t react, just stayed there. “Please,” Preston pleaded. “Just tell me what you need. I’ll do anything to make this easier for you.” He pressed his nose into the crook of Evan’s neck. Evan’s voice was uneven, shaky from crying. “I need to go home.” Preston felt his heart break. Evan was home, this was his home. But it wasn’t not anymore. Not in the way Evan wanted it to be. “I’m sorry.” He squeezed Evan tighter. “I can’t take you home.” Evan’s face pressed against Preston’s shoulder. Preston felt the tears burn hot against his own skin. “Then kill me.” Preston felt everything leave his body. His soul, his heart, everything. “Hey, don’t say that. We can figure this out. I will be right there. If you need me to hold you so you don’t break, I can, if you need me to pick up the pieces and put you back together, I can, just tell me what you need.” Evan didn’t answer. Preston felt Evan’s body tense, felt his breathing grow more erratic. Then he felt Evan’s shoulder move. Preston felt down to Evan’s hand. His stomach dropped. “Evan. No.” Evan pulled back from him. His eyes hollow and lifeless. In his hand was a pipe pistol, crudely fashioned, sure, it wasn’t the most effective weapon, but it didn’t need to be effective for Evan to make his point. Luckily, Preston’s reflexes were quicker than Evan’s hollowed out state. He swiped the pistol from Evan’s hand and threw it back. “Just breathe, breathe. It’s okay.” Preston pulled Evan back in for a hug. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight. Okay. I’ll stay right beside you.” Evan didn’t answer. ~~~ The night grew dark. Quiet in the way that felt mocking. A fake peace that made Evan’s blood boil. Then the sun started rising, the soft glow of the first rays of sun should have been beautiful, but to Evan, they were the most offensive sight he’d ever seen. Just as he’d said, Preston didn’t leave Evan alone. Evan should have been thankful, but it wasn’t Preston’s choice. Evan had everything taken from him. Everything he knew was gone. Everything he had ever worked for was stripped away. Some optimists would call this ‘a fresh start’, but Evan called it torture. It wasn’t fair. Evan didn’t want to live in a world like this. Didn’t want to be forced to constantly fight for his life, to live in a world where every day might be his last. He liked his life before. Liked the world he lived in. It wasn’t Preston’s choice whether Evan lived or died. But Preston had made it pretty clear when he’d locked away any weapon that Evan had access to and refused to leave the house even when Evan pretended, pretty convincingly to be asleep. Now, Evan lie awake, Preston had squeezed into the bed beside Evan, Evan was pressed right against the wall, and it felt too cramped. Maybe it was his way of stopping Evan from sneaking out. But judging by the way Evan simply crawled out of bed, it wasn’t very effective. Most people were still asleep, and the few guards that were awake, said nothing of Preston walking straight out of the gates. Preston wasn’t sure why he was going back, but there was something that just told him to. Something that made it all feel so compelling. Something that made him feel like he needed to go back there. Preston had thought he’d taken all of Evan’s weapons, but he missed the pocketknife Evan kept. Obviously, Evan had told Preston that it wasn’t a pocketknife, it was a “multi-tool” which had kept Preston relatively calm, he hadn’t checked, he probably didn’t want to give Evan the idea he didn’t trust him. Evan smiled a little, not at Preston’s foolishness, but that Preston was trying. And Evan had betrayed that trust. It wasn’t fair, but he’d learned that things rarely are nowadays. He reached the top of the hill, where the vault was. Evan felt everything in his body go numb, figuratively. Suddenly he just felt like he was a stranger, filling in someone else’s roll in life. His eyes hurt from crying. Evan had nearly never cried. But now, he was crying nearly every day. God. How he’d fallen. He opened the vault door, he actually didn’t expect it to work, but it did. The elevator took him down, and he managed to find his way through the vault. Until he found what he was looking for. The room this all started in. The cryo pods. This was where he’d woken. There was a chill in the air. Evan wasn’t sure if it was fever or if the room was just cold. Evan walked the length of the pods, most of them were empty, some had skeletons in, but Evan found what he was looking for. The one pod that was open. The moment he saw it, his knees buckled. Evan wasn’t sure what he was expecting, coming down here. He gripped the sides of the metal outside. Thoughts rushed through his head. “Stop.” He cried to himself. “Don’t do this to me.” Tears fell down the cheeks. The thoughts wouldn’t stop. The life he could have had, the world he could be living in. The time that was taken from him. It all kept flashing before his eyes. Memories of friendships he’d made, of people he wanted to talk to again. Of projects he never got the chance to finish. He needed to make them stop. He couldn’t do this. Not anymore. His breath came out hard and fast. His knuckles gripped the edges of the pod, and he bought his head down against the steel sides, once, then twice, then a third time. “Stop!” He screamed again, trying to will the thoughts out of his mind. But it wasn’t working. He smashed his head against it so many times his vision was starting to blur. “I don’t want to be here!” He screamed into the nothingness as something thick began dripping down his face. “I just want to go home.” ~~~ Preston woke to a cold bed. That wasn’t how he wanted his morning to go. He’d pinned Evan against the wall, so he’d feel if Evan tried to sneak out. Maybe he wasn’t as light a sleeper as he’d originally thought. Preston threw himself out of bed, he looked everywhere, but Evan wasn’t anywhere. Nora was under the pavilion, a structure she’d build on the foundation next to their workbenches, that was where they served food and did most of their trading. Everyone was lined up ready for breakfast, and Nora, still half asleep, was ushering people into line and trying to keep everyone from being at each other’s throats. When she saw Preston’s expression however, that seemed to be the last thing on her mind. She stepped away and dragged Preston with her. “What’s wrong?” She hissed in an angry whisper. “It’s too early for you to be freaking out.” “Evan’s gone.” He croaked. Nora’s eyes widened. “What do you mean gone?” Her grip tightened around Preston’s arm. “He wasn’t in bed when I woke up, and I’ve checked everywhere.” Nora dropped Preston’s arms. “Supplies? Have you checked inventory? Did he take anything.” “Nothing’s been taken.” Preston’s voice was heavy. Nora looked away from Preston. “Shit.” She hissed, her tone breathy and hard. “That means he’s out there somewhere, unarmed, sick and with no supplies.” She looked at Preston, her eyes blazing with something that made him feel a little nervous. “Did he mention anything to you last night. Anything about where he might go.” Preston shook his head. “He was pretty out of it last night. I thought we could take about it in the morning. Obviously not.” Nora scrubbed a hand down her face. She was more worked up over this then Preston thought she’d be. “There’s only one other place I think he might go. And honestly I’m not even sure he’s there, but it’s our best bet.” She sighed. “Where?” Preston stiffened. “The vault.” ~~~ Evan’s vision was blurring, blood stained his fingertips, his head hurt again. For reasons unrelated to his radiation sickness. He gripped the edges of the pod, tears stung his eyes. He was awake because of sheer anger. Nothing else. He tried to stand, but his legs felt like jelly. He screamed again. He cried and smashed his head against the steel, he didn’t know why he was doing this. What he was going to get out of this. Honestly, he didn’t want to be here. He hoped that maybe the pain would be enough to convince himself that none of this was worth it anymore. “Evan!” A voice, frantic and worried called his name. “Evan.” Evan didn’t bother looking, didn’t bother forcing himself to see Preston’s face. He’d be disappointed, tell him off for doing this. Evan slammed his head one more time. He could feel his blood dripping down his face, his breath was heavy, and he could only take in air through hiccupping breaths that barely did anything. Preston knelt beside Evan, his hands firm as they pulled Evan back. Evan’s tears fell harder, faster. He tried to pull away, but there was part of his body that had lost all the will to fight. Part of his body that didn’t want to fight. Evan didn’t want to give in to it all. He wanted to keep fighting. “Hey, it’s okay.” Preston’s voice was soft against Evan’s ears. “Are you okay?” Preston’s thumb brushed against the wound on Evan’s forehead. Evan screamed again. “Please. Stop. Stop it.” He pleaded. “I just want to go home.” He let out. “I want to go home.” The tears mingled with the blood that had run down his cheek, and Evan felt his entire body lose everything it had. He was tired. He was sick. He didn’t want to be here. Preston let out a soft, apologetic sigh. “You can’t go home. Not to the home you had. But we can make a home. Please. Just tell me what you need. I want you to feel like you are home.” Evan shifted in Preston’s arms. He pressed his face into Preston’s chest and did what he’s wanted to do since he’d stepped foot in this wasteland. Cried. Not in the way he’d already had. In the way he wished he’d done earlier. Crying for the friends he missed. The family he’d lost. The dreams that were crushed. He cried for them all. Deep, harrowing sobs left his body, shaking him, tearing out of him. Preston didn’t say anything, he just held Evan for what felt like hours. “I don’t want to do this anymore.” Evan cried out. “I can’t. I want it back. I want to go back.” He gripped the fabric of Preston’s coat, “Please just let me go back. Don’t make me stay here. I’m not like Nora. I’m not strong. I’m not persistent. I give up when things get too hard. I cry when I don’t get my way. I don’t belong in a world like this. So please. Please, Preston. Don’t make me stay.” Preston pulled Evan back from him so he could look him in the eyes. “I can’t do that.” Evan’s face twisted. “I’m not someone else you have to save, Preston. I know what I want.” Things were starting to get heated. Not in the good way. “Really?” Preston spat, “What about what everyone else wants? What about what I want?” He felt his mouth dry up when he said that. Oh god. “I don’t know what I would do if I let it end here. You can have a life here Evan. You can find something to fight for. Just let me be there.” He pressed his nose into the back of Evan’s neck so the two of them looked like a ball. “I don’t want to save you, I’m not trying to be a hero, I’m doing this because I genuinely care about you.” Evan let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t know that.” His voice was starting to slur. “You’ve known me less than six weeks, and you’ve had to deal with my bullshit.” Preston didn’t say anything to that. He just held Evan. Rubbed his back and shushed him when he started sobbing again. “Let’s get out of here, we’ll get your head looked at, then we can talk some more. Just… Don’t give up on me yet.” Evan leaned into Preston even more. His breathing was still erratic. His chest still rose and fell with too little precision, but he managed to make himself nod. “Just… don’t let go.” Preston didn’t. He lifted Evan from the ground, and managed to get him on Preston’s back. Preston was glad for the elevator. He might’ve just left Evan down there if he had to climb stairs, or a ladder. Nora and Cait were waiting outside for Preston. Their hands were intertwined. “How is he?” Nora stepped forward, dragging Cait beside her. “I’m okay.” Evan mumbled. His words flat. “Can we go?” He pressed his face harder into Preston’s coat. “Yeah. Let’s get you back.” Preston gently brushed his hand against Evan’s. Evan looked up, his eyes were struggling to adjust to the light. Everything was so heavy. He still didn’t want to do this. But maybe, maybe this was worth a try.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610831	{"authors": ["Funtimefrnzy"], "language": "English", "title": "A World That was"}
All the Candles When both her men cashed in their respective blowjobs during the afternoon she'd known she was in for a long night. Just how long, however, she hadn't realised until she stepped into her bedroom to find Will already waiting on her with a pile of ropes by his side. 'All the candles' turned out to be even worse than she'd anticipated. Gritting her teeth, she did her best to breathe through the sensation of another rivulet of molten wax trickling down her wrist. It curled around her forearm, making it halfway to her elbow before stopping, solidifying into a warm, pale line like each of its predecessors hugging her skin. Standing in the red and gold underwear he'd chosen for her as he created a corset around her waist with his ropes hadn't been too bad, each row perfectly aligned with a focus that sometimes still impressed her. Their dark green colour, on the other hand, had made her feel like a mockery of a Christmas tree, and she'd considered herself very nice for only rolling her eyes at it when he couldn't see it. That had been before he'd ordered her to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of his armchair to tie her arms and legs in place. And certainly before he fastened any candles in the knots he made along the way. Both her arms were coated in a river of wax, the tall candles in her hands having covered her palms in a warm, heavy layer. How long ago, she didn't know, time having become inconsequential after Will lit each of the candles with a far too merry look on his face. With her hands kept elevated by the ropes wrapped around her arms, holding them still in front of her, she couldn't even rely on her body to estimate the time. Only the slowly melting wax indicated any progression of time, and watching it was a torture in and of itself. Every little drop teasing at the rim was equally as maddening as the last, keeping her waiting, dragging the moment out until she could barely stand it anymore before rushing down and splattering fiery heat across her skin. She'd considered herself lucky for not being blindfolded, but by now she was certain that Will knew exactly what he was doing when he let her keep her sight. One of the candles on her right thigh was close to spilling over. Molten wax pooled under the dancing flame, increasing little by little, bulging under the surface tension. The rim of the candle began to collapse, slowly caving in under the relentless heat. Her breath disappeared with it. She steeled herself, locking her limbs in place in preparation of the sting to avoid- The very moment the blistering heat landed on her thigh she jumped, her body straining against the unyielding ropes keeping her in place. And at the very same moment all the molten wax cupped in all six candles on her thighs rushed over the edges, splattering across her skin in a firework of pain. She cried out, the sound twisting into a bright mewl that rang in her ears as she rocked back and forth under the burn. White covered her vision, the pain digging deeper and deeper, never decreasing, relentlessly going on and on and on until she was certain it would drive her out of her mind. First when a chuckle broke through her misery did she find the control to sit still again. Pain still bloomed across her skin, the solidifying wax keeping the heat captured under its heavy surface, twisting, swirling through her body until the sharp streaks softened into strands of tingling, toe-curling pleasure. Squirming, she bit her lip against the heat building in her core. The sudden pain might be unbearable at first, but the wax solidifying on her skin, the all-encompassing, warm embrace it offered after was so very appealing. And Will knew it. There was another chuckle, mocking this time, and she raised her head to send him a glare. The dark look in his eyes, however, made the frustration within her cower, capitulating and instead reddening her cheeks. He knew it very well. Smugness was rolling off him in waves, his lips curled into the most annoying grin and oh, how she wished for her brain to work at its usual speed so she come up with a retort that would wipe the look off his face. Instead she settled for glaring at him harder. Will wasn't the slightest bit intimidated by her glare. In a showy move that made dozens of useless insults well up on her tongue he settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and only the knowledge that her body would ache enough tomorrow as it was from all her struggling kept her from letting them loose. But he noticed them. She could see in his eyes how he read each and every one of them off her face. Before he could say anything about it the door opened, and she was certain her husband had never had a more impeccable timing than right now. Closing the door behind him, Nikola took his time running his eyes across her tortured state. She swallowed as he lingered on the thick layers of wax, on the candles that rapidly were creating new pools of pain to splatter across her skin. When she	All the Candles When both her men cashed in their respective blowjobs during the afternoon she'd known she was in for a long night. Just how long, however, she hadn't realised until she stepped into her bedroom to find Will already waiting on her with a pile of ropes by his side. 'All the candles' turned out to be even worse than she'd anticipated. Gritting her teeth, she did her best to breathe through the sensation of another rivulet of molten wax trickling down her wrist. It curled around her forearm, making it halfway to her elbow before stopping, solidifying into a warm, pale line like each of its predecessors hugging her skin. Standing in the red and gold underwear he'd chosen for her as he created a corset around her waist with his ropes hadn't been too bad, each row perfectly aligned with a focus that sometimes still impressed her. Their dark green colour, on the other hand, had made her feel like a mockery of a Christmas tree, and she'd considered herself very nice for only rolling her eyes at it when he couldn't see it. That had been before he'd ordered her to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of his armchair to tie her arms and legs in place. And certainly before he fastened any candles in the knots he made along the way. Both her arms were coated in a river of wax, the tall candles in her hands having covered her palms in a warm, heavy layer. How long ago, she didn't know, time having become inconsequential after Will lit each of the candles with a far too merry look on his face. With her hands kept elevated by the ropes wrapped around her arms, holding them still in front of her, she couldn't even rely on her body to estimate the time. Only the slowly melting wax indicated any progression of time, and watching it was a torture in and of itself. Every little drop teasing at the rim was equally as maddening as the last, keeping her waiting, dragging the moment out until she could barely stand it anymore before rushing down and splattering fiery heat across her skin. She'd considered herself lucky for not being blindfolded, but by now she was certain that Will knew exactly what he was doing when he let her keep her sight. One of the candles on her right thigh was close to spilling over. Molten wax pooled under the dancing flame, increasing little by little, bulging under the surface tension. The rim of the candle began to collapse, slowly caving in under the relentless heat. Her breath disappeared with it. She steeled herself, locking her limbs in place in preparation of the sting to avoid- The very moment the blistering heat landed on her thigh she jumped, her body straining against the unyielding ropes keeping her in place. And at the very same moment all the molten wax cupped in all six candles on her thighs rushed over the edges, splattering across her skin in a firework of pain. She cried out, the sound twisting into a bright mewl that rang in her ears as she rocked back and forth under the burn. White covered her vision, the pain digging deeper and deeper, never decreasing, relentlessly going on and on and on until she was certain it would drive her out of her mind. First when a chuckle broke through her misery did she find the control to sit still again. Pain still bloomed across her skin, the solidifying wax keeping the heat captured under its heavy surface, twisting, swirling through her body until the sharp streaks softened into strands of tingling, toe-curling pleasure. Squirming, she bit her lip against the heat building in her core. The sudden pain might be unbearable at first, but the wax solidifying on her skin, the all-encompassing, warm embrace it offered after was so very appealing. And Will knew it. There was another chuckle, mocking this time, and she raised her head to send him a glare. The dark look in his eyes, however, made the frustration within her cower, capitulating and instead reddening her cheeks. He knew it very well. Smugness was rolling off him in waves, his lips curled into the most annoying grin and oh, how she wished for her brain to work at its usual speed so she come up with a retort that would wipe the look off his face. Instead she settled for glaring at him harder. Will wasn't the slightest bit intimidated by her glare. In a showy move that made dozens of useless insults well up on her tongue he settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and only the knowledge that her body would ache enough tomorrow as it was from all her struggling kept her from letting them loose. But he noticed them. She could see in his eyes how he read each and every one of them off her face. Before he could say anything about it the door opened, and she was certain her husband had never had a more impeccable timing than right now. Closing the door behind him, Nikola took his time running his eyes across her tortured state. She swallowed as he lingered on the thick layers of wax, on the candles that rapidly were creating new pools of pain to splatter across her skin. When she thought she couldn't take it anymore, her cheeks feeling almost as warm as the flames that were the cause of her misery, he finally sauntered into the room. She couldn't find it in herself to meet his eyes. To watch him notice the scent of her arousal that had been steadily increasing the longer the torture continued. He paused by her side, and when he sank to his haunches she let her head dip forwards, doing her best to focus on the candle in her right hand. It was close to welling over now. Maybe if she tilted her hand slightly to the side she'd be able to make the wax stay on top of the layers already coating her skin? The pull on her braid tugged her head back. She kept her eyes on the mocking dance of the flame, ignoring his presence until the grip on her hair made her eyes water. She caved. How did they always manage to make her cave? And just like she'd thought, the smirk on his lips was almost as frustrating as Will's. He held her there for a moment, daring her to say something. She pressed her lips together tightly. It was enough to make him chuckle, and loosening his grip he leaned forwards, mindful of the candles in her hands as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "You look utterly resplendent when you suffer." Her laugh came out close to a sob, the reality of her current position hitting her once more. They did so enjoy making her suffer. And she enjoyed them enjoying her suffering far more than what was reasonable. The warmth with which her husband kept looking at her made her stomach flutter. With a brief — far too brief — stroke of his knuckles against her cheek he rose, walking over to his armchair. Floating in the comfort his touch had offered she closed her eyes, soaking up Will's murmured agreement to his comment. The delight of knowing she was pleasing them raced up her spine. Will's next words, however, had her eyes opening again with a start. "Just in time for the show." And just like that the softness of the moment disappeared. Her stomach did a flip, knowing what would come next. The wax clinging to her skin suddenly felt heavier, the mocking dancing of the flames seeming all the brighter as she watched Will raise one of the many little devices her husband had created, His thumb hovered over one of the buttons, and with a slow, devastating press her world narrowed down, tunneling in until only the burning of her body remained, the little device between her legs beginning to buzz. She still had two whole orgasms to survive.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610846	{"authors": ["ThatQueerReader"], "language": "English", "title": "All the Candles"}
We'll always have each other Charlie always had a fear of school..and Now that he’s in 5th grade and will be turning 11 in 4 months in December, he’s scared history might repeat itself like last year. Last year 4th grade, Charlie went through mild bullying, kids throwing stuff at him, teasing him about how sensitive he is, or that he’s too weird, nothing physical at least but..he just hopes this will be a good year, i mean his older brother Luke who's 17, and loves him a lot, is almost always there for Charlie. Even if he and Luke's parents are almost never home, Charlie always had Luke. Charlie is pretty timid and shy at first but he has a good heart and loves to have fun. Charlie really hopes this year will be a great school year, his goal is to have friends. “Charile!” shouts Luke from downstairs “You awake yet?! I need to drive you to school!.” Charlie shifts feeling annoyed on his comfy bed, wrapped in 2 blankets and 3 random animal plushes, he just wants to stay sleeping, but also just wanting to avoid going to school from his sheer fear of it but Luke keeps persisting and Charlie hears the knock at his door "Charlie! Come on we’re going to be late, Charlie–""im up, im up” Charlie sighs in defeat as he rushes up from his bed and goes to the bathroom to get ready for school. Charlie locks the bathroom door and looks in the mirror, taking a deep breath. “I can do this, I'll have a good time at school and I'll make friends,” Charlie whispered, trying to hype himself up. He looked at the clock and realized he was short on time, he brushes his teeth quickly, brushes his black curly hair, even if it will frizz up, but he’s not taught much yet about curly hair etiquette. He rushes out the bathroom and goes to his room, changing into a plain random light blue shirt with a turtle on it and some jeans, then slips his tennis shoes, red and black on. Charlie rushes downstairs, almost falling but quickly balancing himself. “There you are, I thought you were just gonna hide up in your room all day” Luke jokes while putting a plate on the dining table “i think you’ll still have time to eat,” Luke says motioning for Charlie to sit down. Charlie sighs “do i have to go” he whines “yes. You do, mom and dad aren't here and I have to get you and me to school.” Luke replies, serving himself a plate of eggs and toast. Charlie stays quiet, then speaks up “what if everyone is mean to me again” he says, picking at his food, Luke looks up from his food and softens up “it’s gonna be okay, if anyone is rude just tell me, I’ll get them” he half jokes, Charlie giggles a little and rolls his eyes. Luke checks his phone and quickly gets up “okay now we need to go. Go and get your bookbag, oh and I packed some lunch in there for you” Luke says as he heads to the living room to get his bookbag. Charlie listens to his older brother and gets up and takes the plates to the sink then rushes to get his bookbag. He wanted to do something for Luke..he knows luke does everything for him and always cleans and cooks. Charlie sighs as he grabs his bookbag and glances at Luke who was grabbing his keys from the couch, his knuckles a little worn out..maybe from all the work he does around the house.. Charlie thinks to himself. Luke catches him staring at his knuckles as he grabs the keys, he puts them in his pocket as if he wanted Charlie not to worry. “Are you ready to go now?” He voiced and Charlie just nodded - guess i really do have to go to school- he thinks to himself. ————- Luke starts the car and drives out the apartment parking lots into the road, he plays some blues rock, humming to the songs. Charlie always wanted to be like Luke, calm and cool but strong “is this song new?” Charlie asks, Luke nods while checking his side mirrors to make a turn “yep, my friends are starting a band and I managed to get their new single” “woah! Really! That’s so cool” Charlie exclaimed with interest “wait but why aren't you in it? Don't you know how to play the piano from dad?” Charlie asked again, remembering about the time he looked at the photo album books and saw a photo of Luke when he was maybe around 7 on an old piano with dad, both smiling.. Charlie was 1 at the time. Charlie remembered when he was 5, Luke suddenly stopped playing..and that's when he started to act more mature for his age, and that's also when mom and dad started to work more, leaving Luke to care for charlie.. Luke froze for a bit at Charlie's question and hesitated on answering it but answered it anyway “i stopped playing when i was 11 and ill be too rusty anyway, plus im busy at home” he responded while keeping his eyes on the road. Luke stopped humming to the song, Charlie felt a little guilty that he ruined the mood but he was also confused on why Luke seemed to be distant anytime Charlie mentioned the things they did as kids when mom and dad were home. Luke made it to Charlie's school and drove to the front where all the cars were lined up, dropping off their kids, most kids	We'll always have each other Charlie always had a fear of school..and Now that he’s in 5th grade and will be turning 11 in 4 months in December, he’s scared history might repeat itself like last year. Last year 4th grade, Charlie went through mild bullying, kids throwing stuff at him, teasing him about how sensitive he is, or that he’s too weird, nothing physical at least but..he just hopes this will be a good year, i mean his older brother Luke who's 17, and loves him a lot, is almost always there for Charlie. Even if he and Luke's parents are almost never home, Charlie always had Luke. Charlie is pretty timid and shy at first but he has a good heart and loves to have fun. Charlie really hopes this year will be a great school year, his goal is to have friends. “Charile!” shouts Luke from downstairs “You awake yet?! I need to drive you to school!.” Charlie shifts feeling annoyed on his comfy bed, wrapped in 2 blankets and 3 random animal plushes, he just wants to stay sleeping, but also just wanting to avoid going to school from his sheer fear of it but Luke keeps persisting and Charlie hears the knock at his door "Charlie! Come on we’re going to be late, Charlie–""im up, im up” Charlie sighs in defeat as he rushes up from his bed and goes to the bathroom to get ready for school. Charlie locks the bathroom door and looks in the mirror, taking a deep breath. “I can do this, I'll have a good time at school and I'll make friends,” Charlie whispered, trying to hype himself up. He looked at the clock and realized he was short on time, he brushes his teeth quickly, brushes his black curly hair, even if it will frizz up, but he’s not taught much yet about curly hair etiquette. He rushes out the bathroom and goes to his room, changing into a plain random light blue shirt with a turtle on it and some jeans, then slips his tennis shoes, red and black on. Charlie rushes downstairs, almost falling but quickly balancing himself. “There you are, I thought you were just gonna hide up in your room all day” Luke jokes while putting a plate on the dining table “i think you’ll still have time to eat,” Luke says motioning for Charlie to sit down. Charlie sighs “do i have to go” he whines “yes. You do, mom and dad aren't here and I have to get you and me to school.” Luke replies, serving himself a plate of eggs and toast. Charlie stays quiet, then speaks up “what if everyone is mean to me again” he says, picking at his food, Luke looks up from his food and softens up “it’s gonna be okay, if anyone is rude just tell me, I’ll get them” he half jokes, Charlie giggles a little and rolls his eyes. Luke checks his phone and quickly gets up “okay now we need to go. Go and get your bookbag, oh and I packed some lunch in there for you” Luke says as he heads to the living room to get his bookbag. Charlie listens to his older brother and gets up and takes the plates to the sink then rushes to get his bookbag. He wanted to do something for Luke..he knows luke does everything for him and always cleans and cooks. Charlie sighs as he grabs his bookbag and glances at Luke who was grabbing his keys from the couch, his knuckles a little worn out..maybe from all the work he does around the house.. Charlie thinks to himself. Luke catches him staring at his knuckles as he grabs the keys, he puts them in his pocket as if he wanted Charlie not to worry. “Are you ready to go now?” He voiced and Charlie just nodded - guess i really do have to go to school- he thinks to himself. ————- Luke starts the car and drives out the apartment parking lots into the road, he plays some blues rock, humming to the songs. Charlie always wanted to be like Luke, calm and cool but strong “is this song new?” Charlie asks, Luke nods while checking his side mirrors to make a turn “yep, my friends are starting a band and I managed to get their new single” “woah! Really! That’s so cool” Charlie exclaimed with interest “wait but why aren't you in it? Don't you know how to play the piano from dad?” Charlie asked again, remembering about the time he looked at the photo album books and saw a photo of Luke when he was maybe around 7 on an old piano with dad, both smiling.. Charlie was 1 at the time. Charlie remembered when he was 5, Luke suddenly stopped playing..and that's when he started to act more mature for his age, and that's also when mom and dad started to work more, leaving Luke to care for charlie.. Luke froze for a bit at Charlie's question and hesitated on answering it but answered it anyway “i stopped playing when i was 11 and ill be too rusty anyway, plus im busy at home” he responded while keeping his eyes on the road. Luke stopped humming to the song, Charlie felt a little guilty that he ruined the mood but he was also confused on why Luke seemed to be distant anytime Charlie mentioned the things they did as kids when mom and dad were home. Luke made it to Charlie's school and drove to the front where all the cars were lined up, dropping off their kids, most kids were running to their friends from last year and others were walking tiredly. Charlie shifted nervously in his seat looking at all the people, he was also searching for any of those bullies from last year. Luke noticed Charlie looking nervous and put his hand on his shoulder “ill be okay charlie. Just try and have fun, maybe after school ill take you to the game store” luke said, and it did make charlie feel a little better but he was still nervous “Okay.. bye luke, ill see you after school then” Charlie says as he gets out the car and grabs his bookbag “bye, stay safe okay?” Luke quickly blurted while smiling before Charlie had the chance to close the door. Charlie smiled back and waved “bye.” Charlie walks in the school and tries to remember where his class was when he came last time on orientation. He walks around the building and spots the class, colorful and kid-like. Taking a deep breath, Charlie walks in and tries to assure himself that all will be okay but his face drops as he sees that all 4 of his bullies are in the same class as him, and worst of all, they sit around his desk…	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606756?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["TurtleYip"], "language": "English", "title": "We'll always have each other"}
slam in the back of Castle Dracula Befriending a vampire wasn’t what Griffin had expected when he began his region of terror. But he certainly wasn’t complaining, the count made for rather interesting company. The multiple wives, immortality, and the powers he possessed made for quite an eccentric man. So when Dracula brought up switching lovers for a night Griffin wasn’t entirely surprised. And after running the idea past Ethel who was surprisingly excited at the thought of sex with a vampire, the plans were made and they arrived at Dracula's dwelling in London · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Entering the parlor room behind Dracula his three brides greeted them. He knew Dracula had mentioned their names before but he couldn’t possibly tell you who was who. The smallest of the three and the newest was the first to greet them. He knew she came from somewhere in Asia. Her pin straight hair reminded him of ink spilling over her shoulders and down her back as she pulled Ethel to sit in the middle of her and the other Bride. The oldest, a princess from some long forgotten medieval family, Pale with golden curls, still held herself like royalty, only cracking as she giggled when the third bride whispered something to her. Egyptian, he believed Dracula told him, with such lovely thick locks carefully stacked on top of her head. All in sheer dresses as thin as smoke that hid nothing. He watched Ethel blush as they sat around her, cooing as they examined her. Dracula paused, as if thinking for a moment, before chuckling. “I suppose,” he nodded towards the bride, seeming to answer an unspoken question. Giddy to have his approval, the Brides wasted no time pulling Ethel up with them as they excitedly ushered her away, giggling. For a second, Griffin felt a pang of fear watching his wife be whisked away by 3 vampires to god knows where. He turned to Dracula, about to ask what they were doing with her, only to be cut off by the vampire lunging at him. Griffin gasped against the count's lips as he fell back onto the couch, his icy hand palming his cock through his pants while the other tangled in his hair. It took a few moments to click what was happening, not before the count's tongue was well down Griffin's throat. Griffin shoved Dracula off of him. “What hell, Dracula! I thought we were swapping wives, not each other's saliva!!” he shouted at the vampire, his invisible face burning as he caught his breath. “Ah, I apologize for the confusion. You see, that was the original plan, but when they saw your lovely bride, they just had to have their fun with her. And who am I to deny them?” Dracula explains, “But I figure, why let the women have all the fun. Don’t tell me a man of science such as yourself has never considered what it would be like to be taken by another man? Especially when the women make it look oh so tantalizing,” Dracula purred, returning his hands to Griffin’s thighs, inching closer to his growing erection. “What is a bit of fun between friends?” Griffin's heart hammered in his chest; he could feel every beat twitching his cock to attention. He couldn't deny the thought had crossed his mind once or twice. And what was his reign of terror if not pushing every boundary of society, ah to hell with it “a word of this to anyone, Dracula and I swear I will personally drive a stake through that heart of yours” The Count laughed at Griffin's threat “Oh I know you will my friend” · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · His nails dug into the fine velvet couch as Dracula worked himself in. All the lube in the world didn’t seem to make his untouched hole stretch open around Dracula's rather girthy length any easier. “You must relax, my friend,” Dracula cooed, bottoming himself out, his thighs flush with Griffin's burning backside. “You're not the one with an icicle up your ass,” Griffin hissed, desperately trying to force himself to relax and adjust to the intrusion. Being ass up like a cheap whore was humiliating, but he doubted facing Dracula and watching themselves fuck would be better. So instead, he gritted his teeth, examining the fine upholstery as their bodies rocked, the discomfort slowly melting away into pleasure. The cold fullness was dizzying as Griffin's steady breath quickly turned to panting. He was somewhat grateful for Dracula's icy temper as his body burned with each thrust into him. He could faintly hear giggling and moans from another room over his racing heart and ragged breathing. He hoped Ethel was having a less strange time than he was. (she wasn’t) “I forget the wonderful warmth of you humans,” Dracula hummed, steadily thrusting himself into the man. He watched his cock move through the invisible man’s body. Not much to look at that’s for sure, but there certainly was a novelty to it. “And just how divine a virgin feels,” Dracula leaned over the invisible man, running his claws up his spine and through his hair. He smiled, feeling Griffin shiver around him. “Thin ice,” Griffin hissed through gritted teeth, desperately fighting	slam in the back of Castle Dracula Befriending a vampire wasn’t what Griffin had expected when he began his region of terror. But he certainly wasn’t complaining, the count made for rather interesting company. The multiple wives, immortality, and the powers he possessed made for quite an eccentric man. So when Dracula brought up switching lovers for a night Griffin wasn’t entirely surprised. And after running the idea past Ethel who was surprisingly excited at the thought of sex with a vampire, the plans were made and they arrived at Dracula's dwelling in London · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Entering the parlor room behind Dracula his three brides greeted them. He knew Dracula had mentioned their names before but he couldn’t possibly tell you who was who. The smallest of the three and the newest was the first to greet them. He knew she came from somewhere in Asia. Her pin straight hair reminded him of ink spilling over her shoulders and down her back as she pulled Ethel to sit in the middle of her and the other Bride. The oldest, a princess from some long forgotten medieval family, Pale with golden curls, still held herself like royalty, only cracking as she giggled when the third bride whispered something to her. Egyptian, he believed Dracula told him, with such lovely thick locks carefully stacked on top of her head. All in sheer dresses as thin as smoke that hid nothing. He watched Ethel blush as they sat around her, cooing as they examined her. Dracula paused, as if thinking for a moment, before chuckling. “I suppose,” he nodded towards the bride, seeming to answer an unspoken question. Giddy to have his approval, the Brides wasted no time pulling Ethel up with them as they excitedly ushered her away, giggling. For a second, Griffin felt a pang of fear watching his wife be whisked away by 3 vampires to god knows where. He turned to Dracula, about to ask what they were doing with her, only to be cut off by the vampire lunging at him. Griffin gasped against the count's lips as he fell back onto the couch, his icy hand palming his cock through his pants while the other tangled in his hair. It took a few moments to click what was happening, not before the count's tongue was well down Griffin's throat. Griffin shoved Dracula off of him. “What hell, Dracula! I thought we were swapping wives, not each other's saliva!!” he shouted at the vampire, his invisible face burning as he caught his breath. “Ah, I apologize for the confusion. You see, that was the original plan, but when they saw your lovely bride, they just had to have their fun with her. And who am I to deny them?” Dracula explains, “But I figure, why let the women have all the fun. Don’t tell me a man of science such as yourself has never considered what it would be like to be taken by another man? Especially when the women make it look oh so tantalizing,” Dracula purred, returning his hands to Griffin’s thighs, inching closer to his growing erection. “What is a bit of fun between friends?” Griffin's heart hammered in his chest; he could feel every beat twitching his cock to attention. He couldn't deny the thought had crossed his mind once or twice. And what was his reign of terror if not pushing every boundary of society, ah to hell with it “a word of this to anyone, Dracula and I swear I will personally drive a stake through that heart of yours” The Count laughed at Griffin's threat “Oh I know you will my friend” · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · His nails dug into the fine velvet couch as Dracula worked himself in. All the lube in the world didn’t seem to make his untouched hole stretch open around Dracula's rather girthy length any easier. “You must relax, my friend,” Dracula cooed, bottoming himself out, his thighs flush with Griffin's burning backside. “You're not the one with an icicle up your ass,” Griffin hissed, desperately trying to force himself to relax and adjust to the intrusion. Being ass up like a cheap whore was humiliating, but he doubted facing Dracula and watching themselves fuck would be better. So instead, he gritted his teeth, examining the fine upholstery as their bodies rocked, the discomfort slowly melting away into pleasure. The cold fullness was dizzying as Griffin's steady breath quickly turned to panting. He was somewhat grateful for Dracula's icy temper as his body burned with each thrust into him. He could faintly hear giggling and moans from another room over his racing heart and ragged breathing. He hoped Ethel was having a less strange time than he was. (she wasn’t) “I forget the wonderful warmth of you humans,” Dracula hummed, steadily thrusting himself into the man. He watched his cock move through the invisible man’s body. Not much to look at that’s for sure, but there certainly was a novelty to it. “And just how divine a virgin feels,” Dracula leaned over the invisible man, running his claws up his spine and through his hair. He smiled, feeling Griffin shiver around him. “Thin ice,” Griffin hissed through gritted teeth, desperately fighting back a moan. “Ah, yes, that pride of yours, we must uphold it,” he chuckled, each jostle of his laugh sending a shock up Griffin's spine, causing a stifled moan to escape him. He buried his face in the cushion, letting out a string of swears, embarrassment and pure lust completely clouding his mind. His mouth fell open in a silent cry as Dracula found that hidden spot that set his nerves ablaze in a blinding white hot pleasure. Before Griffin even had a chance to get his bearings, Dracula had reared back and rammed right into the same spot, sending Griffin headfirst into an orgasm without so much as a warning, sending Invisible cum splatter across the velvet cushions. Dracula moaned, feeling the Griffin tightening around him. His sharp nails threatened to break his skin while he gripped Griffin's hips, picking up his pace, ramming himself straight into Griffin, not giving him a second to recuperate. Dracula leaned over him snaking an arm around Griffin's waist before pulling his back flush with the vampire's chest. “What you lack in appearances you certainly make up for in noise, my friend,” he grunted. “I see why your bride enjoys you”. He felt Dracula seize above him. It felt like pure ice water filling every nook and cranny deep inside of him sending a chill wracking through Griffin. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · He wasn't sure the time when the brides finally returned, completely nude while Ethel was wrapped in a fur blanket still slightly shivering. Her hair a mess, skin flushed, and legs still shaky as she followed. “We apologize for her dress,” the blond bride apologized, clearly not sorry as she untangled herself from Ethel. “We were just too eager for all those buttons,” she laughed as Dracula half heartedly tisked her. “We'll get her one of ours so you two can be on your way before sunrise” the smallest bride offered as Ethel collapsed onto the couch next to Griffin very much tired “Take your time, I'm in no hurry to walk home” Ethel joked “I take it you two gentlemen had fun as well?” Ethel smiled raising an eyebrow as she looked over Griffin “I don't know what you're talking about” Griffin cleared his throat before downing his drink “I can see his cum in you, love”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606761&view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Bakuzan_Sickle_Claw", "What_is_a_lemon"], "language": "English", "title": "slam in the back of Castle Dracula"}
The Professor’s Son’s Brother Professor Cerise, Talia, Chloe, Yamper, and of course, Parker. This was the Cerise family. Parker’s family. And yet it had never quite felt complete to Parker. The young boy had always felt like something was missing—someone—until the day he met Ash Ketchum, aspiring Pokémon Master, Pokémon trainer extraordinaire, and his father’s newest research fellow (along with his sister Chloe’s childhood friend Goh) and he realized exactly what it was that he had been missing his whole life: a big brother. Ash wasn’t like anyone Parker had ever met. From the moment Parker laid eyes on the older boy, he could that Ash was super brave, worldly, caring, and still goofy. Ash loved Pokémon and wasn’t afraid to show it. Heck, he was so pure-hearted that the legendary Pokémon Lugia had even allowed him to ride on its back. Ash was truly a role model. In short, he was the perfect big brother. But running into Ash at the breakfast table every now and then wasn’t enough for the young and impressionable Parker. He wanted to spend more time with Ash, and the more he thought about the older boy, the more his feelings became mixed up…once the wet dreams started, he was sure it was over. How could he ever see Ash as a big brother now, let alone get Ash to see him as a little brother? Parker decided to at least see where the sexual tension would lead, and one thing led to another, with his father eventually getting involved and Ash eventually becoming Parker’s research slave. It was all really fun, and Parker liked to think he was treating Ash well, but there was always the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that it wasn’t really what he wanted. Sure, he basically had Ash all to himself to do with as he pleased, and Ash made a really good slave, always eager to do his best with the Pokémon Parker decided to research, but the relationship as it was left Parker feeling strangely and incomprehensibly empty inside. What Parker wanted more than anything, even more than an obedient sex slave, was a big brother. But the way things were going now, Parker didn’t think there was anything he could do to change the tides of fate. That was until one fateful encounter on a gloomy day in fall. The sky was overcast and heavy, as if at any moment it might burst. There was a chill in the air. Likely owing to the grim weather, few people were out and about, except for Parker who was out doing field work just past Vermillion City’s eastern harbor in the grassy patches of Route 11. The young researcher was looking for Mr. Mime, which were rumored to live in the area though rarely ever spotted. Parker scoured the meadow, avoiding the various Rattata, Ekans, Sandshrew, and Spearow that he ran into. He was wary of encountering Drowzee too, though the white coat his father had given him lent him some—perhaps unfounded—courage. Luckily for him, the Hypnosis Pokémon was nowhere to be seen, but if Parker were a little more well-read on the wildlife of Route 11, he would’ve noted how unusual it was for Drowzee to be missing. Instead, Parker continued his search for Mr. Mime without a second thought. After hours of searching in vain, Parker decided it was time to give up and head home. He was disappointed in himself, but he tried to remind himself that even his father had bad days. Parker followed the maze-like dirt path back toward Vermilion City, wondering if it had always been so windy. Just as he was about to turn a corner, he heard a rustle from the grass behind him. Parker was used to hearing grass rustle by now, and he could even almost identify what Pokémon was nearby by the type of rustling it made, but this sound was different. It was unfamiliar and heavy. It felt dangerous. Parker gulped, suddenly filled with a sense of dread though he couldn’t place why. Slowly, he turned around. There was nothing there. Reassuring himself, Parker turned back around. He froze. The dirt path he was just on was gone, and the tall grass seemed to stretch on forever in all directions. Parker looked down—more grass. In front of him, the grass seemed to stir. The rustling grew louder. Something appeared in the distance, two yellow triangles bobbing up and down in tandem. The rustling grew even louder. The triangles became bigger. At the bottom, they were connected by a large, yellow globe. The figure became bigger as it approached, quickly becoming taller than Parker. And then he saw it. Two squinty eyes with small, menacing pupils. The long, weighty nose that followed. The tuft of white fur around its neck. The large human-like hand raising up a pendulum. Hypno. Parker tried to scream but couldn’t. He tried to run away, but he was frozen. All he could do was close his eyes and hope that the Hypno—a Pokémon so dangerous that the Vermilion City news still issued regular warnings—would just disappear. It was a pipe dream. Parker was trembling, and his Pokédex slipped out of his pocket, landing on the ground with a thud. It chimed three times.	The Professor’s Son’s Brother Professor Cerise, Talia, Chloe, Yamper, and of course, Parker. This was the Cerise family. Parker’s family. And yet it had never quite felt complete to Parker. The young boy had always felt like something was missing—someone—until the day he met Ash Ketchum, aspiring Pokémon Master, Pokémon trainer extraordinaire, and his father’s newest research fellow (along with his sister Chloe’s childhood friend Goh) and he realized exactly what it was that he had been missing his whole life: a big brother. Ash wasn’t like anyone Parker had ever met. From the moment Parker laid eyes on the older boy, he could that Ash was super brave, worldly, caring, and still goofy. Ash loved Pokémon and wasn’t afraid to show it. Heck, he was so pure-hearted that the legendary Pokémon Lugia had even allowed him to ride on its back. Ash was truly a role model. In short, he was the perfect big brother. But running into Ash at the breakfast table every now and then wasn’t enough for the young and impressionable Parker. He wanted to spend more time with Ash, and the more he thought about the older boy, the more his feelings became mixed up…once the wet dreams started, he was sure it was over. How could he ever see Ash as a big brother now, let alone get Ash to see him as a little brother? Parker decided to at least see where the sexual tension would lead, and one thing led to another, with his father eventually getting involved and Ash eventually becoming Parker’s research slave. It was all really fun, and Parker liked to think he was treating Ash well, but there was always the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that it wasn’t really what he wanted. Sure, he basically had Ash all to himself to do with as he pleased, and Ash made a really good slave, always eager to do his best with the Pokémon Parker decided to research, but the relationship as it was left Parker feeling strangely and incomprehensibly empty inside. What Parker wanted more than anything, even more than an obedient sex slave, was a big brother. But the way things were going now, Parker didn’t think there was anything he could do to change the tides of fate. That was until one fateful encounter on a gloomy day in fall. The sky was overcast and heavy, as if at any moment it might burst. There was a chill in the air. Likely owing to the grim weather, few people were out and about, except for Parker who was out doing field work just past Vermillion City’s eastern harbor in the grassy patches of Route 11. The young researcher was looking for Mr. Mime, which were rumored to live in the area though rarely ever spotted. Parker scoured the meadow, avoiding the various Rattata, Ekans, Sandshrew, and Spearow that he ran into. He was wary of encountering Drowzee too, though the white coat his father had given him lent him some—perhaps unfounded—courage. Luckily for him, the Hypnosis Pokémon was nowhere to be seen, but if Parker were a little more well-read on the wildlife of Route 11, he would’ve noted how unusual it was for Drowzee to be missing. Instead, Parker continued his search for Mr. Mime without a second thought. After hours of searching in vain, Parker decided it was time to give up and head home. He was disappointed in himself, but he tried to remind himself that even his father had bad days. Parker followed the maze-like dirt path back toward Vermilion City, wondering if it had always been so windy. Just as he was about to turn a corner, he heard a rustle from the grass behind him. Parker was used to hearing grass rustle by now, and he could even almost identify what Pokémon was nearby by the type of rustling it made, but this sound was different. It was unfamiliar and heavy. It felt dangerous. Parker gulped, suddenly filled with a sense of dread though he couldn’t place why. Slowly, he turned around. There was nothing there. Reassuring himself, Parker turned back around. He froze. The dirt path he was just on was gone, and the tall grass seemed to stretch on forever in all directions. Parker looked down—more grass. In front of him, the grass seemed to stir. The rustling grew louder. Something appeared in the distance, two yellow triangles bobbing up and down in tandem. The rustling grew even louder. The triangles became bigger. At the bottom, they were connected by a large, yellow globe. The figure became bigger as it approached, quickly becoming taller than Parker. And then he saw it. Two squinty eyes with small, menacing pupils. The long, weighty nose that followed. The tuft of white fur around its neck. The large human-like hand raising up a pendulum. Hypno. Parker tried to scream but couldn’t. He tried to run away, but he was frozen. All he could do was close his eyes and hope that the Hypno—a Pokémon so dangerous that the Vermilion City news still issued regular warnings—would just disappear. It was a pipe dream. Parker was trembling, and his Pokédex slipped out of his pocket, landing on the ground with a thud. It chimed three times. “Error. No data found. Error. No data found.” The footsteps got louder, then stopped. Parker thought he could hear the Pokémon’s breathing just inches from his face. He held his breath, as if it could help him hide in plain view. “Err-,” the Pokédex chirped, stopping itself before resuming in its normal droning voice, interspersed with static. “…essing the strongest hypno…powers of any Pokémon…can compel others…do anything it wants….” Parker wanted to cry. He didn’t want to disappear. He wanted his mother, his father, even his sister, anyone at all to save him. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted Ash. He wanted to be safe at home in Ash’s strong arms and forget he had ever run into what his schoolmates called…the King in Yellow. Three seconds later, he disappeared from the world. * * * Parker woke up in his own bed. Returning to his senses, he frantically felt around. His clothes were intact. His body was unharmed. His Pokédex was still in his lab coat pocket. Hadn’t it fallen out? Parker sat up. There was no one in the room with him. Was it all just a dream? But it had felt so real. No, it must have been real, and he could prove it. Parker opened his Pokédex and found the notes he had added while he was on Route 11. But curiously, he couldn’t find the entry for Hypno. It should have been automatically added…. Parker scratched his head. He felt confused, disoriented, and had a slight headache. He wasn’t sure what to do. A part of him wanted to ask Ash for a hug, but wouldn’t the older boy find that weird? If only Ash was his brother, and if only he hadn’t messed things up by making Ash his research slave. If only he could get a do-over. Unfortunately, as much power as Parker had over Ash, it wasn’t enough to turn back time. But maybe he didn’t have to. Parker was starting to feel better. He stalked off to the research laboratory, feeling determined. There, he found Ash diligently cleaning the floors. Ash looked up. “Oh, hi master.” “Ash, come with me. We’re going on a research mission.” Ash sensed the gravity in Parker’s voice. “Yes, sir.” By the time Parker and Ash left the laboratory, it was raining, but Parker was undeterred. He had Ash carry the umbrella while they scurried toward Route 11. Parker thought about briefing Ash on the mission, that their target was actually Vermilion City’s public enemy number one, but he didn’t want Ash to tell him it was too dangerous. Although, from what Parker knew about the older boy, he wondered if Ash would have even reacted that way. Parker got the sense that Ash was always giving Pokémon the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just projecting a sense of overprotectiveness onto Ash that he secretly wished was true, and in a roundabout way, by keeping Ash from knowing about Hypno, he was preventing that illusion from being dispelled. Parker’s head hurt from the mental gymnastics. Or so he thought. He hadn’t realized that the closer he got to Route 11, the worse his head was hurting. “What’s wrong, master?” Ash asked, apparently noticing that Parker was in pain. Parker simultaneously blushed and cringed. He appreciated Ash’s concern, but he regretted ever forcing Ash to call him “sir” or “master.” At least, it always felt like a jarring reminder of how Ash saw him. It wouldn’t have been so awful if they were actually brothers, but alas. “I’m okay! Let’s hurry up, I want us to find the Pokémon I’m looking for.” As Parker and Ash entered Route 11, Parker felt like his headache was affecting his vision. The edges of his field of view seemed to curve inward, as if his head were in a fishbowl. Sounds seemed to become muffled too. In the midst of this, he heard an alien sound coming from the tall grass. Parker shut his eyes and steeled himself. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Hypno! I need your help!” “Hypno?” Ash wondered aloud. The alien sound grew louder, as did the rustling of the grass. Parker swallowed, then slowly opened his eyes. Hypno was standing in front of him, its yellow fur slicked down in the heavy rain. Its eyes seemed as callous as ever. But its stance seemed to suggest it was waiting patiently for Parker’s proposal. “Hypno, please help me,” Parked continued. He stepped out of the umbrella’s protection into the rain, which soaked his hair and clothes. Approaching Hypno as close as his frail courage would allow, he whispered, “I want you to hypnotize Ash…I want you to make him believe…that he’s my big brother. Can you do that for me?” The rain ran down Parker’s face in streams. Or was it tears? Hypno waited a moment, long enough to fill Parker with dread. Long enough for him to wonder if he’d made a mistake by coming back, putting himself and his idol in mortal danger. Then Hypno moved. It was a subtle movement, imperceptible to the untrained eye, just a flick of its pendulum in front of Ash’s eyes, which became dilated and devoid of will. Ash slumped forward, as if his body were no longer his own. Parker was afraid. What was going on? Was this hurting Ash? Hypno’s empty hand wiggled its fingers in front of Ash’s vacant face. Then, it led Ash and Parker out of the tall grass and through the maze-like dirt paths of Route 11, back onto the familiar concrete of Vermilion City, all the way back to Cerise Laboratory. * * * The first thing Ash did when he and Parker returned home was take Parker to the bathroom, pull the younger boy’s wet clothes off and toss them in the laundry hamper, and dry him down with a warm towel. “How’s that?” Ash said, playfully tousling the younger boy’s damp maroon hair. “Stop it!” Parker shouted. Getting flustered, he ran out of the bathroom, holding up the towel to his privates with one hand as it trailed on the floor. When he got to his bedroom, he slammed the door shut. He found Hypno standing in the middle of the room, unmoving. “You should stay here for now I guess. It’s raining pretty hard, but I can take you home after it stops.” Hypno didn’t seem to acknowledge Parker’s words, but it didn’t seem to protest either. Parker changed into pajamas just as he heard his mother calling him for dinner. When Parker joined the family at the table, he was surprised to see Ash sitting on a chair next to his usual spot. Professor Cerise and Talia seemed a little surprised too, as they had gotten used to seeing Ash eat next to Yamper. They gave Parker a questioning look, as if to ask if Parker had approved this, but Parker didn’t notice. He sat next to Ash as the older boy smiled and helped himself to food. “This looks amazing, mom!” Talia gasped. Professor Cerise seemed about to say something, but his mouth just stayed open, stunned. Parker’s heart dropped as he came to a sudden realization. It wasn’t enough for just Ash to think he was Parker’s brother. The whole family had to believe it. Parker got up from the table and raced back to his room. As he entered, panting, he reached for Hypno’s arm, but Hypno sidestepped away. “Please come with me!” Parker pleaded. Hypno stood motionless. “Hypno, please! Mom and dad know something’s wrong. I just wanted Ash to be my big brother, I didn’t think about how it would affect everyone else. Can you make it okay?” Hypno nodded and followed Parker back to the dinner table, where shortly after Professor Cerise and Talia shared a look of distress upon seeing the yellow Pokémon, they succumbed to the swaying of Hypno’s pendulum. Parker slept late that night, thinking of all the people and Pokémon that Hypno would need to hypnotize. Pikachu, Chloe, Yamper, Goh, the research assistants…and those were just the ones at home. He sighed. Nobody said turning a dream into reality would be easy, but he hadn’t considered it would be this hard. Over the next few days, with Hypno’s help, Parker set about hypnotizing everyone around him to believe that Ash was in fact his big brother and had been all along. Hypno’s presence was explained as one of Ash’s Pokémon, though it was never seen inside a Poké Ball. While most everyone accepted this explanation, Parker knew the truth and was always a little wary of the Hypnosis Pokémon, wondering how to reconcile everything he was warned about with everything it was helping him with. A part of him still felt a primal fear when he was alone with it, and he had nightmares about their first meeting when his reality was so unceremoniously flayed apart. Curiously, despite ostensibly being under Hypno’s spell, Ash’s Pikachu kept its distance, as if it could tell that Hypno couldn’t be trusted. By the end of the week, Parker was finally living his fantasy of having a big brother. Ash Cerise, despite looking nothing like the rest of the Cerise family, was and always had been Parker and Chloe’s older brother. While he was particularly protective over Chloe, with Parker he was much more relaxed and playful. As the family was summoned for breakfast, Ash dropped by Parker’s room to check on the younger boy, who was still in his pajamas, just getting out of bed to stretch. “Good morning, Parker!” Ash exclaimed, full of pep. “Still getting ready?” Ash leaned over the sleepy boy and gave him a noogie. “Hey! Stop that!” Parker cried, trying unsuccessfully to guard his head. “Make me,” Ash said with a mischievous smirk. Parker tackled Ash to the floor, and the two rolled around, wrestling each other. But the older boy was far stronger and quickly got the upper hand, pinning Parker in a headlock beneath him. “Say uncle…,” Ash said. Red-faced and annoyed, Parker shouted, “Okay, okay, uncle!” “You’ll have to do better than that next time,” Ash said, releasing his hold on Parker. In the same moment, Parker pounced on Ash, digging his fingertips into Ash’s ribs and tickling him. “Oh yeah?” Parker taunted. Ash wriggled around, trying to get free. “Ahahaha…Parker, stop it!” Parker’s fingers were too tenacious and didn’t let up. “You know what to say…big bro,” Parker said wryly. In between laughs, Ash managed to sound out, “Un-cle!” Ash was sprawled on the floor, panting, with Parker’s fingers resting lightly on top of the older boy’s disheveled T-shirt. “I win,” Parker said. “Yeah…,” Ash said as his stomach growled. “Alright, let’s go eat…last one there’s a rotten Exeggcute!” Ash picked himself up and raced out the door. Parker hung back a moment, thinking how nice it was to be able to live this fantasy. Only, he still knew it was a fantasy, and it cheapened every brotherly moment Parker and Ash shared. As he left his room to join the others for breakfast, Parker wondered whether all of this was worth it, or if he should send Hypno back and let life go back to normal. It was all he could think about throughout the day. Normal…what was normal? That Hypno…had it always been a part of the family? Parker pondered these thoughts while he was at school. When a classmate asked why he seemed so distracted, Parker yawned and said he hadn’t slept well last night. “My big bro kept me up….” That night, Parker had trouble falling asleep. He felt restless. After tossing and turning in his bed for what felt like an hour, unable to get comfortable, he got up to pace, quietly so as not to wake the others. Something wasn’t right. Yamper, who normally slept in Chloe’s bedroom, was pawing Parker’s door and whining, wanting to be let in. Parker opened the door, only Yamper wasn’t there. Confused, Parker shook his head, wondering if he had imagined it. He shut the door and turned back to his bed, where he found Yamper standing at eye level. “Oh!” Parker exclaimed. “How did you get there?” Yamper yipped, as if to tell Parker it had been there all along, but Parker didn’t quite understand. There was a strange gargling quality to Yamper’s cry. It was unnatural, like it didn’t belong. Was Yamper sick? Parker walked over to the foot of the bed and stared at Yamper, who stared back, unmoving. Parker felt himself drawn in, unable to stop staring into Yamper’s eyes, which felt strange, unfamiliar, and void, like the same word after reading it over and over too many times. A sudden noise stirred Parker to his senses. The clasp of his bedroom door closing. Blinking, Parker realized he was staring at an empty bed. He scratched his head and yawned. He slipped under his bed covers, finally able to fall asleep. When he woke the next morning, Parker jumped out of bed. Despite the sleepless night, which felt more like a hazy dream, Parker was full of energy. He grinned and announced, “I’m gonna get big bro first today!” * * * Professor Cerise, Talia, Ash, Chloe, Yamper, and of course, Parker. This was the Cerise family. Parker’s family. And it had always been Parker’s family. Of course he knew that. He had always known that. Parker had the day off from school and wanted to spend it with his big brother Ash, who had recently been working very closely with their father to help with Pokémon research. “Oh, are you busy today?” Parker asked, sulking a bit. “Kinda,” Ash said in between cereal bites. They were sitting at the breakfast table. He continued, in a softer voice, “I’m sorry, Parker. It’s just we’re really close to a big breakthrough. We’re figuring out how Lugia communicates with people!” “That’s awesome…,” Parker said unenthusiastically. “I’ll make it up to you. Wanna come work out with me later? I know you’ve been trying to get bigger…like your big bro,” Ash said, winking playfully. Parker blushed and stammered, “Th-that’s embarrassing!” “It’s not embarrassing to look up to your big bro.” “It’s embarrassing when you say it like that!” “Fine, fine. Anyway, I gotta run. Let’s go, Pikachu!” “W-wait, big bro?” “Yeah?” “Are we really hanging out today? Promise?” “Pinky promise,” Ash said, extending his pinky with a big grin on his face. Parker clasped it with his own pinky before letting his energetic older brother run off toward the laboratory. The Cerise family had a home gym. It was small, but it had a workout bench with weights, a standing pull-up bar, and various other basic exercise equipment to promote strength and mobility. There was even a large mirror on one wall intended to help track one’s form and progress. Professor Cerise not infrequently reminded his modestly-built research assistant Ren that the gym was free for him to use, but Ren never took him up on the offer. Instead, Ash had gotten into the habit of going on his own after finishing his research duties. Ash was lying on the floor with his knees bent in the middle of a set of ab crunches when Parker walked in. He only noticed once the smaller boy was standing over him, his vision obscured by gym shorts. “Hey! You made it.” Ash smiled up at Parker’s upside-down face. “Yeah…,” Parker said, hesitantly. “So…what should I do?” Ash grinned. “Check this out,” he said, lifting up his T-shirt drenched in sweat and revealing his glistening abs. “They’re tough. Wanna see?” Parker was flustered. “What do you mean?” “Here,” Ash said, nudging Parker to his side. “Punch them! Go on, I can take it.” Parker hesitated. His big brother was asking him to punch him? Why? Was this a secret training technique, or was Ash just a masochist? Parker didn’t even know what a masochist was. He was just confused. But Ash’s abs did look strong, and he was kind of curious just how strong they were. So he balled up his hand into a fist and punched Ash square in the abdomen as Ash clenched his muscles. “Yeah!” Ash shouted. “Just like that, keep going!” Encouraged, Parker repeatedly punched Ash in the gut. Each time, Ash tensed his muscles. The older boy’s face got red as he held his breath, while red marks appeared on his abs. Parker counted under his breath with each punch. Every so often, he held his knuckles deep against Ash’s abdomen, enjoying the feel of Ash’s soft skin over rock-hard abs. Once he got to twenty, he stopped. Ash was panting as sweat dripped down the sides of his face. “That’s…it…?” he said in between breaths. “Yeah, let’s take a break, big bro. I can tell you’re getting tired,” Parker teased. Ash let his legs drop to the floor and splayed his limbs. He took a moment to recover. “Why are you training so hard anyway?” Parker asked. “Do you remember when Goh and I rode Lugia?” “Kinda….” “Well, we almost fell off a few times! I think if I’m going to help solve the mystery of Lugia’s communication, I need to be able to ride Lugia wherever it wants to take me. And for that, I need to be stronger. Here, help me up.” Ash reached for Parker’s hand and pulled himself up. “Hmm…,” Parker said. He was lost in thought. His brother was so cool. So strong. So driven. He wanted to be just like him. “Ok, my turn. What should I work out?” “If you want to get bigger like me, you should lift weights! Here, let’s start with these small ones….” After a few days, Parker and Ash had gotten into a routine at the gym after school and research obligations were done. Parker had just finished a set of bench presses and was sitting up, looking at himself in the mirror. “Whoa,” Ash said. He crossed his leg over the bench and sat down right behind Parker, his big chest straddling the back of Parker’s head. He marveled at what he saw in the mirror. Big brother Ash and little brother Parker, only Parker wasn’t quite as little anymore. Ash casually grabbed Parker’s chest with both hands. “These are getting so much bigger,” he said, squeezing them playfully. Parker blushed and looked away. He felt a twinge in his shorts, and he didn’t know what to do about it. All week he had been feeling similar twinges, usually whenever Ash was teasing him or showing off. He didn’t know what it meant. He just knew it felt uncomfortable, and sometimes his penis would get bigger, and he would get frustrated by random things easily. This was one of the times all of it was happening at once. “Stop it!” Parker snapped. “Huh? What’s wrong, Parker?” Parker pursed his lips and frowned. He didn’t know what was wrong. If he did, he could do something about it. Ash studied his little brother in the mirror carefully. He noticed Parker’s slightly rounded pecs filling out his T-shirt, the look of tense frustration on his face, and a small, barely perceptible bulge in the boy’s shorts. “Oh…I see what’s going on. Parker, do you need to relieve yourself?” “Wh-what? N-no! I already used the bathroom!” “That’s not what I mean,” Ash said in a low voice. He rubbed Parker’s pecs again, this time more deliberately. He grazed Parker’s pointy nipples through his T-shirt. A soft hum escaped Parker’s lips. “What are you doing…big brother…?” Parker said, his breathing getting heavier. “Has that been bothering you?” Parker saw Ash’s eyes dart toward his shorts. Parker looked away shyly. What was he doing? He shouldn’t be talking about these things with his brother. He shut his eyes and admitted, “Yes.” “How long?” Parker thought back. How long had it been going on? For as long as he could remember? That didn’t seem quite right. Why was this all he could remember? Was there a time before this feeling? Parker’s head was getting muddled with all sorts of questions, so he pushed them aside. He answered honestly, “I don’t know.” “Aww Parker, you know you can always talk to me about this kind of stuff. I’m your big bro, I can help.” Parker opened his eyes. “Really?” “Really. Here, I’m going to show you how to make it better. Is that ok?” Parker nodded. Ash lowered one hand slowly down Parker’s T-shirt and slipped it underneath Parker’s shorts. He found Parker’s cock, hard and throbbing with uncertainty. It was a little moist. Ash gripped it firmly and started to stroke it. At the same time, Ash gently squeezed and rubbed one of Parker’s nipples. “Big bro…that feels good.” “I know. Here, you try.” Ash guided Parker’s hand into his shorts and showed him how to stroke his cock. Once Parker got the hang of it, Ash focused his efforts on Parker’s nipples. In the mirror, the two looked intensely focused on the endeavor. Throwing aside any potential embarrassment or shame, Parker popped his cock out of his shorts and continued stroking it. Soft moans came out of his mouth. He liked the way his big brother was playing with his nipples. He wondered how it would feel to do the same to Ash. He wondered how Ash would react…if Parker were to run his small hands all along his big brother’s rippling abs and squeeze his big, round pecs and play with those tantalizing nipples that always poked through his T-shirts. What would Ash do if Parker were to stroke his cock too? If Parker had any concerns that Ash could read his mind, he certainly was concerned now, as he felt something swell up behind him in Ash’s gym shorts. Was Ash getting hard because of him? Because of what he was thinking? No, that couldn’t be it…could it? Ash chuckled to himself. “Uh…sorry. I guess I can’t help it from happening too.” Parker noticed his big brother’s breaths getting heavier in the mirror. Ash stopped playing with Parker’s nipples, got up and sat next to Parker on the floor. “I’m going to relieve myself too, if that’s ok. Or as I like to call it, go boom!” Boom? Parker thought. Why did that sound so familiar? What did it mean? But he felt like a part of him already knew. The emergence of Ash's cock in the mirror startled Parker back to reality. Whoa! That's huge…so much bigger than mine. The two boys stroked their cocks in the mirror, stealing glances at each other every now and then to see how close the other was to “going boom.” Not that Parker knew what he was looking for or what to expect. He just knew that when he slid his hand across his cock in just the right way, he felt a little closer to the edge of something, and that Ash seemed to be the same, given the strange faces he was making. Intense and contorted, like he was in pain, but also like he was right on the edge of something he really, really wanted. Ash was panting harder and harder. His clothes were drenched in sweat which seeped onto the floor. His muscles were tense. What a workout! Parker was amazed. He stroked his cock harder to catch up. Focusing only on the rhythm of his movements, the tightness of his grip, the sensation of his own soft hand sliding up and down his cock. Imagining it was Ash’s…. Ash’s cock suddenly spurted oodles of a white, creamy substance into the air before it rained down onto his T-shirt, staining it. Ash fell backward onto the floor, lying in a puddle of his own sweat. Parker realized now why Ash called it “going boom.” And as soon as he had that realization, he went boom as well. * * * Guilt was eating Parker up inside. He enjoyed spending more time with his big brother--in fact, he couldn't remember ever spending this much time with his big brother…only with Chloe when she was younger and less interested in whatever girls were interested in--but he worried he was enjoying it too much. It wasn't normal for a boy to be so distracted in class by the thought of catching his older brother in the middle of changing, was it? Even though Parker had seen Ash's most private part, he still wondered what the older boy looked like without any clothes on…. "Parker!" the teacher yelled. "Dozing off again? You know just because you're Professor Cerise's son doesn't mean you should take your studies lightly." Then, in a softer voice, the teacher said, "See me after class." After class, Parker's teacher gave him a once-over. "I'm worried about you, Parker. Is everything alright at home?" "Yes, of course! I'm sorry, I'll pay better attention next time!" A platitude. Meaningless. But enough to get Parker's teacher off his case, if only momentarily. "If you say so…," his teacher sighed. * * * Parker found Ash in the middle of pull-ups. Ash's shirt was off, and his shorts were sagging down to his hips, showing off his exquisite V-lines and a hint of his pubic hair. "Great timing, little bro! Hit me!" Parker didn't have to be asked twice. He flashed Ash a grin and ran over to his big brother who was hanging from the pull-up bar, tensing his abs. Parker bent his knees, pivoted his hips, and slugged Ash right in the midsection, causing the older boy to exhale. "You're…getting better at this," Ash said. "Yeah? You like that?" Parker taunted. "How about this!" Parker punched Ash again. "Oof. Let's try to beat my record." Parker slugged Ash repeatedly, in between pull-up reps, noting how much the older boy's endurance had improved. Each time Ash gasped or groaned, it sent a tingle of excitement down Parker's pants. He could do this for a while. "Parker…?" Ash panted. Parker paused. "Let's take a break, ok?" But it wasn't ok. Parker wanted to keep going. He wanted his big brother to keep going. Parker's thoughts were becoming cloudy. He wasn't sure what he was feeling--perhaps a mix of anger and sadness and guilt and desire, all at once. Something showed on his face. "Parker?" Parker made a fist, then let it go. He reached forward and, without thinking, grabbed the soft fabric between Ash's legs. Ash's eyes crossed and he made a whimpering sound. Parker squeezed tight, appreciating the feel of Ash's testicles trapped in the palm of his hand. Parker had missed. He had been aiming for Ash's cock, not his balls. But seeing now the look of pure agony on Ash's face, and realizing how much power he held over his big brother in just the palm of his hand, something clicked for the younger boy. He loosened his grip on Ash's balls without letting go and let his other hand caress Ash's sweaty pecs before squeezing the nipple. Ash moaned. His faced reddened. What was Parker doing to him? And why was he enjoying it? Ash's cock started to swell, and Parker noticed immediately. Desire pushed its way to the forefront, shoving anger and sadness and even guilt down into the shadows of Parker's mind. There would be time for those feelings later. Parker moved behind Ash who was still hanging from the pull-up bar, too stunned to let go. Parker ran his hands up the sides of his big brother’s body and rested them on Ash’s sore pecs. He caressed them gently, rocking them and squeezing them, before using his thumb and forefinger to rub Ash’s nipples. He was inspired by how good it had felt when Ash had done it to him. Ash let out a low moan. In the mirror, Parker could see Ash’s cock creating a large tent in his pants. Parker licked his lips. He moved his right hand slowly down Ash’s sweat-caked abs, down his uncomfortably tight shorts. It wasn’t hard to find the object of desire. Parker gripped it—Ash’s throbbing cock—confidently. Then, smugly, he momentarily let go to clasp Ash’s vulnerable balls again. Warm, plump, moist. He would have to smell his hand later, he was sure it would be interesting. Parker was pressed so closely against Ash that he could intimately feel whenever Ash spasmed at his touch. And when he grasped Ash’s balls, that’s exactly what Ash did. Parker’s cock twitched in excitement. Returning his focus to Ash’s cock, Parker ran a finger slowly along its length, tracing the big, tortuous veins. When he reached the tip, he realized there was something wet and sticky on his finger. In the mirror, he noticed that Ash’s shorts had a dark spot that was getting larger. Parker brought his fingertip to his mouth in curiosity and licked it. It was a little salty, but otherwise unremarkable. He took another, bigger wad of it on his finger and brought it to Ash’s lips. Ash’s mouth quivered, but ultimately he took Parker’s finger in his mouth and sucked his own precum off of it. Off of his younger brother’s finger…. Ash felt sick. He was getting dizzy. A part of him felt good…overwhelmingly good…shamefully good. He focused on his breathing, trying to slow it down, while Parker stroked him clumsily. Why did it feel so good? It shouldn’t feel this good. It should never feel this good. Despite his amateur technique, or perhaps in a way even because of it, Parker soon made his big brother climax vigorously. Ash grunted as the cum sputtered out like a sprinkler. He let go of the pull-up bar, landing on his feet before dropping to his knees. There were small puddles of his cum—the cum that his younger brother had milked out of him—all over the floor in front of him. They were getting blurrier and blurrier. And then everything went dark. * * * Parker had learned a new feeling that day. Or more precisely, he already knew what it was and had just never experienced it so intensely. It wasn’t anger or sadness or guilt or desire, but it was all of it at once. It was shame. He didn’t know what to do with it. So after Ash’s Hypno carried its trainer back to his room, Parker fled to his own, locked the door, climbed into bed, curled up into a ball, and cried. * * * The next few days were weird. Ash was barely around, constantly busy with some research task or other that kept him out of the house. Out of Parker’s periphery. Parker was sure that Ash was avoiding him after what had happened. No, Parker told himself. After what he* had done.* He had to take responsibility. Even if it was hard. Even if the shame ate him up inside, made him feel small and wrong. He worked up the nerve to apologize to Ash. It was evening, and he was giving himself a pep talk in his bedroom when he heard a knock at the door. He froze. The doorknob turned as if in slow motion. Then the door opened. It was his big brother, leaning on one leg uncertainly. “Hey Parker. Is it alright if I come in?” Ash seemed to be avoiding eye contact. Then, as if propelled by a silent determination, he looked straight at Parker. Parker shifted nervously. “Sure.” Ash walked in and sat on Parker’s bed. He was looking down at his hands placed awkwardly on his knees. “So…,” he started. Just as Parker was about to interject the silence, Ash continued. “I’m sorry, Parker.” Ash looked into Parker’s blue eyes as if to make sure the sincerity in his words showed. “I’ve been really busy the past few days, and I haven’t had time to talk to you about what happened.” Parker was about to cut him off. He wanted to say, You mean what I did. “You’ve been growing up a lot lately. I think I haven’t been around much to see it. Basically…,” Ash was struggling to figure out what he wanted to say. “I…love you little bro.” Parker felt stunned. His face felt hot, and his eyes were watery. He didn’t want to cry. Instead, he walked over to Ash to give him a hug. In doing so, he ended up lifting both his knees onto the bed and straddling Ash as he leaned in to embrace his big brother. Ash returned the embrace warmly, pulling Parker in and holding him close. Choked up, Parker struggled to get the words out. “I love…you…too…. I’m…sorry…big bro….” Parker nuzzled his head into Ash’s neck. Between the warmth of the embrace, the faint scent of Ash’s sweat, and Ash’s muscular chest pressing up against Parker’s, the younger boy felt an unwanted twinge of excitement in his pants. He started to panic as his cock grew, sandwiched in between their abdomens, settling in the ridges of Ash’s abs. “Oh…it’s okay Parker. It happens.” Ash saw there were tears in Parker’s eyes. “I’m sorry it’s so uncomfortable for you. Do you want me to help?” “I shouldn’t…,” Parker said in a quiet voice. “Someday you’re going to figure it out. Until then, let me be your big brother and take care of you.” “Ok…,” Parker acquiesced. Ash lifted Parker up by the legs as he stood up and sat the younger boy down on the bed where he had just been sitting. The depression left by Ash’s butt was warm and big, and Parker felt like he was sitting in a seat meant for someone else. Ash got down on his knees in front of Parker. The younger boy held his breath. He wasn’t sure what Ash was doing, but seeing his big brother beneath him, looking up so earnestly, it made his cock throb in time with the pangs of his heart. Ash pulled down Parker’s pants, exposing the younger boy’s throbbing shame. He opened his mouth and slowly took the length of Parker’s cock in, starting with just the tip, then the rest of the glans, and finally as much of the shaft as he could swallow without gagging. Oddly enough, the taste and texture of it didn’t feel unfamiliar to Ash…he wondered why that was. Reminding himself to focus, he kissed and licked his way up the length of the shaft, sucked on Parker’s smooth balls, and then took the entirety of Parker’s cock in his mouth, suppressing the urge to choke. Parker felt like a wild Tauros was overtaking him. The sensations were so strong. His body felt out of control. He grabbed onto Ash’s tousled hair and wrapped his legs around the older boy for support. The more Ash worked his cock, the more Parker squirmed, simultaneously wanting release and for it to continue forever. He threw himself backward onto the bed, still holding Ash’s hair, and let his legs splay outward. Ash linked his arms underneath to support them while moving his hands over Parker’s abdomen toward the younger boy’s nipples. It was all too much too quick, and whatever pent up frustration Parker had been feeling exploded into Ash’s mouth. Ash swallowed Parker’s cum and licked his lips. He licked the rest of Parker’s cock clean too before pulling the boy’s pants up and patting his head. “It’s getting late. I’ll see you in the morning, little bro.” “Wait,” Parker called out. “Could you…would you mind sleeping here with me tonight?” “Sure, if that’s what you want.” Ash lay on Parker’s bed, which was barely big enough for the two of them. They were both used to sprawling out in their sleep, which made it difficult to find a comfortable position, but Ash ended up taking the bulk of the space and Parker snuggled up beside him underneath one arm, fitting together like puzzle pieces. * * * Despite Parker’s insatiable lust for his big brother not going away, he felt somewhat more at ease with it. He figured Ash was right; he probably would grow out of it at some point, once he had “figured it out.” Until then, he reminded himself that his big brother’s duty was to take care of him. The day after their reconciliation was normal enough. School. Research. Gym. Gym…. Ash had started wearing a tight black compression T-shirt and shorts for his workouts every day. Ash had explained that they helped with form and maneuverability and recovery, but Parker was more interested in how the outfit traced every curve of Ash’s muscular body, his deltoids, biceps, pecs, abs, quads, glutes, even the outline of his cock and balls…it was like he was wearing nothing at all. It left nothing to the imagination, and yet it opened it up all the same, for all the things Parker wanted to do to that body. Ash had asked Parker to help track his sit-ups. The older boy was lying on the floor on an exercise mat with his knees bent, legs spread shoulder-length apart. Parker was standing at Ash’s feet, counting each time Ash pulled himself up all the way to meet Parker’s crotch at eye level. Parker was distracted by the tantalizing outline of Ash’s genitals. They looked so plump and juicy and vulnerable. As Ash tired, Parker had a mischievous thought about how he could push Ash a little harder. Literally, by pushing him. Parker lifted his foot and pressed the thick rubber sole of his sneaker into Ash’s crotch. He felt the squishy meat flatten under his weight. Ash gasped in surprise and discomfort. “Come on, big bro! You need to keep going!” Parker egged Ash on, digging his sole in deeper. He felt Ash’s cock instinctively harden a bit, but still squishy enough to be at Parker’s mercy. Ash grunted but took the encouragement to heart. He eked out a few more reps, feeling the weight of Parker’s shoe on his cock and balls fluctuate with his movements, before finally submitting to fatigue. Despite Ash clearly being unable to continue, Parker continued to step on Ash’s cock oppressively. Ash’s cock stiffened in response. Parker adjusted his weight in subtle ways to stimulate Ash’s cock while keeping it locked in place. Ash groaned. He could feel himself getting close. Parker smirked. Who knew it would be so easy for him to dominate his older brother? But Ash had other things on his mind. Research tasks. Pokémon training. He didn’t have time for distractions like this right now. “Parker!” Parker stopped. A moderate amount of translucent fluid had seeped through Ash’s compression shorts onto Parker’s shoe. The stain left on Ash’s shorts was prominent. Ash was right on the cusp of climax. And still, he stopped himself. Other things to do, he reminded himself. He could play around with his brother another time. Parker pouted, but he ultimately let Ash finish his workout and get back to other things. Late that night, after his parents, Chloe, Goh, and Ash had all fallen asleep, Parker snuck into Ash and Goh’s room. He immediately spotted Ash on the bunk bed, limbs sprawled in every direction. He creeped closer, quietly so as not to wake anyone. As he neared Ash, he noticed Pikachu lying beside him. A small obstacle, but nothing he couldn’t overcome. Parker picked Pikachu up gently to place elsewhere. He slipped into the bed, taking Pikachu’s position. Lying on his side, Parker admired the small bit of his big brother’s exposed belly, the cute little belly button, the barely visible tuft of pubic hair leading to his prize. Parker groped around the loose fabric of Ash’s sleep shorts. Ash’s cock started to harden. Parker glanced at Ash’s face, worried he would wake. He seemed to be having pleasant dreams. Parker held his breath as he slinked his hand underneath the seam of Ash’s sleep shorts. Ash’s hard cock was easy to find, and Parker ran two fingers along the shaft, gently stroking it. It seemed to spring up as he did so, as if urging Parker for more touch. Parker moved on to edging Ash’s cock with his palm, intermittently focusing on just the glans with the tips of his fingers. Parker was studying Ash’s cock, trying to memorize its shape, what made it tick, what sensations and movements it liked. Precum spilled out of the tip onto Parker’s fingers, which Parker sucked clean. It had no distinctive flavor, but he liked it all the same. Parker noticed Ash’s breaths getting heavier, soft moans escaping his lips. He slowed down his strokes, enjoying this intimate moment, his big brother lying next to him, asleep yet under his control. Ash’s body shifted, but he did not wake. Parker wondered what Ash’s cock tasted like. He wondered what it would feel like to do to Ash what Ash had done for him. Was he bold enough? What if Ash woke up? Or worse, if Goh caught him? That boy couldn’t keep a secret. Chloe would almost certainly find out, and then it was just a matter of time before everyone else did. Another time, then. Parker felt Ash’s cock spasming in his grip. He knew Ash was close. He liked the feeling of Ash’s cock throbbing so intensely while he held it, like a wellspring of power that he could hold in the palm of his hand. That he could control. Parker squeezed Ash’s cock firmly while rotating his hand in just the right way, and milky white cum shot out onto Ash’s abdomen. In his sleep, Ash moved his hand down to scratch the area. Perfect, Parker thought. Ash would wake up thinking he had masturbated in his sleep. Parker stayed a moment to admire Ash’s moonlit form, the glossy cum adorning his skin, before carefully getting up and sneaking back to his bedroom. In his own bed, Parker looked at his fingers, shiny from the spillage of Ash’s cum. He reached down into his pants and, with the same wet fingers, jerked himself off.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606781	{"authors": ["The_Prince_of_Oatmeal"], "language": "English", "title": "The Professor’s Son’s Brother"}
A Winter Night at House Gotou Hitori Gotou was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock was named Ikuyo Kita. The hard place was everything else. A few days earlier, Kessoku Band had collectively agreed to take a short break from practice. Nijika, the ever-reliable band leader, had caught a nasty cold that left her sniffling, hoarse, and physically incapable of drumming without collapsing into a pathetic heap of tissues and apologies. Ryo had shrugged and said, “Guess I’ll hibernate,” before disappearing entirely, while Kita, bright as ever, declared that it was the perfect chance to enjoy Christmas properly. Hitori, for once, had thought the break might mean peace. She’d imagined herself curled up in her room with her guitar, scribbling half-finished lyrics, staring at chord sheets until her eyes crossed, maybe even making some actual progress without the crushing weight of the outside world. It was the perfect plan. It died the moment her doorbell rang. She opened the door in slow dread of facing her inevitable fate, only to be greeted by recently-made-girlfriend Kita Ikuyo in a soft beige sweater, her scarf loosely wrapped, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes sparkling like she was some sort of holiday decoration. “Merry early Christmas!” Kita beamed. “I came to keep you company!” Hitori’s brain exploded. That was how the day spiraled out of her control. Lunch had been a disaster—Hitori’s mother, smiling far too warmly, had casually remarked on how “cute” Hitori’s first love was, while Kita nearly choked on her food in flustered delight. Futari had been even worse, boldly asking—at full volume—how far the two of them had gone, prompting Hitori to curl into herself like a dying pill bug. How is she even aware of such things? Kita, bless her heart, had laughed nervously and said something about “holding hands,” while Hitori mumbled incoherently and prayed for spontaneous invisibility. And then came the worst part—karaoke. They were now an hour deep into Kita’s Christmas playlist, which somehow included every Japanese holiday song ever written, three tracks from popular idols, songs from movies Kita admitted she hadn’t seen, and inexplicably, English Christmas songs she insisted on attempting despite not being very good at the language. “I DON’T WANT A LOT FOR CHRISTMAS—♪” Kita sang brightly, stumbling over the lyrics but powering through with unshakeable confidence. Hitori’s soul screamed. After a seemingly endless night of nonstop festive singing, Hitori felt like she was dissolving under what could only be described as Christmas-enhanced Kita aura. It was overwhelming, radiant, and specifically lethal to introverted people like her. Hitori didn’t know if she could last. It wasn’t that she hated Kita—on the contrary, it was the complete opposite—but she was very bright, too bright for any ordinary person to be. That was the problem. She wanted to leave, to excuse herself from the sickeningly shiny aura Kita exhibited—but on the other hand, she wanted to be with Kita, because Kita was beautiful, pretty, wonderful, kind, lovely, entrancing— It was a miracle they were even dating in the first place. “Come on, Hitori-chan!” Kita said, turning around joyfully. “Are you even listening?” “Huh—! A-Ah—” Hitori jolted upright. “S-Sorry!” “You’re already tuning out?” Kita pouted playfully. “We’re only halfway through the playlist!” Hitori let out a quiet groan. Was this what dating was supposed to be? She had been so relieved—so stunned—when Kita had accepted her messy, stutter-filled confession weeks ago. She hadn’t even thought past that moment. Dating just sort of… happened. They went out, practiced together, laughed like they always had. But nothing had really changed. Perhaps that was intentional. Kita had never pushed her. Never demanded more. Never even hinted at wanting anything Hitori might not be ready for. She was gentle in a way that made Hitori feel both grateful and strangely frustrated. Why shouldn’t we do more? she thought, cheeks heating. Does she not want to? But more than anything, Hitori didn’t think she could take anymore karaoke tonight. “LAST CHRISTMA—” Kita began. That was it. Having reached the end of what she could handle, and before she could think better of her actions, Hitori pulled Kita by the hem of her sweater and captured her lips in a soft kiss. Kita froze for half a second at the touch, eyes wide, then melted, smiling faintly into the kiss as she returned it. It wasn’t their first kiss. Nor was it their second. But it was the first that Hitori initiated. Why did she decide to kiss Kita? Because Kita just looked so kissable. When they finally pulled apart, Kita was breathing softly, her hands resting on Hitori’s shoulders. “Hitori-chan,” she murmured, gazing up at her lovingly. “What’s wrong?” “N-no more karaoke,” Hitori said, her eyes narrowed in comical seriousness. “Please?” Kita laughed softly. “I thought you were having fun.” “I-I am!” Hitori insisted quickly. “I l-like	A Winter Night at House Gotou Hitori Gotou was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock was named Ikuyo Kita. The hard place was everything else. A few days earlier, Kessoku Band had collectively agreed to take a short break from practice. Nijika, the ever-reliable band leader, had caught a nasty cold that left her sniffling, hoarse, and physically incapable of drumming without collapsing into a pathetic heap of tissues and apologies. Ryo had shrugged and said, “Guess I’ll hibernate,” before disappearing entirely, while Kita, bright as ever, declared that it was the perfect chance to enjoy Christmas properly. Hitori, for once, had thought the break might mean peace. She’d imagined herself curled up in her room with her guitar, scribbling half-finished lyrics, staring at chord sheets until her eyes crossed, maybe even making some actual progress without the crushing weight of the outside world. It was the perfect plan. It died the moment her doorbell rang. She opened the door in slow dread of facing her inevitable fate, only to be greeted by recently-made-girlfriend Kita Ikuyo in a soft beige sweater, her scarf loosely wrapped, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes sparkling like she was some sort of holiday decoration. “Merry early Christmas!” Kita beamed. “I came to keep you company!” Hitori’s brain exploded. That was how the day spiraled out of her control. Lunch had been a disaster—Hitori’s mother, smiling far too warmly, had casually remarked on how “cute” Hitori’s first love was, while Kita nearly choked on her food in flustered delight. Futari had been even worse, boldly asking—at full volume—how far the two of them had gone, prompting Hitori to curl into herself like a dying pill bug. How is she even aware of such things? Kita, bless her heart, had laughed nervously and said something about “holding hands,” while Hitori mumbled incoherently and prayed for spontaneous invisibility. And then came the worst part—karaoke. They were now an hour deep into Kita’s Christmas playlist, which somehow included every Japanese holiday song ever written, three tracks from popular idols, songs from movies Kita admitted she hadn’t seen, and inexplicably, English Christmas songs she insisted on attempting despite not being very good at the language. “I DON’T WANT A LOT FOR CHRISTMAS—♪” Kita sang brightly, stumbling over the lyrics but powering through with unshakeable confidence. Hitori’s soul screamed. After a seemingly endless night of nonstop festive singing, Hitori felt like she was dissolving under what could only be described as Christmas-enhanced Kita aura. It was overwhelming, radiant, and specifically lethal to introverted people like her. Hitori didn’t know if she could last. It wasn’t that she hated Kita—on the contrary, it was the complete opposite—but she was very bright, too bright for any ordinary person to be. That was the problem. She wanted to leave, to excuse herself from the sickeningly shiny aura Kita exhibited—but on the other hand, she wanted to be with Kita, because Kita was beautiful, pretty, wonderful, kind, lovely, entrancing— It was a miracle they were even dating in the first place. “Come on, Hitori-chan!” Kita said, turning around joyfully. “Are you even listening?” “Huh—! A-Ah—” Hitori jolted upright. “S-Sorry!” “You’re already tuning out?” Kita pouted playfully. “We’re only halfway through the playlist!” Hitori let out a quiet groan. Was this what dating was supposed to be? She had been so relieved—so stunned—when Kita had accepted her messy, stutter-filled confession weeks ago. She hadn’t even thought past that moment. Dating just sort of… happened. They went out, practiced together, laughed like they always had. But nothing had really changed. Perhaps that was intentional. Kita had never pushed her. Never demanded more. Never even hinted at wanting anything Hitori might not be ready for. She was gentle in a way that made Hitori feel both grateful and strangely frustrated. Why shouldn’t we do more? she thought, cheeks heating. Does she not want to? But more than anything, Hitori didn’t think she could take anymore karaoke tonight. “LAST CHRISTMA—” Kita began. That was it. Having reached the end of what she could handle, and before she could think better of her actions, Hitori pulled Kita by the hem of her sweater and captured her lips in a soft kiss. Kita froze for half a second at the touch, eyes wide, then melted, smiling faintly into the kiss as she returned it. It wasn’t their first kiss. Nor was it their second. But it was the first that Hitori initiated. Why did she decide to kiss Kita? Because Kita just looked so kissable. When they finally pulled apart, Kita was breathing softly, her hands resting on Hitori’s shoulders. “Hitori-chan,” she murmured, gazing up at her lovingly. “What’s wrong?” “N-no more karaoke,” Hitori said, her eyes narrowed in comical seriousness. “Please?” Kita laughed softly. “I thought you were having fun.” “I-I am!” Hitori insisted quickly. “I l-like watching you sing! B-but… not for this long…” Kita tilted her head slyly. “Then what would you like to do instead?” Hitori hesitated, cheeks burning. “…I want to k-kiss you,” she whispered. “We’re d-dating, but… we hardly kiss.” “Ah,” Kita smiled knowingly. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about, Hitori-chan?” Hitori nodded, shrinking a little. “Y-yes. Sorry.” Kita shook her head gently. “Don’t apologize. I understand.” She reached up, pulling Hitori down into another kiss—this one deeper and slower. Hitori’s breath hitched as she responded, hands trembling as they slid into Kita’s hair. “Kita-chan…” Hitori pressed her face closer, reaching inside Kita’s mouth. “Mhm…” Their tongues brushed tentatively at first, then with more confidence. They kissed again and again, soft sounds filling the quiet room. Hitori felt dizzy, her nerves dissolving into warmth as Kita kissed her back just as eagerly. They shifted without realizing it, ending up on the bed, tangled together. Hitori hovered over Kita, her heart racing as she kissed her once more—longer this time. When she finally pulled back, Kita was flushed, eyes shining, her clothes disheveled—dangerously so. Hitori swallowed. Before she could hesitate, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Kita’s collarbone. “Hitori-chan…!” Kita gasped. The sound startled them both. Kita covered her mouth, her face turning a bright red. Hitori promptly backed away, realizing where she was heading. “I—I’m sorry—! Are you okay?” “Y-yes,” Kita laughed softly, looking embarrassed. “Haha… I guess we’re not ready to go further than this, huh?” Hitori’s shoulders slumped. “I ruined the moment…” “No, you didn’t. It was nice,” Kita replied gently. “And I was a little scared, too.” They shared a quiet smile. “Um… w-would you like some h-hot chocolate?” Hitori asked. “O-or something?” Kita smiled. “That sounds perfect.” They straightened their clothes and headed to the kitchen together, hands brushing as they walked. Hitori couldn’t help but glance at Kita’s collarbone, where her hickey still lingered. A silent part of her mind still wanted more, but for now—only now—she was content to be innocent a little while longer.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606786	{"authors": ["Lumi (MirroredLuminescence)"], "language": "English", "title": "A Winter Night at House Gotou"}
Side Story: Mama Ratio Gets a Boyfriend ♜ Forty some-odd system years ago... In the discotheque, the music was high, the club was bumpin’, the lights were flashing, and the night was as young as she was. Bernard had jilted her that night yet again for some freshman. As she watched him talk up some waif-y blonde who was barely of legal consenting age, she’d decided that would be the last time she’d be treated like that. With a sharp inhale of breath, she straightened her shoulders, jutted out her chest proudly, and sauntered past him in a hip-swinging walk with all of her might – being sure to hip-check the both of them as she forcefully walked between them. ‘H-hey!’ The young blonde girl exclaimed. ‘Pay her no mind,’ Bernard scoffed, sounding cockier than his looks gave him any right to be. ‘Where were we?’ ‘Goodbye, Bernard,’ she made sure to say within earshot of the both of them, before she clicked her platform heels straight forward onto the dance floor, alone. She wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for that night; all she knew is that she wasn’t going to settle any longer for these wandering-eye boyfriends. She knew she needed some respect, and she simply wasn’t finding it among the most recent wave of graduate students. So, with all her might, she threw herself into her dance moves, dancing the feelings of shame and insecurity until they were far away from her, floating above her head twirling around as if it were a disco ball. ‘Groovy moves, sister!’ one of her girlfriends complimented her. ‘Haha! Thank you!’ she responded, already breathless. Disco dances may have seemed simple to the naked eye, but with her putting her whole heart into it, she was already breaking a sweat. ‘That guy over there against the wall seems to think so, too~’ Her friend nudged her with a smirk. ‘Who, Bernard? No thank you, we are done, and I have told him just as much. He’s now gone off with someone else—again— some waifish-looking thing–’ ‘No, not that loser! Look!’ Her friend stopped her from dancing for a moment to turn her in the direction she was pointing. Leaning up against the wall was a tall, muscular man with a blond wavy afro and a Tom Selleck-style mustache giving her an intense gaze with his sunset eyes – and who promptly pretended he was looking anywhere else the moment they both made eye contact. How intriguing, she thought, her mind suddenly more agreeably engaged in the handsome features of this mysterious man’s face. What had been happening only moments before with her ex-boyfriend and the fresh meat he’d found soon was pushed from her mind. Perhaps it’s time I found fresh meat for myself, too. ‘It certainly is raining men tonight, hmm?’ She smirked at her friend, before walking off the dance floor towards him. ‘Go get ‘em, girl!’ her friend cheered her on as she began grooving out again. Smoothing out her indigo curls in a brief moment of nervousness, she quickly adjusted her bell bottom pants and metallic fabric crop top before plodding her platform heels off the dance floor and towards the handsome stranger. She never even noticed Bernard’s scowl as he watched her approach the mysterious man, the young blond waif in his arms unable to distract his gaze even as she pressed up close to him. ‘Hello~’ She waved as she arrived up towards the mysterious stranger, a bit breathless still from her exertion. ‘My name’s Victoria. What might yours be?’ The young man cleared his throat, seeming a bit shy. Even under the club lights, she could tell he was a bit flushed – and it certainly wasn’t from dancing, as she’d yet to see him out on the floor. ‘Hello… it’s Felix,’ he finally responded. ‘Felix Ratio.’ His eyes only flitted to her for a moment before swerving back to the wall again. Yet, only a moment was needed; her breath caught in her throat from his fascinating sunset eyes. She’d never seen eyes quite so beautiful on such a handsome man before. ‘You must be the shy type, Felix Ratio~’ Victoria flirted, twirling one of her indigo curls between her fingers playfully. ‘I am surprised to see you out at the club when you are being a complete wallflower, ahaha~’ Sunset eyes slid over to her curiously, an unreadable look behind them. She found it hard to breathe yet again. ‘...Perhaps,’ was all he said, giving her virtually nothing to work with. How intriguing. How often is it the man who plays hard to get? she found herself thinking. Fascinating. She cocked her head, trying a different approach. ‘I’ve not seen your face among the other graduate students before. Are you a PhD candidate, or even a professor, perhaps, Mr. Ratio ? Or should I say… Dr. Ratio?’ A smirk started to crack onto the man’s face. Oh, no, she found herself panicking a bit as he took a step towards her, towering above her petite frame. This one is really, really cute – and what’s worse, I think he knows it. A low chuckle interrupted her thoughts. ‘None of those things.’ His light laughter clearly rang even above the din of the club. ‘Then,	Side Story: Mama Ratio Gets a Boyfriend ♜ Forty some-odd system years ago... In the discotheque, the music was high, the club was bumpin’, the lights were flashing, and the night was as young as she was. Bernard had jilted her that night yet again for some freshman. As she watched him talk up some waif-y blonde who was barely of legal consenting age, she’d decided that would be the last time she’d be treated like that. With a sharp inhale of breath, she straightened her shoulders, jutted out her chest proudly, and sauntered past him in a hip-swinging walk with all of her might – being sure to hip-check the both of them as she forcefully walked between them. ‘H-hey!’ The young blonde girl exclaimed. ‘Pay her no mind,’ Bernard scoffed, sounding cockier than his looks gave him any right to be. ‘Where were we?’ ‘Goodbye, Bernard,’ she made sure to say within earshot of the both of them, before she clicked her platform heels straight forward onto the dance floor, alone. She wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for that night; all she knew is that she wasn’t going to settle any longer for these wandering-eye boyfriends. She knew she needed some respect, and she simply wasn’t finding it among the most recent wave of graduate students. So, with all her might, she threw herself into her dance moves, dancing the feelings of shame and insecurity until they were far away from her, floating above her head twirling around as if it were a disco ball. ‘Groovy moves, sister!’ one of her girlfriends complimented her. ‘Haha! Thank you!’ she responded, already breathless. Disco dances may have seemed simple to the naked eye, but with her putting her whole heart into it, she was already breaking a sweat. ‘That guy over there against the wall seems to think so, too~’ Her friend nudged her with a smirk. ‘Who, Bernard? No thank you, we are done, and I have told him just as much. He’s now gone off with someone else—again— some waifish-looking thing–’ ‘No, not that loser! Look!’ Her friend stopped her from dancing for a moment to turn her in the direction she was pointing. Leaning up against the wall was a tall, muscular man with a blond wavy afro and a Tom Selleck-style mustache giving her an intense gaze with his sunset eyes – and who promptly pretended he was looking anywhere else the moment they both made eye contact. How intriguing, she thought, her mind suddenly more agreeably engaged in the handsome features of this mysterious man’s face. What had been happening only moments before with her ex-boyfriend and the fresh meat he’d found soon was pushed from her mind. Perhaps it’s time I found fresh meat for myself, too. ‘It certainly is raining men tonight, hmm?’ She smirked at her friend, before walking off the dance floor towards him. ‘Go get ‘em, girl!’ her friend cheered her on as she began grooving out again. Smoothing out her indigo curls in a brief moment of nervousness, she quickly adjusted her bell bottom pants and metallic fabric crop top before plodding her platform heels off the dance floor and towards the handsome stranger. She never even noticed Bernard’s scowl as he watched her approach the mysterious man, the young blond waif in his arms unable to distract his gaze even as she pressed up close to him. ‘Hello~’ She waved as she arrived up towards the mysterious stranger, a bit breathless still from her exertion. ‘My name’s Victoria. What might yours be?’ The young man cleared his throat, seeming a bit shy. Even under the club lights, she could tell he was a bit flushed – and it certainly wasn’t from dancing, as she’d yet to see him out on the floor. ‘Hello… it’s Felix,’ he finally responded. ‘Felix Ratio.’ His eyes only flitted to her for a moment before swerving back to the wall again. Yet, only a moment was needed; her breath caught in her throat from his fascinating sunset eyes. She’d never seen eyes quite so beautiful on such a handsome man before. ‘You must be the shy type, Felix Ratio~’ Victoria flirted, twirling one of her indigo curls between her fingers playfully. ‘I am surprised to see you out at the club when you are being a complete wallflower, ahaha~’ Sunset eyes slid over to her curiously, an unreadable look behind them. She found it hard to breathe yet again. ‘...Perhaps,’ was all he said, giving her virtually nothing to work with. How intriguing. How often is it the man who plays hard to get? she found herself thinking. Fascinating. She cocked her head, trying a different approach. ‘I’ve not seen your face among the other graduate students before. Are you a PhD candidate, or even a professor, perhaps, Mr. Ratio ? Or should I say… Dr. Ratio?’ A smirk started to crack onto the man’s face. Oh, no, she found herself panicking a bit as he took a step towards her, towering above her petite frame. This one is really, really cute – and what’s worse, I think he knows it. A low chuckle interrupted her thoughts. ‘None of those things.’ His light laughter clearly rang even above the din of the club. ‘Then, what?’ she pressed, more than a bit interested. ‘Why is someone as dreadfully handsome as you being such a wallflower when you could be dancing with someone like me?’ Sunset eyes look down at her amusedly as his blond curls brushed in front of his face. ‘Would you believe me if I said that I was simply the janitor?’ Decades later, even long after his sudden and incredibly tragic passing, Victoria would remember this as the exact moment she knew she’d fallen in love with her future husband and father of her only son, Felix Ratio. . .. …. …….. ….. .. . Victoria’s eyes cracked open against the harsh morning, many years later, her consciousness slowly bleeding in with the light of day in her too-quiet home. A painful reminder that it was now decades later, far after her youth and the brief popularity of disco had faded. Taking in a deep breath against the onslaught of memories, she slowly sat up to look at her nightstand: Felix, when he was still alive, happier than ever and holding their only child and son, a young boy named Veritas, who had the same beautiful piercing sunset eyes as his father, and the same indigo ringlets as his mother. That same little boy had called her last night, now a full-grown man, full of determination more than she’d ever heard him – and he was quite often determined. Veritas had told her that while he’d been traveling to a scheduled lecture of his, he’d been spending some time thinking about the right time to propose marriage to his future husband. He’d finally found the right time and place and wanted some insight if she’d know if Aventurine would indeed like what he’d plan - as they talked quite often. Aventurine was a lovely young Avgin man with a mischievous streak that kept her dear Veritas just on his toes enough to keep his life interesting - and certainly full of enough affection that Victoria had no fear her son would end up the lonely academic she’d worried he’d be. Victoria had affectionately dubbed young Aventurine her ‘second son’ shortly after their first meeting. Truly, she loved him so much, and was so happy for the two of them. She was already all but certain Aventurine would say yes even if Veritas proposed to him with nothing but a twist tie off of a bag of store-bought bread, but she was happy to advise her perfectionistic son all the same to ensure the eventual moment was nothing shy of perfect. Yet, as elated as she was for her dearest Veritas and lovely Aventurine’s future engagement, she couldn’t help but feel an errant pang of sadness. Felix should be here. The thought struck her like a lightning bolt. Victoria—better known as ‘Mama Ratio’ in her older age—was right. Her beloved husband should be here, sharing in the joys of Veritas’ accomplishments, both academic and romantic, perhaps planning how they could support their potential upcoming union, discussing possibilities of becoming grandparents… ...but that was not her reality. The reality ahead of her was instead this: she’d remain the ‘cool, fun, hip’ mom, who occasionally called a certain Knight of Beauty and Galaxy Ranger over for company in her bed when the nights became too lonely and they happened to be in her part of the galaxy. She’d remain the ‘cool, fun, hip’ mom who took life on the chin, gave great advice, and would likely take an eager one-night-stand (or two... or three!) home while slightly tipsy at her own son’s wedding reception to Veritas’ chagrin and Aventurine’s thumbs-up. She’d remain the ‘cool, fun, hip’ mom who loved the independence widowhood brought – she had loved Felix dearly, but she’d daresay she did not miss doing another man’s laundry – and yet… as each year progressed she could not help but feel that something was missing, that, for the triumvirate of PhD’s she had herself (where did one think Veritas got it from, after all?), she could not quite put her finger upon it. Victoria sighed. ‘Such is life,’ she muttered to herself, then shook herself out of it after a moment. ‘My goodness… The morning depression is setting in earlier than usual today. I must go about and make myself useful.’ Yes… useful. For if she wasn’t the ‘cool, fun, hip’ mom that Veritas lovingly grumbled about and Aventurine adored as his future mother-in-law , would they continue calling upon her? Or would they leave a widow who wasn’t the ‘cool, fun, hip’ widow well enough alone, she wondered? ‘When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband,’ Victoria quoted to herself resolutely, a mantra before her morning cup of coffee more often than she cared to admit. ‘And I, in no way or fashion, detested my very dearest Felix.’ ♠♜ As Victoria sipped her morning coffee, she received an incoming call from a former colleague she now considered her friend after the events of Jarilo-VI. ☏ Call from: Baishao ✆ Accept ✆ Decline ‘Hello, dear,’ Victoria accepted the call genially, silently grateful for the conversation to break her morning reverie. ‘Mama Ratio!’ Baishao seemed flustered. This was nothing new; Baishao was easily flustered. ‘I need to go back as an ambassador to the Xianzhou Luofu to speak with the Seat of Divine Foresight on permissions for the Intelligentsia Guild to move forward on an important project!’ ‘Hmm, I see,’ Mama Ratio took another calm sip, unruffled by this news. ‘So, what is the problem?’ ‘What is the-’ Baishao huffed in exasperated frustration. ‘I’m an ex-Disciple of the cult of Sanctus Medicus! My starskiff may be immediately flagged by the Skyfaring Commission upon arrival as a potential threat once they identify me. And worst of all, they’re sending me alone!’ ‘Alone?’ Now that had Mama Ratio’s attention. Victoria sat up straight as she set her cooling coffee down. ‘My son won’t even go with you?’ ‘Dr. Ratio is currently on travel for his lecture series. Didn’t you know about that?’ Mama Ratio swore under her breath. How quickly she had forgotten that little detail. ‘Yes, of course, that’s right. Well.. how about your handsome little assistant there you never shut up about?’ ‘Z-Zijun?!’ Here Baishao was flustered again, but for entirely different reasons. ‘W-With him? Alone? Sharing one bed??’ ‘Yes, well, darling, if you want to eventually date him, that would in fact be your future reality,’ Mama Ratio smirked, amused at the blustering on the other end of the phone. ‘I-I can’t!!’ Baishao all but squeaked with nervousness. ‘H-He’s… and I-I’m-’ ‘Head over heels for him?’ Baishoa’s spluttering was reaching comical levels, and Mama Ratio permitted herself a good-natured chuckle on the phone before attempting to calm her down. ‘Relax, dear. It was just a suggestion.’ ‘C-Can you help me?’ Baishao managed after a moment. ‘I really cannot go alone. I’m worried for my safety. And… I don’t have anyone else to ask. I’ll pay for the room out of my salary-’ ‘You want me to go with you? Is that it, dear?’ Now that made Mama Ratio’s eyebrows raise up to her bangs. ‘Y-Yes! You’re good with people, you can help smooth things over i-if the situation gets, um… tense…’ Baishao swallowed. ‘Please. I’ll pay you whatever you want. We really need this mission to go well, and I’m the only one with the proper experience to speak to the Seat of Divine Foresight.’ Mama Ratio sighed, mulling it over. On the one hand, she’d heard recent… reports… of all kinds of unrest on the Luofu. Shackling Prison breaks, Borisin attacks, Stellaron sightings, even a Lord Ravager was recently spotted and taken down by one of the Xianzhou generals, she had heard. Not to mention the Heliobi, the Denizens of Abundance, the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus preying on short-lifed species like herself… the place seemed to be crawling with opportunists looking to take advantage of hapless tourists and unwitting citizens alike. On the other hand… when had that all stopped her before? Jarilo-VI’s situation was arguably just as dangerous, and she’d made it out unscathed. This wasn’t her first time being tapped on to help her son Veritas and his friends. Besides… she looked around, letting out another long sigh, … I would be the last to admit it, but I am bored out of my mind these days. Variety is the spice of life, as they say… so why not add a little more spice? ‘Alright, Baishao, I will go with you-’ She had to hold the phone away from her ear a moment to shield herself from the earsplitting scream of joy on the other end. ‘Haha, alright dear. Now, keep your money, I have no need for it,’ Victoria continued. ‘Just… one condition.’ ‘Anything!!!’ Mama Ratio’s eyes landed just that moment on a family picture of her, Veritas, and Felix - one of the last ones taken before he had suddenly passed. ‘When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband,’ She murmured her mantra to herself. ‘What was that?’ Baishao’s voice interrupted her reverie on the other end of the line. ‘I… didn’t quite catch that, Mama Ratio.’ ‘Apologies,’ Mama Ratio shook herself back to the present. ‘I… said to make sure that I do not end up taking a serious interest in anyone there. I intend to remain a widow for the rest of my days. Though dalliances are fine.’ ‘O…k…’ Baishao responded hesitantly. ‘I… can’t control your feelings, but you do you, as the kids say!’ ‘Then it’s settled.’ Mama Ratio nodded, ignoring the feeling of resignation to her fate settling in the pit of her gut. Away with you, she shooed it off mentally. A woman does not need a man or anyone else in her life to feel complete! ‘When do we go?’ ♠♜	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75610861/chapters/197727161	{"authors": ["NonbinaryThemperor"], "language": "English", "title": "Side Story: Mama Ratio Gets a Boyfriend"}
Fire Doesn't Have to be Hot A long time ago, Izuku Midoriya wanted to be a hero. He wanted to save people with a smile, like his favorite hero, All Might. Somewhere along the way, his heroic aspirations faded, but his desire to save people with a smile never did. That path led him here, twisting around the crowded corridors of Mustafu General Hospital. It was the largest hospital in almost 100km, so of course when he’d received an offer to do his residency for medical school here, he’d jumped at the opportunity. Dodging several bustling nurses and at least two patients who should still be bed ridden. He opened the door to the clinic waiting room, these weren’t emergency cases and as such, it was him and his attending physician handling them. Next on his list was a name that sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Todoroki?” He announces the last name printed on the chart to the quiet waiting room. A moment later a white haired young woman stands, beside her a little boy also rises, though when they start to follow him through the door he notices a limp in the boy's step. Not to mention the scar marring his face. Not that Izuku could judge of course. They follow him to clinic room one and the door clicks shut behind them. The woman sits off to the side, while the young boy pulls himself atop the examination table. “So what seems to be the issue here today?” He questions the two siblings, he was guessing with their relationship but the young woman didn’t look old enough to be a mom. The young boy starts, “During training I fell down and twisted my ankle and it really hurts!” The boy, Shoto according to his chart, told Izuku. Off to the side Fuyumi quietly scoffs, “Training. If that’s what he’s calling it now.” She mutters to herself, Izuku hears her quiet scoff but leaves it unaddressed, his main concern was his patient. Izuku addresses Shoto once more. “Training, huh? Do you wanna be a hero little Shoto?” He questions the split-haired kid. Shoto gives a reluctant nod, “My dad says I’ll become the number one hero some day, and that I’ll even surpass All Might…” He trails off, “But I’m gonna do it with only my ice!” His finishing statement is said with a burst of energy that Shoto hadn’t displayed yet. Izuku raises an eyebrow, “Just your ice?” He questions, drawing out an excited nod from the child. “But isn’t your quirk half-cold and half-hot? Why wouldn’t you want to use your fire?” The mood of both siblings noticeably sours in the room and Izuku feels as if he was treading dangerous territory, but he didn’t understand what he said wrong. The younger Todoroki shakes his head no, so fast that Izuku is worried the kid will get a spinal injury! “Fire just hurts people! I wanna save people with my ice! And just my ice!” Suddenly it clicks for Izuku, the scar over the kid's eye is clearly a burn. It’s clear to Izuku that he’d had a bad experience with fire, so it is possible he was scared of his own quirk. Izuku remains silent as memories flash through his head. Fire flowing around him, filling every frame of his vision. Most of his body tingles in remembrance. Izuku smiles warmly at Shoto, “You know I used to think the same thing?” The kid looks confusedly at Izuku, “Can I tell you a secret little Shoto?” He whispers loud enough for Fuyumi to hear. Unknown to Izuku, Fuyumi was interested as well, most doctors don’t engage with their patients this much, at least not in her experience with the doctors in her fathers employ. Once again the boy nods enthusiastically and Izuku whispers, “I have a fire quirk.” Shoto noticeably flinches at the revelation but Izuku continues, “I used to think I could only hurt people, I even hurt myself, real badly.” Izuku’s tone is almost somber, the memories pouring through him like an unobstructed river. Shoto perks up a little, unconsciously his hand raises and trails over the scar on his face. “But… You don’t look hurt?” He questions Izuku, causing the young doctor to laugh. Izuku rubs the back of his head a little sheepishly, “Ah, I guess I don’t! But I guess I can show you a little.” He peels off the glove covering his right hand revealing horribly scarred flesh, he rolls the cuffs of his dress shirt up to mid-arm as well, showing the scarring which continues presumably beyond what the young doctor was showing. Fuyumi audibly gasps but Izuku remains undeterred, “I did this to myself when I was younger, and for a long time after that I thought all I could do was hurt others the same way.” Shoto is literally hovering on the edge of the examination table waiting to hear what the young doctor has to say. “Before I do anything else, can you give me a little bit of trust, Shoto? I promise you won’t get hurt.” The young boy is clearly wary, but apparently feels the doctor is a kindred spirit so he nods. Izuku kneels down even further and grips the boy’s ankle gently, but firmly. It’s moderately inflamed and some bed rest would likely heal it. Izuku creates fire in the hand	Fire Doesn't Have to be Hot A long time ago, Izuku Midoriya wanted to be a hero. He wanted to save people with a smile, like his favorite hero, All Might. Somewhere along the way, his heroic aspirations faded, but his desire to save people with a smile never did. That path led him here, twisting around the crowded corridors of Mustafu General Hospital. It was the largest hospital in almost 100km, so of course when he’d received an offer to do his residency for medical school here, he’d jumped at the opportunity. Dodging several bustling nurses and at least two patients who should still be bed ridden. He opened the door to the clinic waiting room, these weren’t emergency cases and as such, it was him and his attending physician handling them. Next on his list was a name that sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Todoroki?” He announces the last name printed on the chart to the quiet waiting room. A moment later a white haired young woman stands, beside her a little boy also rises, though when they start to follow him through the door he notices a limp in the boy's step. Not to mention the scar marring his face. Not that Izuku could judge of course. They follow him to clinic room one and the door clicks shut behind them. The woman sits off to the side, while the young boy pulls himself atop the examination table. “So what seems to be the issue here today?” He questions the two siblings, he was guessing with their relationship but the young woman didn’t look old enough to be a mom. The young boy starts, “During training I fell down and twisted my ankle and it really hurts!” The boy, Shoto according to his chart, told Izuku. Off to the side Fuyumi quietly scoffs, “Training. If that’s what he’s calling it now.” She mutters to herself, Izuku hears her quiet scoff but leaves it unaddressed, his main concern was his patient. Izuku addresses Shoto once more. “Training, huh? Do you wanna be a hero little Shoto?” He questions the split-haired kid. Shoto gives a reluctant nod, “My dad says I’ll become the number one hero some day, and that I’ll even surpass All Might…” He trails off, “But I’m gonna do it with only my ice!” His finishing statement is said with a burst of energy that Shoto hadn’t displayed yet. Izuku raises an eyebrow, “Just your ice?” He questions, drawing out an excited nod from the child. “But isn’t your quirk half-cold and half-hot? Why wouldn’t you want to use your fire?” The mood of both siblings noticeably sours in the room and Izuku feels as if he was treading dangerous territory, but he didn’t understand what he said wrong. The younger Todoroki shakes his head no, so fast that Izuku is worried the kid will get a spinal injury! “Fire just hurts people! I wanna save people with my ice! And just my ice!” Suddenly it clicks for Izuku, the scar over the kid's eye is clearly a burn. It’s clear to Izuku that he’d had a bad experience with fire, so it is possible he was scared of his own quirk. Izuku remains silent as memories flash through his head. Fire flowing around him, filling every frame of his vision. Most of his body tingles in remembrance. Izuku smiles warmly at Shoto, “You know I used to think the same thing?” The kid looks confusedly at Izuku, “Can I tell you a secret little Shoto?” He whispers loud enough for Fuyumi to hear. Unknown to Izuku, Fuyumi was interested as well, most doctors don’t engage with their patients this much, at least not in her experience with the doctors in her fathers employ. Once again the boy nods enthusiastically and Izuku whispers, “I have a fire quirk.” Shoto noticeably flinches at the revelation but Izuku continues, “I used to think I could only hurt people, I even hurt myself, real badly.” Izuku’s tone is almost somber, the memories pouring through him like an unobstructed river. Shoto perks up a little, unconsciously his hand raises and trails over the scar on his face. “But… You don’t look hurt?” He questions Izuku, causing the young doctor to laugh. Izuku rubs the back of his head a little sheepishly, “Ah, I guess I don’t! But I guess I can show you a little.” He peels off the glove covering his right hand revealing horribly scarred flesh, he rolls the cuffs of his dress shirt up to mid-arm as well, showing the scarring which continues presumably beyond what the young doctor was showing. Fuyumi audibly gasps but Izuku remains undeterred, “I did this to myself when I was younger, and for a long time after that I thought all I could do was hurt others the same way.” Shoto is literally hovering on the edge of the examination table waiting to hear what the young doctor has to say. “Before I do anything else, can you give me a little bit of trust, Shoto? I promise you won’t get hurt.” The young boy is clearly wary, but apparently feels the doctor is a kindred spirit so he nods. Izuku kneels down even further and grips the boy’s ankle gently, but firmly. It’s moderately inflamed and some bed rest would likely heal it. Izuku creates fire in the hand that's holding Shoto’s ankle, the kid predictably yelps in a mixture of fear and surprise. Shoto stares at the fire for a few seconds before Izuku lets his quirk abate. Shoto’s head jerks in the direction of Fuyumi. “‘Yumi! His fire doesn’t hurt!” Shoto is nearly vibrating with excitement, “And my ankle feels better now!” Fuyumi watched, eyes wide open in surprise! She wasn’t expecting the doctor to create fire like that! For a moment Toya flashed through her head. Her oldest brother, who’d died in a forest fire of his own creation, trying to impress their father. The word tasted like bile even when she didn’t speak it. The kid hops off the table and runs around the room making zooming noises with his mouth. While Shoto burns off his energy, Izuku approaches Fuyumi. “If you’ll follow me to checkout I can have them print some instructions for some follow up care for little Shoto. He’ll be fine, kids bounce back from twists and sprains so fast you wonder if they’re faking it sometimes.” He chuckles and opens the door to the clinic exam room, allowing both siblings to walk out before Izuku shuts the door behind him. Shoto is jumping up and down in excitement, he runs forward before Fuyumi can stop him and grabs the doctor's hand. “Hey mister doctor! Do you think I can make my fire like that too!?” He questions enthusiastically. Izuku lets out a hearty good natured laugh at the boy’s antics, “Well little Shoto. It took me a lot of time and a lot of practicing with my fire to learn how to do that. A lot of fire quirks don’t have the ability to control the temperature of their fire.” Shoto looks crestfallen at Izuku’s answer but the young doctor wasn’t done speaking. “Half-cold half-hot sounds like an amazing quirk though. I think you can do what I just did but even better. Icing certain injuries also has its benefits, you know?” Shoto once again begins vibrating in excitement. Fuyumi held back listening to the two talk. Shoto had more questions, and Izuku tried his best to answer them in the best way he could. She watched the two talk with a small smile on her face as they walked down the corridor and to the checkout area of the clinic. He bids the two of them farewell with a wave and a smile that felt brighter than the sun outside. Silently, Fuyumi wished she could see him again. A few weeks go by, but Fuyumi still can’t get the young doctor out of her head. He’d been so gentle with her little brother, he’d all but disproved the theory that people’s personalities reflected their quirk. All her life, her father had shown her that fire was hot, it was dangerous, it was angry. But the young doctor had shown her his flame. Inadvertently, of course, but he’d shown her a flame that could burn, just like her fathers. Proof of that was literally burned into his skin, and he used it to make others feel better. Her cheeks tinged pink before she could compose herself. She shouldn’t be thinking about him while she’s at work! Fuyumi wanted to smack herself to keep her mind from wandering back to the young doctor. Silently wishing for a distraction, her wish was granted when the bell chimed over the entrance, as someone entered the coffee shop she worked at. “Hi, welcome to Beans! What can I get… you?” She’d never been that lucky had she? Of course, the man who’d been plaguing her thoughts for weeks, had walked right through the door of the cafe she worked at. His face lights up when he sees her, “Oh hey! Yumi, right? How is little Shoto doing?” The nickname her brother calls her, coming out of the young doctor's mouth makes her cheeks flush red. Suddenly, she’s aware of how hot it is behind the coffee bar. “Uh, yeah. Fuyumi actually. I’m surprised you remember me.” Izuku rubs the back of his head in embarrassment, now it was time for his cheeks to tinge red, “Oh, yeah… I hope that wasn’t creepy but I try to remember all of my patients! Though…” He trails off, his ears tinging red at the tips. “I don’t usually show my patients my burns.” He finishes quietly. Fuyumi remembers his burns all too vividly, it was hard to believe that such a gentle man was hiding those under his clothes. She squeaks in embarrassment. The thought of what else he was hiding under his clothes made her cheeks burn hotter. Though the dress shirt he wore didn’t leave a lot to the imagination, she thought. “Ah, well anyways!” Fuyumi blurts out, realizing she’d been quiet a little too long now. “Shoto is doing well! Now what can I get started for you today?” “Can I get an Americano? And, uh, one of those little coffee cakes?” He points into the pastry display at the stack of streusel topped cakes. She smiles her best customer service smile, “Of course! Do you want that pastry warmed? And can I have a name for the order?” she asks him as if she’s reciting a script. “Izuku, for the name. And I, uh… I’ve got the warming part on my own.” He smiles at her, and once again Fuyumi is almost blinded by it. “Of course, I’ll have those right out for you, Izuku.” She gives him a small smile and busies herself with preparing his food and drink. On the other side of the counter, Izuku was trying not to stare too much at Fuyumi. Her small smile had felt like it put his heart into palpitations. He pushed two fingers into the crook of his own neck, trying to discretely check his own pulse. Admittedly, she was beautiful. Izuku knew that when he talked with her about how to care for Shoto’s twisted ankle. As a resident though, he tried his hardest to force her out of his mind. Getting involved with patients or their families often led to trouble for both parties. Not to mention the amount of lawsuits it could open up. His thoughts betrayed him quickly, because here? He was just a customer and she was a barista. An absolutely breathtaking barista, but still a barista. People hit on their servers all the time… That was sleazy to think wasn’t it? He restrains himself from wincing noticeably, she’d probably think he was a creep. “Izuku?” Her voice rings out through the almost empty cafe. He takes hold of his coffee and wrapped pastry, their hands meet for only an instant. She smiles at him. Nothing like the small smile she’d given him earlier, that had made his heart skip multiple beats. A practiced smile meant for a customer. Izuku waves behind him as he leaves, “See you tomorrow.” The jingling of the bell over the door signals his departure. Mentally Izuku kicks himself as he walks down the street, “See you tomorrow.” He mutters to himself, “Such a fucking idiot.” He couldn’t stay wrapped up in it anymore, he had to get back to work. Fuyumi couldn’t stop a blush from rising to her cheeks as he walked away though. She checked for any customers watching, before pulling out her cell phone and texting her boss. “Any open shifts tomorrow?” The next few weeks flew by and slowly the two learned each other’s routine. Wednesday’s, Fuyumi was off, it was the only day she had classes at her college. Friday’s, Izuku worked night’s. He'd often come by around 7:30, right before they closed. Which should have annoyed Fuyumi, but he was always apologetic and he’d tip well enough that she didn’t mind. At least, that was what she told herself. Truthfully, he was always the highlight of her day, his smile lit up any room he was in. He always took a genuine interest in her day, at least once a week he’d check up on how Shoto was doing. Today was abnormal though, it was a Monday. Usually on Mondays Izuku came in earlier, closer to the middle of the day. But now it was almost 4:30 and he’d yet to be seen. Fuyumi was a little worried about the young doctor if she was being honest. Her worries turned out to be unfounded, as the door chimed a familiar mop of green hair entered through the doorway. What confused her was that he wasn’t dressed in his typical dress shirt and tie. He was wearing… Casual clothes? He had on a black long sleeved shirt that had the kanji for “black shirt” printed on it. She stifled a giggle at his silly choice of attire. “Hi Izuku!” She announced warmly, a genuine smile gracing her face. “Running a little behind today?” She teased. His cheeks colored red and his gloved hand rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “Ah, I meant to tell you last Friday that I would be on vacation and not working for the next week or two.” Fuyumi’s face drops after he speaks. “Does that mean you won’t be in every day?” She questions him, almost sadly. Izuku waves his hands in front of him, “Oh no! I can still come by and get coffee! But well…” He trails off, his gaze now fixed on his shoes. He looked down to hide the crimson blush burning his cheeks so badly he felt like he’d lost control of his quirk. “Well?” She questions him, her voice belying her curiously. He still can’t meet her eyes, “Uhm, well, I wanted to know ifyouhadanyplansafteryourclassesonwednesday!” He speaks the last part quickly but his words are earnest. Fuyumi’s surprise is displayed on her face. Her mouth forming an “O”, she quickly composes herself, forcing her blush away by cooling her face with her quirk. “Uh, me? No, I think I’m free after my classes on Wednesday.” She replies to his question. Izuku forces his gaze upwards to meet hers, he swallows his nervousness thickly. His face still crimson, all the way to the tips of his ears, “Would you, uh, want to grab lunch? Or, uh, do something after your classes?” He asks the stunned barista. Even the full force of her ice quirk can’t stop her face from erupting in a blush that matches Izuku’s. “Me? Uh, well, yeah, I, t-think so. Lunch sounds nice!” Her voice squeaks the last few words. Izuku’s face lights up in a smile so bright, Fuyumi is certain she’d been blinded. If that smile was the last thing she’d seen, she could be happy with that though. Distantly she hears him tell her to meet up after her classes at the train station. All she can do is nod dumbly as he exits the cafe, the bell jingling behind him.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606791	{"authors": ["lildietsprite"], "language": "English", "title": "Fire Doesn't Have to be Hot"}
surrender your heart Zhang Hao has died and gone to heaven, she is certain of it. That would make Sung Hanbin an angel—one of mercy, of grace. She towers above Hao, her eyes and smile sharp, cutting right through Hao's soul to the darkest depths. From the moment Hanbin had shoved Hao onto the bed and demanded that Hao stay still and look pretty as Hanbin uses her cock, Hao had ascended. It is all Hao has ever wanted, and she almost feels guilty for indulging, for allowing herself to be spoiled and catered to so thoroughly. No one has had her like this—nor ever will, if she is able to have her way. Hanbin reminds her that this is what she wants too. "Feels so good, baby," she sighs, lips shining with a mixture of gloss and Hao's spit. Hanbin swivels her hips with a deadly precision, taking Hao's strap deeper. All Hao can do is stare in awe. Her own arousal sits heavily in her tummy, warm and pulsating as Hanbin stokes it. Stunned, Hao's arms sit uselessly by her sides, even though she itches to reach out and touch, feel the softness of Hanbin's breasts and waist and thighs beneath her fingertips. She won't, though—she will be good, obey Hanbin's order. There are no complaints from Hao, however, as Hanbin makes a show of it all, gropes at her breasts as she rides Hao, slow and steady. Her pretty brown nipples are perky and aroused from the harsh pinches Hanbin keeps giving them. "Enjoying the view?" Hanbin giggles, melodic and enchanting, a siren call amidst a stormy sea—Hao's saviour. Hao wets her lips and nods, and scrambles to reply, "Yes, baobei," when Hanbin raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow in disapproval at her silence. This is the first time, yet Hao is attuned to every little signal and nonverbal instruction—as with every other part of their lives and personalities, they slot together perfectly. It is unexpected, had actually been the barrier that had prevented Hao from pursuing Hanbin romantically. She was fairly certain it would end how all of her relationships had, with a bitter taste and lack of fulfilment when it comes to the bedroom. Hao is assertive in most matters—she pursues what she wants, brimming with ambition and confidence that often gives people the wrong idea. Many partners had expressed disappointment in how she acted in the bedroom. She wasn't dominant enough, she wasn't rough enough, she simply wasn't enough. As she quickly found out, no one seems to be interested in a whiny top that wants to be bossed around. Especially not one that enjoys being in charge in every other situation. So, that is how she and Hanbin had started. A friendship that blossomed into something much more, but Hao hadn't dared to take things further, for her sake, for Hanbin's sake. She knew exactly how it would go, and even if it made her unbearably sad, she didn't want to lose Hanbin. One night of lingering touches and sparks of electricity had worn down Hao's resolve. Not to mention Hanbin. Fuck, she looked amazing, as always, but tonight—Hao hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from her glowing beauty. Apparently, Hanbin had felt the same, as one cocktail later she had all but dragged Hao out of the bar and hailed a taxi back to Hao's apartment. Fully prepared to fake her way through this one encounter, to take care of Hanbin, Hao had steadied herself and attempted to put on a front. It had lasted about two minutes—crumbled apart the moment Hanbin had shoved Hao onto the bed. And now here she is, laid against her own sheets as Hanbin takes, shamelessly uses Hao in a way she had only dreamed of. That damned dress is still on Hanbin, tugged down so that her breasts spill out, and hiked up past her hips so that Hao can watch how skilfully she takes Hao's cock. She isn't wearing panties, a fact that had knocked the wind right out of Hao's lungs upon discovering. To think that Hao could've sank to her knees right there in the bar and serviced Hanbin—her cunt pulses hotly. "Getting tired," Hanbin sighs after a few more minutes, words warped by her pout. It's an order dressed as a simple statement—she wants Hao to take over. Hungrily, eager to please, Hao gets Hanbin onto all fours and slides her cock in once again, fingers digging in to her soft hips as she begins to thrust. Unsure movements, testing the waters. It is so incredibly uncharacteristic of Hao to be like this—but she wants to make Hanbin feel good. "Are you a teenage boy?" Hanbin hisses out, and turns her head to pierce Hao with a fierce glare. Shame curls deliciously inside of Hao. "No?" Hanbin prompts when she gets no reply—Hao shakes her head, cheeks reddening, as she avoids making eye contact. "Then stop fucking me like a virgin, Hao-jie. Fuck me properly or not at all." A pathetic keen builds in Hao's throat, the words fuelling her arousal immensely. Hanbin doesn't know that Hao likes this, finds pleasure in being spoken down to. Well, she didn't, but Hao is sure she knows now. "Yes, miss," Hao utters, transfixed by the way Hanbin's ass	surrender your heart Zhang Hao has died and gone to heaven, she is certain of it. That would make Sung Hanbin an angel—one of mercy, of grace. She towers above Hao, her eyes and smile sharp, cutting right through Hao's soul to the darkest depths. From the moment Hanbin had shoved Hao onto the bed and demanded that Hao stay still and look pretty as Hanbin uses her cock, Hao had ascended. It is all Hao has ever wanted, and she almost feels guilty for indulging, for allowing herself to be spoiled and catered to so thoroughly. No one has had her like this—nor ever will, if she is able to have her way. Hanbin reminds her that this is what she wants too. "Feels so good, baby," she sighs, lips shining with a mixture of gloss and Hao's spit. Hanbin swivels her hips with a deadly precision, taking Hao's strap deeper. All Hao can do is stare in awe. Her own arousal sits heavily in her tummy, warm and pulsating as Hanbin stokes it. Stunned, Hao's arms sit uselessly by her sides, even though she itches to reach out and touch, feel the softness of Hanbin's breasts and waist and thighs beneath her fingertips. She won't, though—she will be good, obey Hanbin's order. There are no complaints from Hao, however, as Hanbin makes a show of it all, gropes at her breasts as she rides Hao, slow and steady. Her pretty brown nipples are perky and aroused from the harsh pinches Hanbin keeps giving them. "Enjoying the view?" Hanbin giggles, melodic and enchanting, a siren call amidst a stormy sea—Hao's saviour. Hao wets her lips and nods, and scrambles to reply, "Yes, baobei," when Hanbin raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow in disapproval at her silence. This is the first time, yet Hao is attuned to every little signal and nonverbal instruction—as with every other part of their lives and personalities, they slot together perfectly. It is unexpected, had actually been the barrier that had prevented Hao from pursuing Hanbin romantically. She was fairly certain it would end how all of her relationships had, with a bitter taste and lack of fulfilment when it comes to the bedroom. Hao is assertive in most matters—she pursues what she wants, brimming with ambition and confidence that often gives people the wrong idea. Many partners had expressed disappointment in how she acted in the bedroom. She wasn't dominant enough, she wasn't rough enough, she simply wasn't enough. As she quickly found out, no one seems to be interested in a whiny top that wants to be bossed around. Especially not one that enjoys being in charge in every other situation. So, that is how she and Hanbin had started. A friendship that blossomed into something much more, but Hao hadn't dared to take things further, for her sake, for Hanbin's sake. She knew exactly how it would go, and even if it made her unbearably sad, she didn't want to lose Hanbin. One night of lingering touches and sparks of electricity had worn down Hao's resolve. Not to mention Hanbin. Fuck, she looked amazing, as always, but tonight—Hao hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from her glowing beauty. Apparently, Hanbin had felt the same, as one cocktail later she had all but dragged Hao out of the bar and hailed a taxi back to Hao's apartment. Fully prepared to fake her way through this one encounter, to take care of Hanbin, Hao had steadied herself and attempted to put on a front. It had lasted about two minutes—crumbled apart the moment Hanbin had shoved Hao onto the bed. And now here she is, laid against her own sheets as Hanbin takes, shamelessly uses Hao in a way she had only dreamed of. That damned dress is still on Hanbin, tugged down so that her breasts spill out, and hiked up past her hips so that Hao can watch how skilfully she takes Hao's cock. She isn't wearing panties, a fact that had knocked the wind right out of Hao's lungs upon discovering. To think that Hao could've sank to her knees right there in the bar and serviced Hanbin—her cunt pulses hotly. "Getting tired," Hanbin sighs after a few more minutes, words warped by her pout. It's an order dressed as a simple statement—she wants Hao to take over. Hungrily, eager to please, Hao gets Hanbin onto all fours and slides her cock in once again, fingers digging in to her soft hips as she begins to thrust. Unsure movements, testing the waters. It is so incredibly uncharacteristic of Hao to be like this—but she wants to make Hanbin feel good. "Are you a teenage boy?" Hanbin hisses out, and turns her head to pierce Hao with a fierce glare. Shame curls deliciously inside of Hao. "No?" Hanbin prompts when she gets no reply—Hao shakes her head, cheeks reddening, as she avoids making eye contact. "Then stop fucking me like a virgin, Hao-jie. Fuck me properly or not at all." A pathetic keen builds in Hao's throat, the words fuelling her arousal immensely. Hanbin doesn't know that Hao likes this, finds pleasure in being spoken down to. Well, she didn't, but Hao is sure she knows now. "Yes, miss," Hao utters, transfixed by the way Hanbin's ass jiggles with every thrust, how slick spills from her cunt, covers her inner thighs and Hao's strap. Hanbin giggles, drawing Hao's attention back to her face. "Miss?" "Oh! I—I'm sorry, I can get a little carried away—" "I like it." Hao can tell that Hanbin means it. Utterly pleased, Hao blushes and ducks her chin to her chest, mumbling, "Thank you, miss," as she continues to drive her cock into Hanbin. Deep and hard thrusts that make Hanbin's toes curl and her back arch further. The dress is hiked up around her waist now, a truly erotic sight. A stark contrast to Hao, who Hanbin had stripped naked and practically shoved into the harness of the strap-on the moment they entered her bedroom. "So polite, jiejie," Hanbin coos, gasping when Hao pushes in to the hilt and grinds, and then continues on, "That's much better, just like that, baby," all breathy and strung out. A shiver runs down Hao's spine, nerves tingling at the praise. Emboldened, Hao picks up the pace again, fingers digging harshly into the softness of Hanbin's hips, gripping for purchase so that she can deliver each ram of her cock with a precision that has Hanbin yelling and thrashing. God, Hao could cum like this. She might—each jostle of the base of the strap against her throbbing clit sends zips of pleasure through her groin. Paired with the sight and sound of Hanbin in the throes of ecstasy, it would be impossible for Hao not to be incredibly close. Hanbin's manicured nails rake across the sheets, grasping the soft material in a bid to ground herself as she bounces to meet each movement of Hao's. "So fucking good," she moans airily, and Hao preens once more. One of her hands disappear, and from the way Hanbin's body bends and bows, Hao knows exactly where it has gone. Her own breaths are ragged, slightly worn from the exertion, from fucking Hanbin so hard and consistently for the past few minutes—she refuses to stop and rest, though. Not when she can see the moment Hanbin cums, legs shaking as her orgasm rips through her. It becomes harder to thrust from how tightly she clenches around Hao's length, but Hao perseveres. Only when Hanbin chokes out a weak command for Hao to stop, does she come to a halt. "Hanbin-ah," Hao rasps, finally catching her breath. A warmth is sitting heavily in her tummy, spreading deliciously between her thighs, begging for attention. She quivers, taut with desire. "Need to cum, please." The words snap Hanbin out of her post-orgasmic delirium. With trembling arms, Hanbin pulls herself up and pushes Hao back onto the bed, situating herself between Hao's legs. Nudging the strap-on out of the way, she delves in, licking a wide strip from Hao's leaking cunt all the way up to her clit. Without thinking, Hao tangles her hands in Hanbin's long hair, tugging and pulling, practically riding Hanbin's face, frantic whines and whimpers spilling from her lips as she tips over the edge. It should be embarrassing, how quickly she cums, but she can't really bring herself to care when Hanbin is wrapping her lips around Hao's clit and sucking, hard, overstimulating her until she is begging for mercy. "Enough, ah, aaahh," Hao cries out, "Too much, please, Hanbin-ah, miss!" She doesn't use the word stop, something that Hanbin points out when she finally extracts herself from Hao's pussy, face glistening with Hao's release. The realisation hits Hao like a truck, because she really didn't. She squirms at the implications, at how easily she had submitted herself to Hanbin, allowed her to take whatever she pleased. Hanbin doesn't push any further, though, and crawls over Hao's prone body to capture her lips in a gentle kiss, something so tender that Hao tries her hardest not to assign any meaning to it. Quietly, comfortably, they clean up, and the sight of Hanbin in one of Hao's t-shirts sends a wave of possessiveness crashing over her, almost unbearable. Her teeth hurt, her heart too. A question lingers in the air, thickening it to the point that it begins to choke Hao. Not for long—Hanbin, sweet and thoughtful Hanbin, cuts to the chase the moment they slide into bed. Kind and gentle, as always, she simply states, "I like unnie a lot." Hao's heart thuds dully in her chest, still unsure. "I like Hanbinnie a lot, too." "As more than a friend?" Although Hanbin is asking such a bold question, her voice is subdued, a little timid. A small giggle escapes from Hao at the absurdity of it all—here they lie, shy after such lewd acts. "Yes… I never—in the past, I've never had someone match me so perfectly like this." "No one has ever wanted to put you in your place, huh?" Hanbin is smirking, Hao can hear it, even if the other girl is tucked into Hao's chest right now. "A shame, really. They don't know what they're missing out on. Who doesn't love having a pretty girl at their service?" Heat steadily spreads across Hao's face, all the way down to her tummy, a pleasant warmth. "Lots of people, apparently," she answers, a tad bitter. It isn't anyone's fault for having preferences, it just hurts to have been rejected countless times because she doesn't seem to live up to the expectations of others. "Well, they don't matter," Hanbin states, matter-of-fact. "Not anymore." She pauses, laughing a little before adding, "I might even scare you off, unnie, I've been told I'm a lot to handle." "I can take it." That, Hao is certain of—even more so when Hanbin decides to challenge her assertion by climbing onto her lap, staring down at Hao with a hungry look. "You can handle me taking what I want, when I want it? Trust me when I say I'm insatiable, jiejie." Fuck, Hanbin isn't wrong, because Hao can feel the dampness of her panties against Hao's bare thigh. "I would love that," Hao utters, dazed and taken completely by how perfect Hanbin is for her. Part of her is convinced this must be a dream. "I'll take care of you." She pushes her thigh against Hanbin's heat, a slight movement to test the waters. In response, Hanbin bears down, grinds languidly without skipping a beat. One of her hands trails up the front of Hao's shirt until her fingers rest over the elegant length of Hao's neck. She applies pressure, light but enough that Hao can feel it—knocks her dizzy, along with Hanbin's next words, bold and certain. "Yes, you will."	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606751/chapters/197714771	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "surrender your heart"}
End of the world It normal day at school until it happened. We didn’t have no idea what happened but then it hit us literally. Let me start from the beginning. Emma : Jake come on we are going to be late! Jake:so what it not like it the end of the world actually ?: oh he had no idea how wrong he was. Because that afternoon.. the world actually did end . Then the sky open up and an Creature came flying out of the creak in the sky, their wings bigger than a school bus Emma: what that squints at the sky Jake: I don’t know , look like a bird Buzz buzz Jake :look at your phone Phone alert: This is not a drill take shelter this is a state wide emergency take shelter NOW! Emma: that is not a bird run! More came bursting out of the crack , their scream shook the earth beneath our feet. Students started screaming, dropping their backpacks at they run in every direction. The first creature came down and grabbed two students in its claws and shot back upward, wings beating like thunder. This was only the beginning	End of the world It normal day at school until it happened. We didn’t have no idea what happened but then it hit us literally. Let me start from the beginning. Emma : Jake come on we are going to be late! Jake:so what it not like it the end of the world actually ?: oh he had no idea how wrong he was. Because that afternoon.. the world actually did end . Then the sky open up and an Creature came flying out of the creak in the sky, their wings bigger than a school bus Emma: what that squints at the sky Jake: I don’t know , look like a bird Buzz buzz Jake :look at your phone Phone alert: This is not a drill take shelter this is a state wide emergency take shelter NOW! Emma: that is not a bird run! More came bursting out of the crack , their scream shook the earth beneath our feet. Students started screaming, dropping their backpacks at they run in every direction. The first creature came down and grabbed two students in its claws and shot back upward, wings beating like thunder. This was only the beginning	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606811	{"authors": ["BlossomBabe67"], "language": "English", "title": "End of the world"}
where fear's gods cannot follow The group is silent tonight. The abandoned Roman fortress where they had taken refuge stands more imposing than ever in the darkness. On the narrow path through the passageway that leads to the courtyard for his meeting with the other knights, Galahad feels strangely uneasy, as if a shadow were closing in on his face. Wandering through the corridors at the far end of the courtyard, the women rock their children, tired from the long journey. The men are gathered around the campfire, but no one is laughing or drinking as usual. The stormy expression on Arthur's face, haunted by the recent loss of Dagonet and the significance of his sacrifice, is reflected in the shifty glances of the other knights. Through the flames, Tristan's maroon eyes meet Galahad's. He's sharpening a small, curved knife that the boy isn't sure he's seen before, but he's not sure of anything these past few days. Yet Tristan is always watching, always silent at a distance. He always looks at him with the same intensity as now. Some time ago, the relationship between them had changed. Galahad supposes it's because of the many times they'd trained together, when Tristan had given him tips to improve his technique and they'd ended up drinking together in some tavern. Or perhaps when, thanks to his skill with archery, he'd saved his life in that ambush in the rainy forest; it could also be because of the starry nights they'd stood guard and their quiet patrols of the perimeters where they'd settled. And each of those times, he'd found himself waiting with a certain anxiety for Tristan to touch him—a simple caress on his cheek some days, a squeeze on his shoulder on others. Each time, Tristan's eyes stirred a strange feeling in his stomach that he couldn't help but seek out. Abandoning his foolish daydreams, Galahad is about to look away when Tristan moves his head almost imperceptibly, pointing to his right, toward the staircase leading to the farthest tower, the watchtower, suggesting he accompany him. Without waiting for confirmation, Tristan begins to head in that direction, and the other knights, lost in the darkness of their thoughts, don't even notice the shadow of the boy who follows him with equal curiosity and distrust. The spiral staircase leading to the top of the watchtower concealed Tristan's elusive figure, but his footsteps echoe eerily, confirming his presence. For some strange reason, Galahad's heart pounds in his ears as he reaches the final steps. Against the mossy wall of the window, the cloudy moon casts a dull light on Tristan's sharp features, as he stands with his back to Galahad. He can only see his right cheek, but it's enough to recognize his high cheekbones and the curve of his pouty lips. Galahad swallows hard. "Your hand" Tristan says, still not turning around. Galahad's brow furrows in confusion. His feet finally deign to obey, taking a couple of unsteady steps until he stops beside his companion. A faint smile touches Tristan's lips before he reaches out to take one of Galahad's hands, sliding a delicate piece of metal onto his index finger. "My ring," Galahad exclaims, surprised. "It belonged to my father." "You dropped it yesterday when you were wielding your sword against the Saxons to protect those children" he announces, a special gleam enlightens his eyes as he massages Galahad's calloused hand, who is mesmerized by his every movement "Brave boy with a pure heart, if anyone were to find the Holy Grail, it should be you." A warm blush spreads across Galahad's neck and up to his face. Tristan's smile widens before he finally releases his hand and steps back. Galahad regrets the loss of his warm touch, but doesn’t protest. He doesn't really know what to say, but before he can ruin it, Tristan speaks again. "The tension down there isn't good for anyone. The air is cleaner here, even Oiseau needed to get away." Galahad fixes his gaze on a distant point among the long row of trees and spots the outstretched wings of the hawk gliding peacefully through the dark, starry skies. The air smells of smoke. The Saxons will arrive soon. Perhaps in a few days, there won't be a watchtower left from which to contemplate the night landscape. "Well, I suppose all he'll see from afar are the ruins of this broken fortress" Galahad says bitterly. "Broken like Arthur's ideals?" he jokes. Galahad smiles and nods, but talking about it worries him and steals the sweet euphoria of the shared moment. Thinking about war with a mind like his—which is capable of creating hyperrealistic images that haunt him like terrible nightmares even when he is awake—is not an option, so he chooses to change the subject. “When we were at the camp, I used to wander away from the tents. I’d go deep into the woods at night, far enough to take in the whole picture. Through the smoke of the campfires, the camp looked like a ship in the fog.” Galahad pauses, Tristan raises an eyebrow curiously, urging him to continue. “Only	where fear's gods cannot follow The group is silent tonight. The abandoned Roman fortress where they had taken refuge stands more imposing than ever in the darkness. On the narrow path through the passageway that leads to the courtyard for his meeting with the other knights, Galahad feels strangely uneasy, as if a shadow were closing in on his face. Wandering through the corridors at the far end of the courtyard, the women rock their children, tired from the long journey. The men are gathered around the campfire, but no one is laughing or drinking as usual. The stormy expression on Arthur's face, haunted by the recent loss of Dagonet and the significance of his sacrifice, is reflected in the shifty glances of the other knights. Through the flames, Tristan's maroon eyes meet Galahad's. He's sharpening a small, curved knife that the boy isn't sure he's seen before, but he's not sure of anything these past few days. Yet Tristan is always watching, always silent at a distance. He always looks at him with the same intensity as now. Some time ago, the relationship between them had changed. Galahad supposes it's because of the many times they'd trained together, when Tristan had given him tips to improve his technique and they'd ended up drinking together in some tavern. Or perhaps when, thanks to his skill with archery, he'd saved his life in that ambush in the rainy forest; it could also be because of the starry nights they'd stood guard and their quiet patrols of the perimeters where they'd settled. And each of those times, he'd found himself waiting with a certain anxiety for Tristan to touch him—a simple caress on his cheek some days, a squeeze on his shoulder on others. Each time, Tristan's eyes stirred a strange feeling in his stomach that he couldn't help but seek out. Abandoning his foolish daydreams, Galahad is about to look away when Tristan moves his head almost imperceptibly, pointing to his right, toward the staircase leading to the farthest tower, the watchtower, suggesting he accompany him. Without waiting for confirmation, Tristan begins to head in that direction, and the other knights, lost in the darkness of their thoughts, don't even notice the shadow of the boy who follows him with equal curiosity and distrust. The spiral staircase leading to the top of the watchtower concealed Tristan's elusive figure, but his footsteps echoe eerily, confirming his presence. For some strange reason, Galahad's heart pounds in his ears as he reaches the final steps. Against the mossy wall of the window, the cloudy moon casts a dull light on Tristan's sharp features, as he stands with his back to Galahad. He can only see his right cheek, but it's enough to recognize his high cheekbones and the curve of his pouty lips. Galahad swallows hard. "Your hand" Tristan says, still not turning around. Galahad's brow furrows in confusion. His feet finally deign to obey, taking a couple of unsteady steps until he stops beside his companion. A faint smile touches Tristan's lips before he reaches out to take one of Galahad's hands, sliding a delicate piece of metal onto his index finger. "My ring," Galahad exclaims, surprised. "It belonged to my father." "You dropped it yesterday when you were wielding your sword against the Saxons to protect those children" he announces, a special gleam enlightens his eyes as he massages Galahad's calloused hand, who is mesmerized by his every movement "Brave boy with a pure heart, if anyone were to find the Holy Grail, it should be you." A warm blush spreads across Galahad's neck and up to his face. Tristan's smile widens before he finally releases his hand and steps back. Galahad regrets the loss of his warm touch, but doesn’t protest. He doesn't really know what to say, but before he can ruin it, Tristan speaks again. "The tension down there isn't good for anyone. The air is cleaner here, even Oiseau needed to get away." Galahad fixes his gaze on a distant point among the long row of trees and spots the outstretched wings of the hawk gliding peacefully through the dark, starry skies. The air smells of smoke. The Saxons will arrive soon. Perhaps in a few days, there won't be a watchtower left from which to contemplate the night landscape. "Well, I suppose all he'll see from afar are the ruins of this broken fortress" Galahad says bitterly. "Broken like Arthur's ideals?" he jokes. Galahad smiles and nods, but talking about it worries him and steals the sweet euphoria of the shared moment. Thinking about war with a mind like his—which is capable of creating hyperrealistic images that haunt him like terrible nightmares even when he is awake—is not an option, so he chooses to change the subject. “When we were at the camp, I used to wander away from the tents. I’d go deep into the woods at night, far enough to take in the whole picture. Through the smoke of the campfires, the camp looked like a ship in the fog.” Galahad pauses, Tristan raises an eyebrow curiously, urging him to continue. “Only then did I feel safe.” “Do you feel safe now?” Tristan asks after a moment. Galahad’s gaze shifts to the man’s tense jaw, traveling down his beard and following the path of a braid that disappears into tangled dark blond hair that ends at his shoulders. Beneath the wolf-fur coat, a thin gray tunic reveals his broad chest. With his alluring, animalistic appearance, Tristan is the kind of man who intimidates more with his silence than his voice. Galahad feels suddenly overwhelmed and shakes his head, hoping to organize his thoughts, while squeezing his eyes shut. He only opens them when he feels Tristan's hands finding his again. Galahad watches him expectantly, reveling in the stabilizing touch of his palms slowly moving up his forearms, his biceps, his shoulders, and the delicate curve of his neck, until they rest on his cheeks. His entire skin burns and tingles. It's a strange but pleasant sensation. Suddenly, the earlier thought of wanting to be touched by Tristan transforms into an impetuous, suffocating desire. Galahad's hands travel to the larger man's chest, fingers outstretched, caressing the gray hairs that peek out from his décolletage through the linen. "You think too much when the world stands still..." Tristan murmurs, his voice as deep and close as Galahad had never heard it before, speaking directly to his face. One of his hands, which is at his neck, slides slightly back to entwine in the curls at his nape, holding him there. Sure, as if he wanted to run away. "Save that for tomorrow." Galahad hadn't expected the shiver that ran through his body when Tristan brushed aside the curls on his forehead and leaned in to press his lips there against his smooth skin. It was the first time he'd ever kissed him. The sweet gesture was brief, but Galahad took a couple of clumsy steps forward, seeking more contact, more caresses, more whispers—whatever Tristan wanted to give him, he would take it. The older man let out a sigh that was almost a laugh before wrapping his arms around the boy's waist and pulling him close. Galahad couldn't remember the last time he'd been embraced in a non-sexual context, but having his cheek pressed against Tristan's chest while his arms held him close to his beating heart felt heavenly. He hugged him back with the same intensity. "We'll die tomorrow," he whispered weakly. Tristan placed another soft kiss on his hair and sniffed there with animal precision. “But we are alive today,” Galahad hears him say, though given the surreal nature of the event, he could very well have imagined it. However, even amidst that shattered fortress, and still without the possibility of stepping back to see the image of this drifting ship, in the arms of the Sarmatian warrior the answer to that question is yes. Galahad feels safe. * The arrival of the Saxons was delayed. A thick fog descending from the morning sky on the green hills significantly reduced visibility. Arthur asserted that this was why they hadn't yet been attacked and wouldn't be until nightfall, as their advance was hampered by the weather. Galahad, however, knew that the Saxons' absence had little to do with the weather, but rather with the fact that Cerdic, their leader, was waiting for reinforcements to arrive so he could attack with an advantage. He wanted to ensure that the Knights of the Table and the protected villagers would die that night. But there wasn't much time for reflection, as by mid-morning the men were already drawing their weapons, honing their skills for the approaching battle. Galahad was furious. He found it absurd and a waste of time to continue the charade, preparing for something as inevitable as death. Yes, he would fight to his last breath, but fostering a false hope of freedom among the warriors seemed to him not only unnecessary but also cruel. They all knew the fate that awaited them at sunset. And yet there he stood with his two short swords, one in each hand, facing Bors's mocking smile, a smile that seemed never to diminish his desire for a fair fight. The burly, bald man twirls his sword heavily and smiles through clenched teeth, circling Galahad in an imaginary arc before the attack. “Are you ready to be brought down, the way I bring down my own children when they misbehave, boy?” he says, amused. His joke would have elicited a laugh from Galahad, if it weren't for the burning sensation he felt spreading through his chest. "Just because your arms weigh more than your brain doesn't mean you're going to touch me" he replies, exasperated. That finally wiped the mocking smile off Bors's face, and he charges at him with a growl, kicking up dirt with his heavy footsteps. But while his attack is forceful, it lacks the agility needed to reach Galahad, who dodges the blows with the speed of a snake. Bors tries again without success, the fight dragging on perhaps longer than necessary, considering it was important that they didn't tire. At a certain point, Galahad grows bored of fighting and suggests a well-deserved rest, trying to hide his panting. Bors is, after all, an excellent warrior. Only then did he notice Tristan leaning against a tree not far away. Galahad couldn't help but smile at the sight, and his feet carry him almost instinctively to his side, but it seems the mysterious man has other plans, for before Galahad could reach him, he turns and begins walking among the trees toward some place only he knows. Well, and perhaps his bird as well. The thought makes him chuckle, and Tristan turns to him curiously before stopping in a beautiful clearing. It's a small space, certainly, but the branches of the surrounding trees and the dense foliage allow a few fleeting rays of sunlight to filter through, accentuated by the mist, giving the place an ethereal, surreal air. Tristan leans closer to stroke Galahad's cheek, who leans against it easily, before the man begins to run his fingers through his curls, tousling them in a childlike way. Galahad fights the urge to kiss his stupid lips right then and there. "Want to try your luck with me, boy?" Tristan asks, adjusting his leather gloves. The boy draws his swords again and is surprised when he sees Tristan choose the small knife he'd seen him sharpening yesterday. The older man's face remains expressionless, but behind his eyes, Galahad can sense the same implication as in the murmur of his words. “I prefer to test your endurance” He replies, with equal mischievousness, in an act of bravery. Tristan snarls, a gesture so alluring and characteristic of him that it makes Galahad's chest warm with affection and desire, and before he can lose himself in the sensation, they launch into action. The fight begins quickly. Both fighters are agile and eager. Galahad, as usual, moves like a spring, managing to dodge several of Tristan's advances by millimeters, hissing when the small blade grazes the side of his neck, opening a thin red line on his skin. Tristan smiles, revealing his fangs that give him an animalistic appearance, always precise and calculating with his movements, as if he could predict with certainty how and when Galahad would act. In a swift turn, the edges of the weapons clashed sharply, and a small spark jumps. “You're slower, old man” Galahad taunts, still panting. As always, Tristan doesn't respond. Unexpectedly, he changes his approach and decides to attack from below. Galahad leaps back as fast as he can, but his right foot gets caught in the treacherous roots of a nearby tree, and Tristan takes advantage of this to charge at him again. Galahad manages to turn just in time to dodge another precise slash near his cheek, but he can do nothing against the blow to his shoulder that sends him reeling backward, causing him to lose his balance and the firm grip he had on his swords, which inevitably crashes against the grass. Tristan raises an eyebrow, a gesture that, for some reason, both annoys and excites him. Galahad reacts swiftly, grabbing Tristan by the forearm and spinning him around to immobilize him, but the other knight's strength is greater, and, breaking free from his grip, Tristan hurls them both roughly to the ground. All Galahad can see is the green of the grass, Tristan's hair in his face, and the mingled sound of their gasps as they tumble through the foliage. Finally, Galahad manages to find a point of stability and uses it to straddle Tristan, pinning his wrists to either side of his face so he can no longer attack. His torso is tense and moves agitatedly with each breath, just like Galahad's, and Galahad senses in the silence and stillness that something has changed. Something in Tristan's eyes dispels any motivation to attack and win. On the contrary, Galahad cannot help himself as he nimbly leans forward and presses his lips against Tristan's salty mouth. Galahad releases Tristan from his grip when he feels the man’s hands pushing upward to tangle his fingers in the boy's curly hair. Galahad lets out a whine as he feels Tristan's chest presses against his own when he rises gracefully, leaning his back against a nearby tree and placing his open hands on Galahad's thighs, caressing them freely. Tristan trails his tongue along Galahad's lips, and Galahad lets him in, allowing him to explore his mouth in a soft, sensual way that makes him tremble. Shyly, he tangles one hand in Tristan's hair and tugs, making him groan, as he begins to rub himself against the erection pressing against his ass. Tristan's lips trace a wet path along his jaw and neck, his warm tongue and sharp fangs making Galahad melt. It doesn't matter if anyone hears them, Galahad is unable to stifle the ragged moans escaping his lips as Tristan marks and devours him. His hips begin to move harder and more wildly against Tristan, who chooses to raise a hand to his cheek and give him a couple of short, affectionate kisses before smiling. "Slowly, pup," he murmurs, adoring, pushing his own hips up to press against Galahad's ass again, and Galahad gasps, throwing his head back. At some point during their passionate encounter, Tristan had pushed aside the thin linen fabric of the shirt and leather skirt covering Galahad's backside, and while the contact drove him wild, it wasn't enough. “Tristan,” he whimpers in his ear, kissing the skin behind it and trailing down his neck, making the Sarmatian warrior’s back arch, seeking contact “I want you.” Tristan growls and cups Galahad’s face in both hands, placing sweet kisses on his nose, his cheeks, and finally his lips. Galahad grins like an idiot. “Has it been a long time since…?” Tristan asks, reaching down beneath him, pulling his cock out of his trousers, and lazily stroking it. A warm blush rises to Galahad’s cheeks. “I’ve never…with a man,” he admits. Tristan's brow furrows, and Galahad kisses the space between his eyebrows. "I'll be fine. It's not like I'm not going to die tonight anyway." Tristan kisses him before raising one hand, palm open, between them. The other rests on one of Galahad's asscheeks, massaging too close to his entrance to ignore his wet invitation. "Spit" he commands, and Galahad, obeying, watches hungrily as Tristan rubs his erect member with saliva before aligning it with Galahad's entrance. They both gasp at the sensation of the head catching the rim. Tristan warns again, "Slowly, my boy." Ignoring his concerns, Galahad thrusts down and bottoms out in one abrupt motion. Both men groan in equal surprise. Galahad cups Tristan's cheeks and kisses his lips carelessly, biting at the burning sensation of the movement. "Galahad" Tristan gasps, his voice husky with lust. But Galahad kisses him again to silence him as he impatiently tries to settle himself on his cock. The saliva had certainly helped, and while Galahad's hole was wet and hot, the friction still felt a little harsh, though that didn't stop him from continuing to rock back and forth desperately. Using the older man's shoulders for support, Galahad decided to try a few short bounces that made Tristan bite the skin of his neck to stifle a curse. Warm, rough fingers proclaimed the broad plane of his chest and his hairless pecs, as he plays with his nipples, pinching and tugging until Galahad is reduced to a whimpering puddle. Tristan's inviting, half-open mouth before his eyes sent a shiver down his spine, and Galahad can’t stop his hand as it travels to that pair of pouty lips and that hot tongue gliding over his fingertips. His eyes flutter closed, feeling himself being carried away in endless waves of pleasure with each of the deep, precise pumps of Tristan's cock against his prostate. "God, please" he begs as the pressure builds low in his gut, ever closer to the edge. And then it stops. Galahad can't help but whine when Tristan's cock leaves his hole unexpectedly with an obscene sound, feeling empty and betrayed. But before he can voice a complaint, Tristan places a soft kiss on his cheek and pushes his shoulders to turn him around. Confused and breathing rapidly with agitation, Galahad flinches in surprise as Tristan strikes one of his ass cheeks with purpose, and, losing his balance, he falls onto his elbows in the grass. "Tristan...fuck" In the next instant, Tristan is thrusting back into him with a growl, slamming hard and hot. His rhythm speeds up until every stroke hits him with relentless urgency, leaving Galahad breathless. Each thrust lands with purpose, driving a sharp gasp out of him, his fingers scrambling for purchase along the earth and the blades of grass. Tristan is going to split him in two. The sensation is equally terrifying and exhilarating. No one has ever made him feel like this, his heart pounding in his chest. Sure, he'd noticed something special about the way his stomach twisted whenever the other man was near, but he'd never paid it any mind. He'd never even considered the possibility that it was mutual. And anyway, love is a privilege he knew he couldn't aspire to. Galahad’s mind flickers momentarily to the shadow of the coming battle. Death feels impossibly near, an unseen rider keeping pace with him, inevitable. And yet here, with the earth cool beneath his arms and Tristan’s hands grounding him, holding him, making him feel like he belongs, something deep inside him loosens. For a fleeting moment, the war falls away. The dread, the armor, the weight of expectation, all of it slips from his body like a discarded cloak. He knows he may not live to see another sunrise, but right now he feels more alive than he ever has, held in a space that feels impossibly safe, impossibly his. If freedom exists for men like him, perhaps it is only in moments like this, when love–or the mere possibility of it– feels like the safest place he has. Tristan kisses and nibbles his way up his back to his right shoulder, enveloping him with the warmth of his body and his ragged breath. “Galahad, you beautiful thing,” the other man murmurs, through clenched teeth. Galahad pushes back as he pushes forward and they both inevitably moan at the sudden surge of pleasure. “Fill me up, old man” Galahad demands, feeling brave. Tristan’s rhythm shifts, growing more insistent as he moves behind Galahad. The grass bends beneath Galahad’s elbows, his breath catching with each deepening push of Tristan’s body against his. The pace builds, wild and determined, sending tremors through him as Tristan holds his hips firmly, guiding him through every escalating wave of sensation. The air around them feels warm and alive as their colliding skin, filled with their unsteady breaths and the soft rustle of the field around them. Each movement draws Galahad closer to a place where thought slips away. When Tristan's hand travels up his thigh to envelop his cock, already wet with precum and impossibly hard, only a few strokes are necessary before Galahad is coming on his fist in hot pulses with a war cry. Tristan rides him through his orgasm with steady movements, following him with his release a few moments later. Galahad feels him effectively filling him, cum spill out of his hole and down the back of his thighs, but he couldn't be happier. Galahad sinks with his stomach into the grass, breath still uneven, but with a warmth, soft and starting, spreading through his chest. Peace, real peace, settles over him for the first time in what feels like years. And before he can stop himself, a quiet laugh spills out of him, light and breathless. “What's so funny?” Tristan asks with genuine curiosity, falling on his back beside him. Galahad moves until he is on top of his body and places a loud kiss on one of his flushed cheekbones. “Nothing” Galahad shakes his head, still smiling as the laughter fades into a sweet, exhausted sigh “Or everything. I just-” He looks at Tristan then, really looks at him. And he sees love. So terrifyingly clear that his heart twists, full in a way he can't name. “I didn’t know I could feel this happy. Not now. Not before the battle. Not ever, maybe” he admits, stealing another kiss from his lover “And it sucks that I’m only getting this one time.” Tristan’s expression softens, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth as he reaches out, brushing Galahad’s hair with quiet affection. The older man gives him a chaste kiss on his chin before biting down there with his sharp fangs. “Who said only this time, pup?” Tristan says, with a sultry tone, and Galahad laughs when he feels his hands on his asscheeks again, pulling them apart in a swift movement “I thought you wanted to test my endurance. Ready for round two?” Galahad just kisses him happily and spins them around. * Later that night, as music and laughter fill the air, the knights look more joyful than ever, intoxicated by victory and the tranquility that comes after a hard-fought battle. At the heart of the raging crowd, Arthur raises the Excalibur high toward the sky, the blade catching the light as he stands unshaken and unmistakably heroic. “Let every man, woman, and child bear witness that from this day forward all Britons will be united in one common cause,” he announces, with firmness and confidence. Galahad kneels alongside the other knights, thrusting their swords upward as a single, thunderous shout broke from their throats. “King Arthur!” they scream, chests swelling with pride. Flaming arrows fly across the sky toward the ocean, and Galahad shudders as his eyes meet those of the solitary man across the courtyard, always watching him back. Tristan. He needs no signal this time. Galahad simply goes and smiles when Tristan takes his hand and leads him up the watchtower staircase. The laughter, the cheers, the clatter of celebration below seem to fall away, thinning into a distant hum with each step. With every turn of the spiral staircase, the world beneath them grows softer, farther, as though the night itself is gathering them into a quieter place meant only for the two of them. When they reach the window and the moon bathes Tristan's face in a pale light, Galahad collapses into his arms and sighs when their lips finally meet again. God, he had missed his mouth, his hands, his voice. For the first time in a long time, Galahad had felt afraid that something bad might happen and he would never again see the other man's maroon eyes. “Missed you, pup” Tristan tells him, pulling him in a tight hug against his chest and burying his face in his curls with a deep sigh. Galahad follows without a hint of resistance. He no longer needs to hide from the world to feel safe. Tristan's love has become his own watchtower, where fear’s gods cannot follow.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606821	{"authors": ["sevscomplex"], "language": "English", "title": "where fear's gods cannot follow"}
there-there dead man, you were someone's brother once Shon grips his cane as tightly as he can without crushing it, and steps down from the chariot. It's selfish of him to send his sisters-in-law and nephew ahead of him, a fact he knows all too well. But when Meghamala steps off the chariot and stands right next to him, her arm interloped with his other arm, he supposes he's allowed selfishness every now and then. It's not too selfish to seek opportunities to delay meeting the men who killed his Vasudada. He's just turned around to walk into the palace he spent perhaps a third of his life in, only to lock eyes with the youngest Pandava. Nakul. Or was it Sahadev? All his brother used to talk about was Arjun, and all Duryodhana used to talk about was Bheem. He's fairly sure he wouldn't have recognised Emperor Yudhishthira if it wasn't for his crown, as well. Small worries though, compared to why exactly they're still here, when Vrushali and Padmavati Di have already gone inside with Vrishketu. "I..." Shon opens his mouth, and then shuts it within seconds. "I wasn't aware that you wished to see me." "Of course we do, Prince Shon." Yudhishthira says with a smile that seems to excuse him from bowing to the Emperor. The wooden handle of his cane digs into his palm, and the title of Prince digs into his throat as he watches the Pandavas awkwardly eye him. He can't blame them for that. "You're Jyesht's family, and we extended an invitation to our whole family." "My wife." Shon rasps out after a second, suddenly ashamed of how he's using his whole family as a shield to avoid meeting the Pandavas. He wants to crush their heads like overripe melons. "Meghamala." Arjun has just opened his mouth when Shon speaks. "You don't need to address us with any titles. Unlike my brother or Vrishketu, we're simple sutas." His gaze flickers to Bheem, who makes a poor attempt of looking as invisible as he can. He's towering over everyone, all too aware that Shon can see him in his entirety. Blood boils for a split second, but that's enough. "And we're not family. Vrushali and Padmavati didi certainly qualify, and Vrishketu too. But me, Meghamala and my parents have nothing to do with your family." "That's not true." Yudhishthira says after exchanging a glance with Arjun. "Angraaj Karna always saw you as his brother-" "I am his brother." Somewhere, Arjuna flinches a little, and Shon can't shake off the feeling that he keeps glancing at his walking cane. Shameful, of a man of their generation to be crippled, but there's not much he can do about it, now can he? "-and he's our blood brother, whether one wants it or not. That surely makes you something of ours, if not a half brother." Shon eyes the five of them, feels Meghamala's fingers brush against his wrist, and thinks of the way Vrishketu had sobbed when he had been told that his father had been born to Kunti and not his grandmother. How said grandmother had been told the truth by Vasudada the very day he had found out, while he and his nephews were kept in the dark. Nephew. Singular. "Very well." He bows his head just so. "If calling me your brother stops my family from being condemned to their fate alone then I'll let you do that. I'll be available if you ever want to know more about my brother." "We're grateful." One of the twins cocks his head respectfully, and Shon half smiles-half grimaces at him before walking inside with Meghamala. "You handled that well." His wife whispers to him once they're out of the earshot of the Pandavas, but heaven knows that they're still listening. Somehow. What he's doing in a family with the blood of Gods running through their veins, he'll never fathom. "I wish they would stop calling Vasudada their brother." Shon mutters as the two of them turn the corner to where the waiting rooms for the guests are, a small sigh escaping his mouth as the pain in his leg and shoulder subsides now that he's walking again. Shouldn't have offered to get Ketu's chariot ready for him, not after he's already been sleeping badly. Months since Arjuna shot him down, and he can't walk without a cane, of all things. "I... I'm afraid he is their brother, as much as we dislike it." Meghamala replies, reaching forward to clasp his hand in her own, her bangles pressed against his wrist. He scoffs, even though she speaks the truth. "Arjuna killed him, and my brother wished to kill Arjuna. I don't think any brother would do that." He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before turning to face his wife. "There's only one person in the world who has the true rights to be his brother, and that's me. They're five brothers already, they've grown up with five- why would they..." His throat tightens. "-would they want to take Vasudada away from me for a second time?" "I'm afraid they don't understand what they're doing." She replies, her voice soft. Moments like these and he's glad he couldn't even step foot in Kurukshetra. Then a glimpse of Ketu from a strange angle and he wishes he'd	there-there dead man, you were someone's brother once Shon grips his cane as tightly as he can without crushing it, and steps down from the chariot. It's selfish of him to send his sisters-in-law and nephew ahead of him, a fact he knows all too well. But when Meghamala steps off the chariot and stands right next to him, her arm interloped with his other arm, he supposes he's allowed selfishness every now and then. It's not too selfish to seek opportunities to delay meeting the men who killed his Vasudada. He's just turned around to walk into the palace he spent perhaps a third of his life in, only to lock eyes with the youngest Pandava. Nakul. Or was it Sahadev? All his brother used to talk about was Arjun, and all Duryodhana used to talk about was Bheem. He's fairly sure he wouldn't have recognised Emperor Yudhishthira if it wasn't for his crown, as well. Small worries though, compared to why exactly they're still here, when Vrushali and Padmavati Di have already gone inside with Vrishketu. "I..." Shon opens his mouth, and then shuts it within seconds. "I wasn't aware that you wished to see me." "Of course we do, Prince Shon." Yudhishthira says with a smile that seems to excuse him from bowing to the Emperor. The wooden handle of his cane digs into his palm, and the title of Prince digs into his throat as he watches the Pandavas awkwardly eye him. He can't blame them for that. "You're Jyesht's family, and we extended an invitation to our whole family." "My wife." Shon rasps out after a second, suddenly ashamed of how he's using his whole family as a shield to avoid meeting the Pandavas. He wants to crush their heads like overripe melons. "Meghamala." Arjun has just opened his mouth when Shon speaks. "You don't need to address us with any titles. Unlike my brother or Vrishketu, we're simple sutas." His gaze flickers to Bheem, who makes a poor attempt of looking as invisible as he can. He's towering over everyone, all too aware that Shon can see him in his entirety. Blood boils for a split second, but that's enough. "And we're not family. Vrushali and Padmavati didi certainly qualify, and Vrishketu too. But me, Meghamala and my parents have nothing to do with your family." "That's not true." Yudhishthira says after exchanging a glance with Arjun. "Angraaj Karna always saw you as his brother-" "I am his brother." Somewhere, Arjuna flinches a little, and Shon can't shake off the feeling that he keeps glancing at his walking cane. Shameful, of a man of their generation to be crippled, but there's not much he can do about it, now can he? "-and he's our blood brother, whether one wants it or not. That surely makes you something of ours, if not a half brother." Shon eyes the five of them, feels Meghamala's fingers brush against his wrist, and thinks of the way Vrishketu had sobbed when he had been told that his father had been born to Kunti and not his grandmother. How said grandmother had been told the truth by Vasudada the very day he had found out, while he and his nephews were kept in the dark. Nephew. Singular. "Very well." He bows his head just so. "If calling me your brother stops my family from being condemned to their fate alone then I'll let you do that. I'll be available if you ever want to know more about my brother." "We're grateful." One of the twins cocks his head respectfully, and Shon half smiles-half grimaces at him before walking inside with Meghamala. "You handled that well." His wife whispers to him once they're out of the earshot of the Pandavas, but heaven knows that they're still listening. Somehow. What he's doing in a family with the blood of Gods running through their veins, he'll never fathom. "I wish they would stop calling Vasudada their brother." Shon mutters as the two of them turn the corner to where the waiting rooms for the guests are, a small sigh escaping his mouth as the pain in his leg and shoulder subsides now that he's walking again. Shouldn't have offered to get Ketu's chariot ready for him, not after he's already been sleeping badly. Months since Arjuna shot him down, and he can't walk without a cane, of all things. "I... I'm afraid he is their brother, as much as we dislike it." Meghamala replies, reaching forward to clasp his hand in her own, her bangles pressed against his wrist. He scoffs, even though she speaks the truth. "Arjuna killed him, and my brother wished to kill Arjuna. I don't think any brother would do that." He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before turning to face his wife. "There's only one person in the world who has the true rights to be his brother, and that's me. They're five brothers already, they've grown up with five- why would they..." His throat tightens. "-would they want to take Vasudada away from me for a second time?" "I'm afraid they don't understand what they're doing." She replies, her voice soft. Moments like these and he's glad he couldn't even step foot in Kurukshetra. Then a glimpse of Ketu from a strange angle and he wishes he'd crawled behind his brother, if only fix the damned wheel and let him fight instead. He scoffs as he takes a seat and waits for one of the servants to tell him which room they're supposed to occupy during their stay. Meghamala takes a seat right next to him, and they don't let go of each other's hands. "I cannot fault them for killing my brother, as much as I want to." He concedes, looking at the loose braid adorning his wife's hair, and the lack of flowers in them. Their attempt to somber their looks after the war. He quickly averts his gaze. "I wish I could call it unjust, but I know that Vasudada wouldn't." The dyut-sabha. Abhimanyu. Everything Duryodhana and Shakuni had done. He has the strongest urge to throw up, but manages to reel it in. He hopes to die before he can see anyone else in his family bid him farewell, with perhaps his parents as the exception, but shamefully, he knows he would never shed as many tears within ten years of his wife's death as he has in two months of his brother's. Meghamala replies with a singular, sharp nod, and he has a feeling she'll never stop looking at Arjun as the person who ruined her husband's ability to run behind any grandchildren in their fate. Footsteps grow louder, and Shon and Meghamala both turn towards the door. Vrishaketu appears from behind the curtains, a frown on his face. "I've been searching for you." He says, and then hurries inside, as though afraid that if he's even a little too slow, the Pandavas will materialise out of nowhere and whisk him away. "Come, come, your room is right next to mine." Shon reaches out to pat his nephew's hair, and then takes his support to stand up, except all he wants to is lurch into his arms, and for a second he feels so much like his brother that it tears through his chest. The same stature, the same light in his eyes, the same calluses on his hands from archery. He smiles at Vrishketu, at Vasudada, cheeks hurting because he's forgotten how to, and beside him, Meghamala takes a sharp breath, and Vrishketu's grip on his forearm loosens. "Uncle..." His nephew stares at him, his voice a little shaky, and he's not Vasudada, he's just sixteen, he's just a child. "..why are you crying?" "My knee keeps acting u-" He lies, and Ketu goes pale, and immediately focuses his attentions on Meghamala instead. Ouch. "Kaki, I'm so sorry for giving in to his demand of looking after my chariot, I should have known better-" Chances are, he already knows what's truly the cause behind his tears. It's still nice to pretend otherwise. His wife just briefly caresses Vrishketu's cheek and says nothing else. He grips his cane with one hand and they begin to make their way towards whatever room the Pandavas have allotted them. And as they walk, Vrishketu leans in a little closer, his breath ghosting on the shell of Shon's ear. "Don't worry kaka, I'll keep the Pandavas away from you."	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602126	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "there-there dead man, you were someone's brother once"}
home alone ‘You’re sure you’ll be okay while we’re all gone?’ Suguru caught a glimpse of Satoru’s dramatic eye roll in his peripheral, and stifled a laugh. The pair stood opposite their teachers and classmates, luggage stacked high around them all as cars whizzed by. A huge black bus towered over the group, while the driver inside it tapped his foot impatiently. ‘Yes, Yaga-Sensei.’ Suguru replied sensibly, offering a small smile to try and relax the frown on his teacher’s face. ‘You won’t be able to contact any of us at all, there’s-’ ‘No service, yeah, we know! You only told us a million times. Relax, Sensei, we’ll be okay!’ Yaga tutted, unconvinced. Something like this, taking the entire school on a trip abroad for five days, wasn’t that’d ever been done before at Jujutsu Tech. Suguru and Satoru had agreed to stay behind and guard the school grounds, only because they’d been promised their own trip later in the year as a reward for missing out. Yaga wasn’t worried necessarily about them getting hurt; any threats or intruders could easily be dealt with by his two strongest students, he was sure of that. It was more… everything else. His mind filled involuntarily with flashbacks of events yet to come: a kitchen burning down, a flooded bathroom, a carbon monoxide alarm blaring and his two students sleeping through it. Yaga’s grip on his suitcase tightened. ‘Alright, then…’ He murmured, a little uneasily. Hauling up his suitcase, he heard everyone sighing in relief, and only then realised how much he’d been holding them up. ‘Have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’ Satoru grinned, waving his friends off gleefully as they rammed themselves into the bus with their luggage. He and Suguru kept their smiles wrapped tightly around their faces until the vehiclefinally pulled away, revving as it mobilised. As soon as the bus was gone, they both turned to each other with much more devious smirks on their faces. ‘What first?’ Suguru asked, a mischeivious glint flashing in his eye. The next few days went by in a blur for the boys, it was the most fun they’d ever had in their lives. First, a candy-eating competition. Satoru was, of course, the clear winner. Even when Suguru was forced to quit surprisingly early, clutching his stomach in pain, Satoru had carried on devouring everything in sight. Next, they’d used the ample free space of the school courtyard to fight for hours and hours. The staff were normally hestitant to allow them to duke it out unsupervised; wary of the destructive power Suguru’s curses held. This time, there was nobody to interrupt their sparring, and they’d go for round after round, until the sky glowed a vibrant orange above them. Satoru won almost every single time - Suguru’s actions were a lot more sluggish than normal, but Satoru tried not to think too much about it. Suguru had, of course, insisted they’d do the work Yaga had set for them while they were away, much to Satoru’s displeasure. But that could wait until the night before he returned, because today it was time for a movie marathon, which is how Satoru found himself curled into a ball on Suguru’s bed. His head rested gently on Suguru’s loosely crossed legs, sunglasses sliding off his face as the movie blared from the TV in front of them. ‘I don’t get it. If he’s lost, why’s he taking her down the mountain?’ Satoru declared, shifting around but keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the protagonist in front of him. Suguru sighed, but Satoru noticed it sounded a little laboured and shaky. ‘Are you stupid? He only said he was lost to get her into his car.’ Suguru explained, feeling his blood pressure rising. His voice, he noticed, was more strained than usual. His throat felt dry too, like he hadn’t drank water in days. Weird. ‘Why does he want her in the car?’ Satoru asked, looking up at his friend. ‘Because he’s a murderer!’ Suguru exclaimed, feeling the last of his patience wearing thin. His throat seemed to be wearing thin too, because he immediately launched into a sequence of awful dry coughs, each one tearing at his throat as if he’d been swallowing nails. Satoru sat up, Infinity whirring into place instinctively. He watched, eyes wide, as Suguru struggled to catch his breath, doubling over with his hand clasped firmly to his mouth. ‘You’re not dying, are you?’ Satoru waited until Suguru was done to ask this, handing his friend a water bottle as he spoke. ‘I’m fine.’ Suguru lied, bringing the bottle up to his lips. His chest heaved as he gulped water down, savouring the soothing feeling. It didn’t last as long as he’d liked, the water settled into his stomach uneasily, threatening to return the way it came. ‘You sure? ‘Cause Shoko’s not here, so you’d be pretty fucked if you were.’ ‘I love how tactful you are. Just shut up and watch the movie, maybe then you’ll finally get it.’ Suguru muttered, grimacing at the sudden queasiness he felt. He’d be fine, though, right? Suguru hadn’t gotten properly sick in a while. Occasionally, he’d get	home alone ‘You’re sure you’ll be okay while we’re all gone?’ Suguru caught a glimpse of Satoru’s dramatic eye roll in his peripheral, and stifled a laugh. The pair stood opposite their teachers and classmates, luggage stacked high around them all as cars whizzed by. A huge black bus towered over the group, while the driver inside it tapped his foot impatiently. ‘Yes, Yaga-Sensei.’ Suguru replied sensibly, offering a small smile to try and relax the frown on his teacher’s face. ‘You won’t be able to contact any of us at all, there’s-’ ‘No service, yeah, we know! You only told us a million times. Relax, Sensei, we’ll be okay!’ Yaga tutted, unconvinced. Something like this, taking the entire school on a trip abroad for five days, wasn’t that’d ever been done before at Jujutsu Tech. Suguru and Satoru had agreed to stay behind and guard the school grounds, only because they’d been promised their own trip later in the year as a reward for missing out. Yaga wasn’t worried necessarily about them getting hurt; any threats or intruders could easily be dealt with by his two strongest students, he was sure of that. It was more… everything else. His mind filled involuntarily with flashbacks of events yet to come: a kitchen burning down, a flooded bathroom, a carbon monoxide alarm blaring and his two students sleeping through it. Yaga’s grip on his suitcase tightened. ‘Alright, then…’ He murmured, a little uneasily. Hauling up his suitcase, he heard everyone sighing in relief, and only then realised how much he’d been holding them up. ‘Have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’ Satoru grinned, waving his friends off gleefully as they rammed themselves into the bus with their luggage. He and Suguru kept their smiles wrapped tightly around their faces until the vehiclefinally pulled away, revving as it mobilised. As soon as the bus was gone, they both turned to each other with much more devious smirks on their faces. ‘What first?’ Suguru asked, a mischeivious glint flashing in his eye. The next few days went by in a blur for the boys, it was the most fun they’d ever had in their lives. First, a candy-eating competition. Satoru was, of course, the clear winner. Even when Suguru was forced to quit surprisingly early, clutching his stomach in pain, Satoru had carried on devouring everything in sight. Next, they’d used the ample free space of the school courtyard to fight for hours and hours. The staff were normally hestitant to allow them to duke it out unsupervised; wary of the destructive power Suguru’s curses held. This time, there was nobody to interrupt their sparring, and they’d go for round after round, until the sky glowed a vibrant orange above them. Satoru won almost every single time - Suguru’s actions were a lot more sluggish than normal, but Satoru tried not to think too much about it. Suguru had, of course, insisted they’d do the work Yaga had set for them while they were away, much to Satoru’s displeasure. But that could wait until the night before he returned, because today it was time for a movie marathon, which is how Satoru found himself curled into a ball on Suguru’s bed. His head rested gently on Suguru’s loosely crossed legs, sunglasses sliding off his face as the movie blared from the TV in front of them. ‘I don’t get it. If he’s lost, why’s he taking her down the mountain?’ Satoru declared, shifting around but keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the protagonist in front of him. Suguru sighed, but Satoru noticed it sounded a little laboured and shaky. ‘Are you stupid? He only said he was lost to get her into his car.’ Suguru explained, feeling his blood pressure rising. His voice, he noticed, was more strained than usual. His throat felt dry too, like he hadn’t drank water in days. Weird. ‘Why does he want her in the car?’ Satoru asked, looking up at his friend. ‘Because he’s a murderer!’ Suguru exclaimed, feeling the last of his patience wearing thin. His throat seemed to be wearing thin too, because he immediately launched into a sequence of awful dry coughs, each one tearing at his throat as if he’d been swallowing nails. Satoru sat up, Infinity whirring into place instinctively. He watched, eyes wide, as Suguru struggled to catch his breath, doubling over with his hand clasped firmly to his mouth. ‘You’re not dying, are you?’ Satoru waited until Suguru was done to ask this, handing his friend a water bottle as he spoke. ‘I’m fine.’ Suguru lied, bringing the bottle up to his lips. His chest heaved as he gulped water down, savouring the soothing feeling. It didn’t last as long as he’d liked, the water settled into his stomach uneasily, threatening to return the way it came. ‘You sure? ‘Cause Shoko’s not here, so you’d be pretty fucked if you were.’ ‘I love how tactful you are. Just shut up and watch the movie, maybe then you’ll finally get it.’ Suguru muttered, grimacing at the sudden queasiness he felt. He’d be fine, though, right? Suguru hadn’t gotten properly sick in a while. Occasionally, he’d get nausea from consuming curses, but that usually went away pretty fast once he’d gotten some real food into his system. Now, though, he realised just how different this was. As the movie reached its climax, the nausea only got worse. What started in his stomach slowly crept its way up his torso, poking him right at the bottom of his throat. The feeling was making him sweat… no wait, that was just how hot it was. When had it gotten so hot? Suguru peeled his sweatshirt off aggressively, feeling the dampness in its armpits as he tossed it to the side. Weirdly enough, Satoru, who’d perched himself back where he was before, seemed completely fine with the sudden heat. He stared ahead, oblivious to his friend’s growing dilemma. ‘Wait, I think I get it now…’ Satoru breathed, thumbnail between his front teeth. Suguru ignored him, tipping his head back to rest it against the wall with the sole purpose of avoiding vomiting all over his best friend. He let out a soft moan as he did this, completely unaware he’d even made a noise. Satoru sat up sharply, taking in Suguru’s appearance as his gaze diverted away from the TV. ‘Woah, you’re, like… really sweaty.’ Satoru placed a hand on Suguru’s forehead, immediately yanking it back from fear of burning himself. ‘It’s hot…’ Suguru said halfheartedly, only half present. Almost all of his attention had been diverted to keeping his lunch down, leaving not much left to interact with Satoru. ‘It’s December.’ ‘Whatever.’ Was all Suguru could reply with, letting out another cough as he spoke. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?’ Satoru pouted, maybe not taking the situation as seriously as Suguru would’ve if the roles had been reversed. Suguru coughed again. ‘I’m not.’ He tried to lean forward to untie his hair, attempting to relieve some of the pressure he’d noticed had begun to build behind his nose. Such a sudden movement turned out to be a huge mistake, and he immediately bolted from the bed and made a mad dash to the bathroom. Suguru was surprised he’d managed to get there in time. The acidic bile burned through his oesophagus with a vengance, as if he’d done something to piss off the scrambled eggs and toast from earlier. Satoru lingered behind in the doorway, eyes wide with absolute terror at the situation before him. Suguru sick… everyone gone… Fuck! Suguru let out another pitiful groan as he finished, slumping to a sitting position. He ran a hand through his damp hair, his breathing unsteady and rough. ‘Uhhhhh…’ Satoru said dumbly, mind racing with panic. He’d never cared for a sick person before, and he barely remembered how his servants would respond when he had the flu as a child. It’d been so long since he’d last got sick, and it’d never happened after he’d left home to study at Jujutsu Tech. Now, there were no maids with silver platters full of medicine, rice and soup. Just him. Alone. Tentatively, he crouched beside Suguru, scanning his face as if he’d find a clue on what to do. Suguru looked awful, worse than he’d ever seen him. His skin was sheet-white, coated in a thick layer of sweat, and his hair hung loosely over his shoulders. He stared down the toilet bowl with an intensity Satoru almost never saw from him, clearly debating whether it was safe to get up or not. ‘You okay?’ Satoru asked sheepishly, rubbing Suguru’s back with awkward tension. Suguru paused for a moment, long enough for Satoru to wonder if he’d heard him, then nodded. ‘Help me up.’ He whispered, and it came out more like a request than a command. His voice was hoarse and rough, sounding as though he hadn’t used it in years. Satoru immediately did as he was told, looping his arm under Suguru’s to lift him into a standing position. The majority of Suguru’s weight rested on Satoru, his head hanging limply forward, feet dragging as Satoru stepped. By the time they got back to Suguru’s room, Satoru was ready to scream. Securing his free arm under Suguru’s knees, he lifted the black-haired boy onto his bed, resting his head gently on the pillow. ‘Um… what do you need now?’ Satoru asked, eyes flickering around the room in search of anything that would help. ‘Water.’ ‘Shit, yeah!’ Satoru shouted, slapping his forehead with his palm. Suguru winced at the sudden loud noise, the pounding in his head growing harder to ignore. Satoru held the bottle from earlier out to Suguru, who simply just stared at him. The penny finally dropped in Satoru’s head, after what felt like an eternity, and he unscrewed the cap. Sitting on the edge of the mattress next to Suguru, he grabbed his friend’s neck and lifted his head for him, tipping the water into his mouth. Satoru assumed he’d be thirsty enough to drink an entire river, but Suguru turned away after a few sips. ‘You should drink more.’ Satoru instructed, shoving the bottle further into his face. Suguru simply shook his head, ignoring the way the action made his vision swim. ‘Can’t. I’ll be sick.’ Suguru replied weakly, letting himself fall back onto his pillow. ‘Oh yeah. Good point.’ Satoru conceded, screwing the cap back onto the bottle and placing it on Suguru’s bedside table. ‘I’m really bad at this, huh?’ ‘It’s fine.’ Suguru said, letting his eyes drift shut. He wasn’t trying to fall asleep, but his bed had never felt this comfortable before, and he was so tired… ‘Hey, get up!’ Satoru said, poking his friend’s cheek in the same vein as a sulking toddler. Suguru exhaled in annoyance, his eyes opening as soon as Satoru’s finger made contact with his cheek. ‘What?’ ‘I dunno. Isn’t it, like, bad to sleep when you have a fever?’ ‘That’s for concussions.’ Suguru slurred, shutting his eyes again. ‘Oh.’ Satoru felt like an idiot, sitting here doing nothing. He stared at Suguru, watching as his breathing evened out and lips parted gently. He sat like that for an hour or two, pressing a hand to his forehead every so often. A frown began to form on his face, growing deeper as he realised that Suguru’s fever didn’t seem to be getting any better. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. How that was possible, Satoru had no idea. But here it was, happening. The pallor in his friend’s face only worsened, and his face scrunched in discomfort, even in his sleep. Suddenly, a lightbulb appeared above Satoru’s head. He’d remembered how people treat fevers in manga and TV shows - a wet rag on someone’s forehead usually did the trick, he recalled. Throwing himself off the mattress, he rushed to the bathroom to retrieve a cloth. It was only once he’d returned to the bathroom that he’d realised neither of them had remembered to flush the toilet, and he let out a gag as he pulled the handle down. Finding a rag wasn’t particularly difficult, he knew where the school kept everything anyway. Once it was thoroughly soaked and the excess water had been squeezed out, Satoru practically sprinted back to the bedroom and placed it firmly on Suguru’s forehead. Suguru made some type of indistinct noise, surprised by the unexpected change in temperature. Still, he remained asleep, and Satoru felt a pang of concern somewhere in his core. ‘It’s fine.’ He whispered to himself, clutching a tuft of his white hair tightly. ‘It’s just the flu. He’ll sleep it off.’ Suguru, in fact, didn’t just sleep it off. When he slowly blinked awake, the room was crisp with the type of iciness unique to cold winter nights. Suguru had no way of knowing this, though, considering he was still sweating buckets, and felt like he was boiling alive. He wasn’t really in a position to know anything right now anyway, he could barely even remember his own name. He gently tore the rag away from his forehead, still much too weak to do anything agressive. Looking down, he saw a familiar shock of snow-white hair as Satoru leaned the back of his head against Suguru’s mattress, snoring lightly with his eyes softly shut. Deciding not to wake him, he attempted to swing his legs over and stay standing long enough to get to the kitchen, and make himself something to eat. He felt the floor tilt beneath him as he failed to straighten his back, leaning on the wall for support. Somewhere below him, he heard someone’s breath hitch as though they were being abruptly awoken. Glancing over, he saw Satoru standing to attention. ‘I'm hungry...' Suguru said softly to himself, feeling a pair of hands guiding him back to his bed. He wanted to argue, wanted to complain more of how hungry he was, but simply didn’t have the energy. Suguru allowed himself to be put back to bed like a child, placid and docile. ‘You want something to eat?’ Suguru nodded, cheek smushed against his pillow. ‘Okay, gimme ten minutes.’ Satoru shut the door gently after him once he’d left. He was hesitant to leave Suguru alone for so long, but it was a necessary sacrifice for him to eat. He’d probably need to drink some water too; if he could keep it down, that is. Satoru wasn’t the best cook in the world, usually he and Shoko would just eat whatever Suguru made. But he wasn’t completely incompetent either, which allowed him to rustle up a small bowl of plain rice and some chicken for his friend. He’d never been taught how to cook as a child, the house staff were always ready with an extravagant meal whenever he was hungry, but had picked some stuff up from absentmindedly staring at Suguru in the kitchen. His movements, measurements and plating were always so precise, so controlled and perfect. A lot better than mine, Satoru thought as he brought the bowl back to Suguru. Satoru hesitated before nudging Suguru awake again, pressing a hand to his forehead. Suguru leaned into the cool touch, his fingers twitching slightly in his sleep. Still much, much too warm for Satoru to be comfortable with it. ‘Hey, cmon, wake up. I made you food.’ Satoru shook Suguru’s shoulder gently with his free hand. He placed the bowl on Suguru’s bedside table, chopsticks jostling against the edge of the bowl, as Suguru gingerly sat upright. He swayed slightly as he did, and Satoru gripped his arm to stop him from tipping over. ‘You still alive?’ Satoru asked, handing the bowl back now that both his hands were free. Suguru nodded slightly as he took the bowl, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Satoru cringed at the silence that followed. ‘I can’t believe you got so sick all of a sudden. I thought you were fine.’ Satoru finally said, desperate to break what he percieved as an awkward pause. ‘So did I.’ Suguru replied, uncharacteristically small and quiet, his mouth full of rice. ‘I thought it was just a cold.’ Suddenly everything clicked in Satoru’s head: why Suguru hadn’t been able to stomach much candy, or why his movements had been so lethargic while they battled. ‘Whatever it is, you better keep it to yourself.’ Satoru playfully replied, nabbing a piece of chicken from the bowl. He grimaced as he chewed it, painfully aware of how overcooked and rubbery it was, the taste leaving an awful sensation in his mouth. ‘I will.’ Suguru replied dazedly. His gaze fixed in front of him, distant and faraway. Suddenly, and much to Satoru’s horror, he made a noise awfully reminiscent of the one he’d made earlier, and threw a hand over his mouth. Satoru leapt to his feet instantly, grabbing the small paper bin Suguru kept besides his desk and thrusting it in front of him. The white-haired boy turned away, maybe in an attempt to preserve Suguru’s dignity, as he listened to the disgustingly wet noises that came with someone throwing up. After only a couple seconds, the throwing up turned into dry-heaving; Suguru’s stomach clearly running out of things to bring back up. ‘You didn’t even finish it...’ Satoru observed, taking note of the half-full bowl next to his friend. ‘Sorry.’ Satoru’s stomach dropped at this reply, it was so… not like him. The Suguru he was used to would smack him on the head, scold him for telling someone off while they were sick. He’d probably be making fun of his cooking too, complaining about how it felt like eating a tyre, or saying the rice was clumpy and dry. Instead, all Suguru could do was wipe his mouth as he lay back down, trying desperately to control his breathing. The situation was just getting worse and worse; and the worst part was that this wouldn’t be such an issue if Shoko were here to deal with it. Satoru was so going to kill her when she got back… ‘Aren’t you cold?’ Suguru asked lowly, breaking Satoru away from his violent fantasies. He turned over in bed, wrapping the sheets around himself tightly, as Satoru pressed his hand to his forehead again. ‘No, and you aren’t either. You’re still burning up.’ A shiver wracked Suguru’s body as Satoru spoke. Satoru bit his lip anxiously, unsure of what to do. If Suguru felt cold, then surely the best thing to do was let him try and warm himself up, right? But he was already so hot, wouldn’t extra heat from the blankets make it worse? Was it even possible to make it worse? ‘Don’t go back to sleep.’ Satoru ordered. He wasn’t sure about how to manage his fever, but having Suguru awake would definitely make it a lot easier to keep an eye on his symptoms. ‘I’ll put the TV back on.’ Suguru groaned, forcing his eyes fully open as Satoru fumbled for the remote. Eventually he managed to turn it back on, putting on some cheesy reality show neither of them had seen before. Satoru flopped back into his position on the floor, the back of his head resting again on Suguru’s mattress. They watched for a few hours, although neither of them found it particularly interesting. Satoru mostly just found it funny, laughing every time the insufferable man (who he assumed was supposed to be the focus of the show) made a stupid decision. Suguru’s fight to stay awake was aided by Satoru, who’d tug at his hair whenever he saw his friend’s eyes slipping shut again. Suguru couldn’t understand, in his fever-addled brain, why Satoru was being so cruel to him. He was exhausted, starving and dehydrated, every muscle in his body held a dull ache that was like absolute agony. All he wanted to do was just sleep, but this little sunglasses-wearing prick wouldn’t let him. ‘You still with me?’ Satoru asked, playing with the remote in his hands as he craned his neck. ‘Mhm.’ Was all Suguru could reply with. His throat felt as though someone had rubbed it with sandpaper, coarse and rough. Without being asked, Satoru reached over and grabbed the bottle of water, handing it to Suguru. The black-haired boy fumbled with the lid, his vision blurry and distorted, before managing to open it and gulping down as much water as he physically could. Satoru stood, yanking the bottle out of his hands. ‘Not too much. You’ll be sick, remember?’ Satoru asked, concern making his voice waver slightly. Earlier, Suguru was cognizant enough to be able to limit himself without Satoru’s help. That clearly wasn’t the case anymore. ‘Oh, yeah…’ Suguru trailed off, already feeling that sensation in his stomach, it was becoming all too familiar now. The pair carried on watching, until Satoru felt his own eyelids getting heavy. Satoru felt the sun on his face, dragging him from his slumber. He rubbed an eye, sighing as he fumbled for his phone. 8AM, only an hour until everyone returned. The thought of his assignments briefly crossed his mind, but he quickly shrugged them off, focusing on the more pressing matter at hand. Suguru. He briefly considered screaming to scare Suguru awake, but decided it’d probably give him a headache if he didn’t already have one. Instead, he ran a hand through Suguru’s hair, and watched him stir at the touch. ‘Morning, sleeping beauty.’ Satoru teased, smiling. Despite the lightness in his demeanor, his stomach churned a little as he waited to see how Suguru was doing. Suguru let out a low groan, feebly lifting a hand to push Satoru away without opening his eyes. He failed, obviously, and Satoru only leaned closer in. ‘Shoko and the others will be back soon.’ Satoru stated, twirling a lock of messy black hair between his fingers. ‘They went out?’ Suguru mumbled blearily, eyes still closed. Satoru’s chest tightened, dropping Suguru’s hair and getting a closer look at his face. Somehow, he looked red and pale at the same time, and Satoru was suddenly extremely aware of the heat radiating from the black-haired boy’s entire body. ‘Suguru? You okay?’ Satoru asked, tapping him lightly on the cheek. Maybe he was just half-asleep, and that was the reason behind the sudden amnesia? Suguru barely reacted, and Satoru felt his breath catch in his throat. He poked him again, and recieved absolutely nothing in return. Suguru’s mouth hung open limply, his entire body completely still. ‘Suguru!’ He shouted in his ear, headaches be damned. Nothing. He punched his arm. Nothing. For what felt like the millionth time, he pressed his palm to his friend’s forehead, and this time did get burned. Satoru wasn’t a doctor, but knew there wasn’t a single situation where it’d be safe for a human being to be this hot. Panic immediately rose in his throat, and he felt his knees get weak. He shouted Suguru’s name again and, as he expected, nothing. ‘Fuck!’ He exclaimed, although there wasn’t anyone there to hear him anymore. His brain on autopilot, he picked Suguru up bridal-style and ran towards the bathroom. A memory flashed in his head, then quickly vanished - he and Suguru had been watching some American doctor show with Shoko, who was a huge fan. There’d been a scene where a little girl’s body temperature spiked dangerously during surgery, and one of the doctors had drenched her in cold water in the showers. He wasn’t sure how medically accurate it was, probably not at all, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. What an idiot, he thought to himself, taking all my knowledge from some crappy show. There was a moment for a brief debate as he kicked the bathroom door open, whether he should use the shower or bathtub. He settled on the shower almost as soon as he began thinking about it; the bath would take much too long to fill up, and Satoru wasn’t sure how much time he had anyway. The water from the shower made him wince as it hit his skin, icy-cold and harsh. Suguru still didn’t stir, and Satoru felt his heart pounding faster in his chest. Less than an hour to go, and Shoko could help him. He tried to comfort himself by imagining her on the bus back, drawing closer and closer every second. ‘What’s…’ Suguru drawled quietly, finally cracking open an eye. Satoru let out a shaky sigh of relief. ‘You’re sick, Suguru.’ Satoru explained patiently, assuming Suguru was about to ask what was happening. ‘Just hold on, Shoko’s nearly here.’ ‘Hm? ‘M not sick.’ Suguru was almost inaudible, and Satoru felt his heart tearing out of his chest. He’d never seen Suguru so weak, so helpless and fragile. Satoru wanted to tell him to be quiet, to just relax and let him deal with everything, but knew it’d probably be better to keep him talking for now. ‘Yeah, you are, but don’t worry about it. You’ll get better, and I can carry on beating your ass in sparring.’ Satoru forced a laugh, shaken and unconvincing. He ran his thumb along Suguru’s cheek, tracing the lines in his skin. ‘Shut up.’ Suguru murmured, his eyes slipping shut again. Satoru stayed with Suguru there for what could’ve been hours. The freezing temperature of the water barely registered to him anymore, his mind completely distracted by his friend. Checking Suguru’s temperature again, he felt a little comforted at finally being able to say it was going down. When he began hearing people moving around the school - tired chatter and luggage being hauled around, he snapped back into focus. Satoru heard footsteps approaching, more excited and energetic. ‘Geto-Senpai! Where are you? I brought you something!’ ‘Haibara! Come here!’ Satoru yelled, his voice booming yet raw. Haibara’s steps shifted into a run, eventually he reached the doorway and froze completely, eyes wide. ‘Gojo-Senpai? What are you-’ Satoru shot up, thrusting Suguru’s dripping wet body into Haibara’s hands with lightning speed. ‘Take him to Shoko! Now!’ Haibara complied almost instantly, shooting off down the hallway with a pace Satoru had never seen from him. He turned back to switch the shower off, watching as the last remnants of his emergency cure dripped out. Now that a little of his terror had dissipated, he was suddenly extremely aware of how cold he was. After dashing to his room to change his clothes, Satoru made his way to the infirmary. The door was shut when he arrived, and he could hear medical equipment clattering around as Shoko swore under her breath. She sounded tired, Satoru noted, likely from jet-lag. He debated going in, but decided against distracting her at such an important time. Instead, he slumped against the wall outside, his entire body tense and rigid. ‘Gojo?’ Satoru’s head snapped up. He hadn’t even noticed Yaga’s presence, which was strange considering his entire body was now covered in his shadow. ‘Oh. Hi, Sensei.’ ‘What’s going on? Haibara told me he found you in the shower, and Geto was passed out.’ Yaga’s brow furrowed, squinting down at his student. ‘Sounds weird when you say it like that.’ Satoru cracked a grin, a little more relaxed now. Yaga didn’t laugh, just stared at Satoru intensely. ‘Suguru’s sick, I needed a way to get his body temperature down.’ Satoru explained, cracking his back as he stood. ‘Sick? How sick?’ ‘Well, he didn’t remember you guys leaving, and hasn’t been able to keep anything down for a day. So, you know, pretty sick.’ Yaga clenched his fist. Partly in frustration at himself for allowing this to happen, and partly at how casual Satoru sounded. But he knew his student well enough to recognise his demeanor as what it was: a facade. He let out a sigh, tension easing out of his body. ‘Good quick thinking.’ He patted Satoru’s shoulder, referring to the idea of putting him in a cold shower. ‘I got it from a TV show.’ Satoru explained sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck in embarassment. Yaga snickered a little at this, quickly surpressing it. ‘Hey, what happens if the needle’s dirty when you stick it in someone?’ ‘They die.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘What about if-’ ‘Shut up! He’s waking up.’ ‘Oh, shit.’ Suguru peeled his eyelids open, the world around him shifting into focus. He still felt shitty, he realised, but nowhere near as bad as before. Blinking rapidly, he turned over to see Satoru and Shoko staring at him expectantly. ‘Hey, there he is! The drama queen lives to see another day!’ Satoru shouted, smiling widely. ‘Shh, you’ll give him a headache.’ Shoko sighed, with the same inflection someone might use when scolding a child. ‘How’re you feeling, Suguru?’ ‘Crap.’ Suguru croaked. His voice still sounded rough, but Satoru was just glad to hear him somewhat coherent again. Suguru looked down, fighting the urge to poke at all the wires and tubes he’d only just noticed were sticking out of him. ‘Yeah, I’m not surprised. I’ve never seen a bacterial infection that bad. You could’ve gotten brain damage.’ ‘For real? You didn’t tell me that!’ Satoru’s eyes widened in surprise, turning to Shoko. ‘It’s true. If you hadn’t brought his fever down, that is.’ Satoru’s gaze switched back to Suguru upon hearing this, water flicking onto Shoko’s jacket from his damp hair. ‘Hear that, Suguru? I saved you from frying your brain! You owe me!’ Satoru laughed, and Suguru rolled his eyes affectionately. ‘Whatever, loser.’ Suguru bit back a smile, warm and toothy. ‘Is that any way to talk to your hero?’ Satoru chided, tutting for dramatic effect. ‘How’d you bring it down, anyway?’ ‘You don’t remember? I gave you a cold shower. Well, myself too.’ Ah, Suguru thought, that explains the wet hair. ‘Oh. Thanks, I guess.’ Suguru blushed a little at the idea of being in the shower with Satoru, although he was aware he was definitely reading too much into it. ‘Don’t I get a thanks?’ Shoko asked halfheartedly, adjusting the IV drip by Suguru’s bedside. ‘I didn’t think I’d have to say it. Thanks, Shoko.’ Suguru obliged, giving her a thumbs-up. ‘As soon as you’re out of here, I expect a written thank-you note, and a gift voucher for the ice-cream shop next to the school.’ ‘You should’ve just let me die.’	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602131	{"authors": ["nghtwng_04"], "language": "English", "title": "home alone"}
The Rise of the Other Guy 22nd July, 1991 Hogwarts Professor McGonagall walked determinedly towards the Headmaster’s office, holding two pieces of envelopes. It was late evening, but she knew the Headmaster would still be awake at this hour, reviewing documents and paperwork for the upcoming school year, even though the first of September was more than a month away. It was so quiet during the holidays, that she could hear the clacking of the heels she had worn underneath her tartan and robes echoing throughout the corridors of the castle while walking. Internally she was conflicted, pained, and seething with the headmaster after reading the mailing address of one of the envelopes she was carrying. She finally reached the gargoyles guarding outside the Headmaster’s office, and after giving the password, stepped onto the stairs that took her above to where his office was. She had complained initially about how difficult and time consuming it was to reach there, and that the duty of a leader in an institution, especially one as grand as Hogwarts, is to be easily accessible and near to the students at all times. But she sighed, it wasn’t as if Dumbledore really listened to her too much. Knocking on the door, and hearing a muffled “Come in!” she opened the door and stepped inside. Dumbledore was awake and sitting at his table, as she had suspected, surrounded by multiple parchments and towers of paperwork strewn haphazardly around on his table. McGonagall wondered how he was able to get anything done considering the mess she saw around him, and crinkled her nose at his messy nature. ”Ah Minerva, what a pleasant surprise to see you this late in the evening. Thank you for giving me a distraction, I was getting quite a headache at all these figures and accounting. My brain can only take so much at a time.” Dumbledore bade her welcome with a smile, and indicated for her to sit in front of the table on the couch. ”I wonder why, Albus? Maybe the lack of order on the table might be a mitigating factor. Might I suggest making a few piles of the parchments as a remedy for your headache?” McGonagall sat stiffly in front of Dumbledore, back straight and hands in her lap, giving Dumbledore a small smile. Dumbledore chuckled. “Thank you, Minerva, I will keep that in mind after this. Anyways, I don’t think you would have come all the way up here at 10 o’clock in the night just for a social call?” “No, Albus. Today I had been preparing the lists and the letters to be sent tomorrow to all the new students of the next academic year. Usually that wouldn’t be an issue to come to you about, however there were two upcoming students that I had to bring attention to you about.” ”Who, Minerva?” ”You should see for yourself, Albus.” She passed on the first of the two envelopes to the headmaster, wanting to see how he would react. Dumbledore took the envelope from Minerva and saw why Minerva had come to his office at such an hour. Written in emerald-green ink on a yellowish parchment containing the Hogwarts emblem, was the address of The-Boy-Who-Lived: Mr. H. Potter The Cupboard Under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey He sighed. “Minerva…” he began. ”Albus, I had told you so many times before. Each time I brought it up, you brushed me off like this doesn’t matter. He is about to turn 11 next week, and he is living in such horrific conditions. Is this your idea of ‘safe’? From outside forces, yet most likely mistreated inside the house?” McGonagall seethed, yet didn’t raise her voice, after all, they have had this discussion so many times over the years. Dumbledore sighed again. “Harry needed to stay somewhere where his mother’s protection could continue. It wasn’t the best choice we had at the time, yet it was the only choice that would keep him safe and away from the clutches of the magical world and the dark forces. I have over the years reminded Petunia multiple times about why it is imperative for Harry to stay at that home, otherwise they would have given him up for adoption to an orphanage long ago.” After a brief moment of silence, he continued, “Minerva, you go to the homes of all the muggleborn and muggle-raised children to give them orientation and tell them about magic. But I must ask, rather request you, to not go to Harry Potter’s house. Both of us can imagine how well that can end up.” McGonagall wondered, “Then who do you plan to send to introduce Mr. Potter to the wizarding world? Surely not yourself? You haven’t stepped foot outside Hogwarts for it since you became the Headmaster.” Dumbledore chuckled, “No Minerva, I will send Hagrid to Harry’s relatives. He should be able to suitably convince the Dursleys to let Harry join the wizarding world, where he belongs.” Minerva stared at him, and after a moment, replied, “Hagrid? Albus, what on Earth are you talking about? How can he be able to do anything that is required by the muggleborn and muggle-raised students? He can’t give an orientation, since he has	The Rise of the Other Guy 22nd July, 1991 Hogwarts Professor McGonagall walked determinedly towards the Headmaster’s office, holding two pieces of envelopes. It was late evening, but she knew the Headmaster would still be awake at this hour, reviewing documents and paperwork for the upcoming school year, even though the first of September was more than a month away. It was so quiet during the holidays, that she could hear the clacking of the heels she had worn underneath her tartan and robes echoing throughout the corridors of the castle while walking. Internally she was conflicted, pained, and seething with the headmaster after reading the mailing address of one of the envelopes she was carrying. She finally reached the gargoyles guarding outside the Headmaster’s office, and after giving the password, stepped onto the stairs that took her above to where his office was. She had complained initially about how difficult and time consuming it was to reach there, and that the duty of a leader in an institution, especially one as grand as Hogwarts, is to be easily accessible and near to the students at all times. But she sighed, it wasn’t as if Dumbledore really listened to her too much. Knocking on the door, and hearing a muffled “Come in!” she opened the door and stepped inside. Dumbledore was awake and sitting at his table, as she had suspected, surrounded by multiple parchments and towers of paperwork strewn haphazardly around on his table. McGonagall wondered how he was able to get anything done considering the mess she saw around him, and crinkled her nose at his messy nature. ”Ah Minerva, what a pleasant surprise to see you this late in the evening. Thank you for giving me a distraction, I was getting quite a headache at all these figures and accounting. My brain can only take so much at a time.” Dumbledore bade her welcome with a smile, and indicated for her to sit in front of the table on the couch. ”I wonder why, Albus? Maybe the lack of order on the table might be a mitigating factor. Might I suggest making a few piles of the parchments as a remedy for your headache?” McGonagall sat stiffly in front of Dumbledore, back straight and hands in her lap, giving Dumbledore a small smile. Dumbledore chuckled. “Thank you, Minerva, I will keep that in mind after this. Anyways, I don’t think you would have come all the way up here at 10 o’clock in the night just for a social call?” “No, Albus. Today I had been preparing the lists and the letters to be sent tomorrow to all the new students of the next academic year. Usually that wouldn’t be an issue to come to you about, however there were two upcoming students that I had to bring attention to you about.” ”Who, Minerva?” ”You should see for yourself, Albus.” She passed on the first of the two envelopes to the headmaster, wanting to see how he would react. Dumbledore took the envelope from Minerva and saw why Minerva had come to his office at such an hour. Written in emerald-green ink on a yellowish parchment containing the Hogwarts emblem, was the address of The-Boy-Who-Lived: Mr. H. Potter The Cupboard Under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey He sighed. “Minerva…” he began. ”Albus, I had told you so many times before. Each time I brought it up, you brushed me off like this doesn’t matter. He is about to turn 11 next week, and he is living in such horrific conditions. Is this your idea of ‘safe’? From outside forces, yet most likely mistreated inside the house?” McGonagall seethed, yet didn’t raise her voice, after all, they have had this discussion so many times over the years. Dumbledore sighed again. “Harry needed to stay somewhere where his mother’s protection could continue. It wasn’t the best choice we had at the time, yet it was the only choice that would keep him safe and away from the clutches of the magical world and the dark forces. I have over the years reminded Petunia multiple times about why it is imperative for Harry to stay at that home, otherwise they would have given him up for adoption to an orphanage long ago.” After a brief moment of silence, he continued, “Minerva, you go to the homes of all the muggleborn and muggle-raised children to give them orientation and tell them about magic. But I must ask, rather request you, to not go to Harry Potter’s house. Both of us can imagine how well that can end up.” McGonagall wondered, “Then who do you plan to send to introduce Mr. Potter to the wizarding world? Surely not yourself? You haven’t stepped foot outside Hogwarts for it since you became the Headmaster.” Dumbledore chuckled, “No Minerva, I will send Hagrid to Harry’s relatives. He should be able to suitably convince the Dursleys to let Harry join the wizarding world, where he belongs.” Minerva stared at him, and after a moment, replied, “Hagrid? Albus, what on Earth are you talking about? How can he be able to do anything that is required by the muggleborn and muggle-raised students? He can’t give an orientation, since he has never done so before!” ”Have faith and trust in me Minerva, I will tell Hagrid what needs to be done.” Minerva kept staring at him as if he had gone senile and lost his mind, so he changed the subject. “I remember you mentioning two students. Who is the other student?” Minerva sighed and dropped the subject for now, and passed on the second envelope as well. Dumbledore took a look at it, his eyes widened, and he sat up straighter in his chair as he looked back at her. “Is this who I think it is, Minerva?” ”I believe so, Albus. The long lost heir and only member of the Harper family has been found. I thought you might be interested in knowing that he has finally resurfaced after so long.” But whatever McGonagall said might as well have fallen on deaf ears, since Dumbledore was so focused on the address on the letter and lost in his past memories that it took a while for him to come back to reality. “Albus?” ”Oh… yes… umm. This is great then, I was so worried that he had died.” McGonagall said, “I was thinking of going to 7 houses tomorrow at least and depending on how early and quickly I am done, I will finish the rest by the end of the week. I was thinking of starting from the orphanage first…” Dumbledore interrupted, “Minerva, leave this child to me please. I will personally go next week on his birthday to give his letter to him.” He said with a finality that he would hear no other arguments on this. Her eyebrows rose high, “You will yourself go to deliver a letter? I find it hard to believe, Albus. What is so special about him?” Albus sighed. “The address, Minerva. When I was deputy headmaster in 1937, I had gone to deliver a letter to this orphanage and meet the student. His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle.” She raised one of her eyebrows, “Alright. And that child is special, how?” ”He later on studied at Hogwarts, graduated, and disappeared for a few years, only to return to Britain after some time as……Lord Voldemort.” McGonagall was shocked, since this was the first time she had been told of the origins of You-Know-Who. The fear he had instilled in every magical being was such that even after 10 years of his disappearance, she and most other wizards and witches still couldn’t say his actual name. The letter lay on the table in between them, as they both sat ruminating on the revelations of the evening. Mr. H. Harper 1st floor bedroom Wool’s Orphanage London	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75606816/chapters/197715076	{"authors": ["BluezieAK_93"], "language": "English", "title": "The Rise of the Other Guy"}
Polyrhythm in Common Time The fluorescent lights of Starry buzzed with the low-level hum that usually signaled the end of a long, grueling practice session. The air smelled of spilled soda, floor cleaner, and the lingering, savory grease of fried potatoes. It was 9:00 PM on a Friday. The customers were gone. The PA system was silent. In the corner booth, Kessoku Band was decomposing. Hitori Gotoh sat pressed against the wall, currently doing a convincing impression of a mossy stone. Her tracksuit was zipped to her chin, concealing the fact that her soul had partially left her body during the final run-through of their new song. Opposite her sat Ikuyo Kita, who, despite having jumped around for three hours, still looked like she had just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. She was scrolling through Isosta, her thumb moving at light speed. Nijika Ijichi rested her chin on her crossed arms on the sticky table, her dorito-ahoge drooping with exhaustion. And then there was Ryo Yamada. Ryo was seemingly unaffected by the concept of fatigue. She sat next to Nijika, staring intently at the plastic red basket in the center of the table. "You're doing it again," Nijika mumbled, not opening her eyes. "Doing what?" Ryo asked, her hand inching forward across the laminate like a spider. "Calculating the trajectory to steal a fry without anyone noticing. I can hear your brain doing the geometry." Ryo retracted her hand, looking offended. "I was merely observing the structural integrity of the potato." "It's empty, Ryo," Kita chirped, finally looking up from her phone. "We finished the large fry ten minutes ago. You ate half of them." "I ate thirty percent," Ryo corrected instantly. "It was a tax. Playing bass requires more calories. The strings are thicker." "That logic makes zero sense!" Nijika groaned, lifting her head to glare affectionately at her childhood friend. "If you’re hungry, buy your own next time." "Relationships are expensive," Ryo stated, pivoting the conversation with the grace of a semi-truck losing its brakes. She slumped back against the vinyl booth. "If I buy my own fries, I have no money for transport. If I have no money for transport, I have to walk. If I walk, I have no energy for dates. Dating is an inefficiency." Hitori twitched. The word dating caused a spike in her anxiety graph. She stared at her water glass, trying to blend into the condensation. "Nobody asked you to go on dates, Ryo-senpai," Kita laughed, though there was a slight, nervous tint to her cheeks. "Besides, don't you usually make the other person pay?" "That’s a misconception," Ryo said, crossing her arms. "I just prefer... collaborative financing." She paused, her golden eyes drifting around the table. They lingered on Nijika, then slid to Kita, and finally settled heavily on Hitori. "But seriously. Choosing is a hassle." "Choosing what?" Nijika asked, yawning. "A partner." The air in the booth shifted. It was sudden, like a drop in barometric pressure before a storm. The casual, post-practice banter evaporated, replaced by a thick, prickly tension. Kessoku Band had a problem. It was a silent problem, lurking in the chords of their songs and the prolonged eye contact during train rides. It was a geometry problem: four points, too many lines connecting them. Kita liked Hitori. That much was obvious to everyone except perhaps Hitori herself.Hitori worshipped Ryo, but leaned on Nijika, and dissolved when Kita looked at her.Nijika mothered everyone, but held a fierce, protective soft spot for Ryo, while clearly admiring the brilliance in Hitori.And Ryo... well, Ryo was Ryo. But she watched them all. "We aren't talking about this right now," Nijika said quickly, her ears turning pink. "It's late. My brain is mush." "It's the perfect time," Ryo countered. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I’ve been running the numbers." "You don't run numbers," Nijika argued. "You failed math." "Listen," Ryo commanded. "Scenario A: Kita dates Bocchi." Hitori made a sound like a deflating balloon. Pweeehh. "I—I—Wh—" Hitori stammered, vibrating so hard she was becoming blurry. "In this scenario," Ryo continued, ignoring the glitching guitarist, "Kita becomes insufferable with public displays of affection. Nijika gets jealous because she loses her rhythm section. I get annoyed because Bocchi stops buying me snacks to impress me. Net loss for the band." Kita’s face was now a nuclear shade of red. "I—I wouldn't be insufferable! And wait, Hitori-chan buys you snacks to impress you?!" "Scenario B," Ryo bulldozed on. "Nijika dates me." Nijika choked on nothing. "Excuse me?!" "I would inevitably drain your savings account," Ryo admitted without shame. "You would nag me until you develop premature wrinkles. Bocchi would feel abandoned and likely crawl into a storm drain to live with the isopods. Kita would lose her sparkle. Disaster." "I am not going to live with isopods!" Hitori squeaked, though she had briefly considered the storm drain lifestyle as	Polyrhythm in Common Time The fluorescent lights of Starry buzzed with the low-level hum that usually signaled the end of a long, grueling practice session. The air smelled of spilled soda, floor cleaner, and the lingering, savory grease of fried potatoes. It was 9:00 PM on a Friday. The customers were gone. The PA system was silent. In the corner booth, Kessoku Band was decomposing. Hitori Gotoh sat pressed against the wall, currently doing a convincing impression of a mossy stone. Her tracksuit was zipped to her chin, concealing the fact that her soul had partially left her body during the final run-through of their new song. Opposite her sat Ikuyo Kita, who, despite having jumped around for three hours, still looked like she had just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. She was scrolling through Isosta, her thumb moving at light speed. Nijika Ijichi rested her chin on her crossed arms on the sticky table, her dorito-ahoge drooping with exhaustion. And then there was Ryo Yamada. Ryo was seemingly unaffected by the concept of fatigue. She sat next to Nijika, staring intently at the plastic red basket in the center of the table. "You're doing it again," Nijika mumbled, not opening her eyes. "Doing what?" Ryo asked, her hand inching forward across the laminate like a spider. "Calculating the trajectory to steal a fry without anyone noticing. I can hear your brain doing the geometry." Ryo retracted her hand, looking offended. "I was merely observing the structural integrity of the potato." "It's empty, Ryo," Kita chirped, finally looking up from her phone. "We finished the large fry ten minutes ago. You ate half of them." "I ate thirty percent," Ryo corrected instantly. "It was a tax. Playing bass requires more calories. The strings are thicker." "That logic makes zero sense!" Nijika groaned, lifting her head to glare affectionately at her childhood friend. "If you’re hungry, buy your own next time." "Relationships are expensive," Ryo stated, pivoting the conversation with the grace of a semi-truck losing its brakes. She slumped back against the vinyl booth. "If I buy my own fries, I have no money for transport. If I have no money for transport, I have to walk. If I walk, I have no energy for dates. Dating is an inefficiency." Hitori twitched. The word dating caused a spike in her anxiety graph. She stared at her water glass, trying to blend into the condensation. "Nobody asked you to go on dates, Ryo-senpai," Kita laughed, though there was a slight, nervous tint to her cheeks. "Besides, don't you usually make the other person pay?" "That’s a misconception," Ryo said, crossing her arms. "I just prefer... collaborative financing." She paused, her golden eyes drifting around the table. They lingered on Nijika, then slid to Kita, and finally settled heavily on Hitori. "But seriously. Choosing is a hassle." "Choosing what?" Nijika asked, yawning. "A partner." The air in the booth shifted. It was sudden, like a drop in barometric pressure before a storm. The casual, post-practice banter evaporated, replaced by a thick, prickly tension. Kessoku Band had a problem. It was a silent problem, lurking in the chords of their songs and the prolonged eye contact during train rides. It was a geometry problem: four points, too many lines connecting them. Kita liked Hitori. That much was obvious to everyone except perhaps Hitori herself.Hitori worshipped Ryo, but leaned on Nijika, and dissolved when Kita looked at her.Nijika mothered everyone, but held a fierce, protective soft spot for Ryo, while clearly admiring the brilliance in Hitori.And Ryo... well, Ryo was Ryo. But she watched them all. "We aren't talking about this right now," Nijika said quickly, her ears turning pink. "It's late. My brain is mush." "It's the perfect time," Ryo countered. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I’ve been running the numbers." "You don't run numbers," Nijika argued. "You failed math." "Listen," Ryo commanded. "Scenario A: Kita dates Bocchi." Hitori made a sound like a deflating balloon. Pweeehh. "I—I—Wh—" Hitori stammered, vibrating so hard she was becoming blurry. "In this scenario," Ryo continued, ignoring the glitching guitarist, "Kita becomes insufferable with public displays of affection. Nijika gets jealous because she loses her rhythm section. I get annoyed because Bocchi stops buying me snacks to impress me. Net loss for the band." Kita’s face was now a nuclear shade of red. "I—I wouldn't be insufferable! And wait, Hitori-chan buys you snacks to impress you?!" "Scenario B," Ryo bulldozed on. "Nijika dates me." Nijika choked on nothing. "Excuse me?!" "I would inevitably drain your savings account," Ryo admitted without shame. "You would nag me until you develop premature wrinkles. Bocchi would feel abandoned and likely crawl into a storm drain to live with the isopods. Kita would lose her sparkle. Disaster." "I am not going to live with isopods!" Hitori squeaked, though she had briefly considered the storm drain lifestyle as a viable retirement plan. "So," Ryo concluded, looking around the table with the seriousness of a CEO proposing a merger. "The traditional dyad model is flawed. The triangular friction creates structural weakness. Someone is always the third wheel. Or the fourth wheel." She picked up the empty red basket and spun it on her finger. "The solution is obvious. Resource pooling." Nijika stared at her. "Ryo. What are you saying?" "We all date each other." Silence. Absolute, heavy, ringing silence. A janitor in the back room dropped a bucket. The sound echoed like a gunshot. Hitori stopped vibrating. In fact, she stopped moving entirely. Her operating system encountered a critical error. The blue screen of death flashed behind her eyes. Dating? One person? Impossible. Dating... three people? Simultaneously? The sheer bandwidth required for that kind of social interaction would require a supercomputer. Her brain began to emit a metaphorical (and perhaps literal) smoke. Kita was the first to speak. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. She looked at Nijika. Then at Ryo. Then at Hitori. "Wait," Kita breathed, her voice rising an octave. "You mean... like... a harem? No, that’s not right. A... a circle?" She put her hands to her burning cheeks. "Wait. So... a distinct lack of men? Just us? All girls? Forever?" "Ideally," Ryo nodded. "Think of the efficiency, Kita. Expenses are split four ways. Emotional support is tripled. If one girlfriend is busy, you have two backups. We never have to coordinate schedules because our schedules are already the same. We live in the same ecosystem." "You make it sound like a business transaction!" Nijika cried, though she wasn't yelling. She was gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white. She looked... flustered. Desperately flustered. "You can't just propose polyamory because you want to split the bill, Ryo!" "I’m not," Ryo said softy. The tone of her voice changed. It lost the analytical, detached edge. She looked down at the table, then flicked her gaze up through her bangs, looking at Nijika with a rare, devastating sincerity. "I’m saying it because I don't want to choose," Ryo murmured. "I like you. But I also like watching Bocchi try to turn into dust. And I like that Kita is bright enough to blind me. I don't want to leave anyone out of the formation." Nijika softened immediately. It was her weakness—Ryo being actually, genuinely honest. "Ugh. You’re unfair." "I know." "Um..." A trembling voice came from the corner. Everyone turned to Hitori. Hitori looked like she had just run a marathon in a sauna. She was gripping her water glass so hard it threatened to shatter. She didn't look at them; she looked at the table. "I..." Hitori swallowed, her throat clicking. "I... I don't... h-have enough... RAM..." "RAM?" Kita asked gently. "To... to process... three relationships," Hitori whispered, terror and longing warring in her eyes. "One person is... scary. Three people is... is a c-catastrophe." She looked up, her blue eyes watery. "B-But..." She looked at Ryo, cool and steady. At Nijika, warm and safe. At Kita, shining and sweet. If I say no, Hitori thought, we go back to normal. We pine. We hide. We hurt.If I say yes... I will definitely die of embarrassment. My heart will explode. "...But... if it's... if it's us..." Hitori’s voice dropped to a microscopic decibel level. "I think... I wouldn't mind... overloading..." Kita let out a squeal that could have shattered glass, immediately throwing herself across the booth to tackle Hitori. "Hitori-chaaaaaan!" "Guehh—!" Hitori let out a dying noise as she was crushed against the vinyl seat. "I’m in!" Kita declared, hugging Hitori like a plush toy while staring fiercely at the other two. "I’m in! I have so much love to give! I can distribute it! It’s perfect! Hitori-chan, you’re so cute!" Nijika watched the chaos—Kita cuddling a dissolving Bocchi, Ryo looking smugly satisfied with her successful negotiation. Nijika let out a long, ragged sigh, slumped her shoulders, and covered her face with her hands. But she was smiling behind her fingers. "You guys are idiots," Nijika mumbled. She peeked through her fingers at Ryo. "Okay. Fine. We’ll... try it. The Kessoku Quartet. Whatever." "Four strings, one knot," Ryo said, picking up a stray napkin. "Accepted." "Wait," Nijika sat up, realizing something. "If we’re all dating..." "Yes?" Ryo asked innocently. "Then technically, the fries you ate earlier were paid for by your girlfriends. So you don't have to pay me back." Ryo pointed finger guns at her. "Loophole established." "I hate you," Nijika laughed, reaching over to flick Ryo’s forehead. "I love you too," Ryo deadpanned. Then she looked at the pile of Kita and Hitori. "And you two." Hitori, currently being suffocated by Kita’s affection, managed to lift one shaky thumbs-up from the pile. It wasn't a fairy tale romance. It was a logistic nightmare. It was a messy, loud, anxious, chaotic collision of four completely different tempos. But as the manager came out to tell them they were closing, and they all stood up to leave—Kita grabbing Hitori’s left arm, Ryo grabbing the right, and Nijika pushing them all forward from the back—it felt, surprisingly, like they were finally keeping time.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602141?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Riverxia"], "language": "English", "title": "Polyrhythm in Common Time"}

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