Split (1)

test · 3.5k rows

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Son of Loki Harry was watching the street from his bedroom window. The street was quiet, not a single leaf was stirring. Occasionally, he could hear the sound of the soap opera his aunt was watching downstairs, one of the rare moments he felt peaceful. Yet, his thoughts, awake and asleep, didn't leave his mind in peace and brought his tranquil moment to an end. He vividly remembered Voldemort's return and Cedric's death. On top of these terrible memories he couldn't get out of his head, there was the Daily Prophet calling him a liar and a fraud. He didn't care what the Daily Prophet said; he knew everything written there was exaggerated or false (or both). But most people believed the Daily Prophet. He was also sure he would receive the same treatment as in his second year. He moved away from the window and walked towards his trunk. He took a photo album out of his trunk. It contained moving and still photos of his family and friends. It was filling up with photos of his family every day. Sirius and Remus were helping him quite a lot with this. Both couldn't tell him where they were due to a magical oath. Dumbledore had already told him that he shouldn't correspond with his friends or anyone else. That's why the three of them were using Muggle post. Sirius and Remus had charmed the envelopes they sent so that everyone except Harry saw them differently. Harry wanted to learn this spell one day. The Dursleys weren't interfering with Harry's letters. As long as he cleaned the house and prepared food, they didn't care who he corresponded with. He looked at the first pages of the album. His mother, father, and he were smiling at the camera. He turned the other pages. In one, Harry was riding a small broomstick. In another, young Sirius and Remus were drawing a picture on his father's face with ink; they looked only a few years older than him. In others, there were pictures of the Marauders and his other friends. Towards the end, there were a few photos of Hermione, Ron, and Harry. Colin had taken a few for them. He closed the album and carefully placed it back in his trunk. A little later, Aunt Petunia called him downstairs. "I'm cooking dinner, come and help me," Aunt Petunia said. When Harry came to her, she put a plate of vegetables in front of him and told him to chop them. As Harry started chopping the vegetables, the commentators on the kitchen television were talking about the superhero group in America. They called them the Avengers. Harry had heard of them. He had been hearing about Tony Stark since his childhood. For Harry, science and technology were as interesting and marvelous as magic. He mostly heard about the other superheroes from other Muggle-born or half-blood students at Hogwarts: a soldier from World War II, two spies, a scientist who had gained a green personality due to gamma radiation, and a god. These still seemed somewhat unbelievable to Harry. But thinking about it again, he was a wizard. He wasn't very normal with all the things he had experienced either. Harry listened curiously to the television while being careful to do what his aunt told him. They had destroyed the aliens that attacked Earth a few months ago and captured their leader. Harry only knew that the Leader's name was Loki and that he was a god. Uncle Vernon grumbled about the freak superheroes while watching the news with Dudley. When the meal was ready, Harry went up to his room with the food Aunt Petunia had prepared for him. A glass of water, a plate of vegetable stew, and a slice of bread was his dinner that evening. After eating his meal, he went down to the kitchen again. The Dursleys had moved to the living room and were watching television. He placed his plate in the dishwasher and went up to his room. When he entered his room, he immediately changed his clothes. He knew that the Dursleys wouldn't call him for anything at this hour, so he lay down on his bed. Wishing Hedwig good sleep, he fell asleep.	Son of Loki Harry was watching the street from his bedroom window. The street was quiet, not a single leaf was stirring. Occasionally, he could hear the sound of the soap opera his aunt was watching downstairs, one of the rare moments he felt peaceful. Yet, his thoughts, awake and asleep, didn't leave his mind in peace and brought his tranquil moment to an end. He vividly remembered Voldemort's return and Cedric's death. On top of these terrible memories he couldn't get out of his head, there was the Daily Prophet calling him a liar and a fraud. He didn't care what the Daily Prophet said; he knew everything written there was exaggerated or false (or both). But most people believed the Daily Prophet. He was also sure he would receive the same treatment as in his second year. He moved away from the window and walked towards his trunk. He took a photo album out of his trunk. It contained moving and still photos of his family and friends. It was filling up with photos of his family every day. Sirius and Remus were helping him quite a lot with this. Both couldn't tell him where they were due to a magical oath. Dumbledore had already told him that he shouldn't correspond with his friends or anyone else. That's why the three of them were using Muggle post. Sirius and Remus had charmed the envelopes they sent so that everyone except Harry saw them differently. Harry wanted to learn this spell one day. The Dursleys weren't interfering with Harry's letters. As long as he cleaned the house and prepared food, they didn't care who he corresponded with. He looked at the first pages of the album. His mother, father, and he were smiling at the camera. He turned the other pages. In one, Harry was riding a small broomstick. In another, young Sirius and Remus were drawing a picture on his father's face with ink; they looked only a few years older than him. In others, there were pictures of the Marauders and his other friends. Towards the end, there were a few photos of Hermione, Ron, and Harry. Colin had taken a few for them. He closed the album and carefully placed it back in his trunk. A little later, Aunt Petunia called him downstairs. "I'm cooking dinner, come and help me," Aunt Petunia said. When Harry came to her, she put a plate of vegetables in front of him and told him to chop them. As Harry started chopping the vegetables, the commentators on the kitchen television were talking about the superhero group in America. They called them the Avengers. Harry had heard of them. He had been hearing about Tony Stark since his childhood. For Harry, science and technology were as interesting and marvelous as magic. He mostly heard about the other superheroes from other Muggle-born or half-blood students at Hogwarts: a soldier from World War II, two spies, a scientist who had gained a green personality due to gamma radiation, and a god. These still seemed somewhat unbelievable to Harry. But thinking about it again, he was a wizard. He wasn't very normal with all the things he had experienced either. Harry listened curiously to the television while being careful to do what his aunt told him. They had destroyed the aliens that attacked Earth a few months ago and captured their leader. Harry only knew that the Leader's name was Loki and that he was a god. Uncle Vernon grumbled about the freak superheroes while watching the news with Dudley. When the meal was ready, Harry went up to his room with the food Aunt Petunia had prepared for him. A glass of water, a plate of vegetable stew, and a slice of bread was his dinner that evening. After eating his meal, he went down to the kitchen again. The Dursleys had moved to the living room and were watching television. He placed his plate in the dishwasher and went up to his room. When he entered his room, he immediately changed his clothes. He knew that the Dursleys wouldn't call him for anything at this hour, so he lay down on his bed. Wishing Hedwig good sleep, he fell asleep.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602111/chapters/197702261	{"authors": ["Solaceess"], "language": "English", "title": "Son of Loki"}
Spring Broken Cougar So much for peace and quiet… Sharon mused, but the lazy yet curious sway of her tail betrayed the fact that she wasn’t truly in mourning for peace and quiet. She was leaning on the railing of her front porch, which normally offered a great view of the lake downhill from her home. A glass of red wine was cradled gently in one paw as keen feline eyes followed the cars rumbling down the narrow road of the normally quiet lakeside town. But they had been discovered a few years ago, and were now apparently a trendy local spot for spring-breakers. Her town had always had its share of vacationers and a healthy trickle of tourists coming in, but the available accommodations were limited, which apparently only made them more exclusive. There was a house a few doors down-road from hers that got rented out, and judging by the noise, some of her new temporary neighbors were taking a stroll. Sharon assumed they were looking for a way to the beach, since they were all wearing trunks and either sleeveless shirts or no shirts at all. She smiled a feline grin as she saw the young men approach, idly swirling the wine in her glass. “Hey there!” called out one of them, a donkey jack whose ears perked up at the sight of the tawny-furred feline. “Hey yourselves, boys…” she almost purred, trying not to grin at the way the four young men stopped at the wrought iron gate to her home. “Don’t tell me you got lost?” she asked, leaning forward just a little. She was teasing, but she couldn’t resist. She wasn’t really dressed to impress, but she knew that her tight jeans and clingy top showed enough curves and cleavage to draw the eye. She had to admit it was nice to see that she could still stop four handsome young college boys in their tracks. And quite a foursome they were - a donkey, a buck going on stag, a bighorn ram and dwarfing all of the jocky young males and honest-to-goodness rhino! “Nah, we just settled in down the road and are kinda scouting out the neighborhood.” Said the ram. The four still weren’t moving along, and after two glasses and half a third Sharon didn’t feel like shooing them away. Instead she made her way down to the gate, swinging both her tail and her hips and pretending not to notice the way they were staring. “You like the place?” she asked, taking another sip. “Yeah, but it looks like you scored a better one. Didn’t even see this place listed for rent…” said the jack. “That’s because it isn’t. This house is mine, I’m a townie…” “Seriously?” asked the rhino, his honest surprise sounding a bit funny given his deep voice. “Fuck, we thought you were down her for spring break!” said the stag, and Sharon laughed softly, not minding the salty language. “Sorry to dash your hopes boys…” she almost purred, smiling very strangely for someone who claims to be sorry. “What do you mean?” asked the ram. “So you weren’t hoping it was me and a bunch of other sorority girls in here?” the cougar asked. “Well yeah, but none of those rings looks like a wedding ring, so there’s still hope…” said the ram, giving her a look as transparent as that line. Sharon managed not to giggle. She was just a little tipsy, and the boys might think she was being mean. She was enjoying flirting with these four, and saw no need to be rude. “Well, since we’re temporary neighbors, I’m Andy, this is Carl and David and this big fucker right here is Jordan.” the jack said, introducing himself, the ram, the stag and the hulking rhino. “Sharon.” she replied. “So it’s just you here?” asked David, tilting one of his big deer ears up. She wasn’t sure it was intentional, but it did make him look cute. “I live with Michael…” she said, taking a sip mid sentence. It hid her smile as the four boys considered that she might have a live-in boyfriend. “...but he’s on his middle-school trip.” “Aww man, that sucks…” said Andy, trying to hide a smile as all four boys looked relieved to be talking to a very single mom. “From what he tells me he’s having a great time…” Sharon said with a smile. “No, I mean that you’re stuck here all alone…” the donkey clarified. “Ohh, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s nice and peaceful, and I’m enjoying the ‘me’ time…” “Well, if you change your mind, we’re having a sort of ‘house-warming’ party tonight.” said the ram. Not that Sharon needed to be told. These four were on the prowl for girls and it was honestly flattering that they’d stopped at her door. She definitely remembered getting that kind of attention back when she was in college, and with these four hunks lingering on her doorstep she realized she’d missed it more than she thought. “Awww, aren’t you sweet! But you boys look a little too old to need a babysitter.” “That’s why we’re not looking for one. We’re going around inviting hot girls over.” said the jack, and Sharon had to smile at his brazen honesty. “And you think I’m a girl?” Sharon said, swishing her tail as she cocked a hip that was very definitely womanly. “Okay so you’re twenty…” Andy trailed off,	Spring Broken Cougar So much for peace and quiet… Sharon mused, but the lazy yet curious sway of her tail betrayed the fact that she wasn’t truly in mourning for peace and quiet. She was leaning on the railing of her front porch, which normally offered a great view of the lake downhill from her home. A glass of red wine was cradled gently in one paw as keen feline eyes followed the cars rumbling down the narrow road of the normally quiet lakeside town. But they had been discovered a few years ago, and were now apparently a trendy local spot for spring-breakers. Her town had always had its share of vacationers and a healthy trickle of tourists coming in, but the available accommodations were limited, which apparently only made them more exclusive. There was a house a few doors down-road from hers that got rented out, and judging by the noise, some of her new temporary neighbors were taking a stroll. Sharon assumed they were looking for a way to the beach, since they were all wearing trunks and either sleeveless shirts or no shirts at all. She smiled a feline grin as she saw the young men approach, idly swirling the wine in her glass. “Hey there!” called out one of them, a donkey jack whose ears perked up at the sight of the tawny-furred feline. “Hey yourselves, boys…” she almost purred, trying not to grin at the way the four young men stopped at the wrought iron gate to her home. “Don’t tell me you got lost?” she asked, leaning forward just a little. She was teasing, but she couldn’t resist. She wasn’t really dressed to impress, but she knew that her tight jeans and clingy top showed enough curves and cleavage to draw the eye. She had to admit it was nice to see that she could still stop four handsome young college boys in their tracks. And quite a foursome they were - a donkey, a buck going on stag, a bighorn ram and dwarfing all of the jocky young males and honest-to-goodness rhino! “Nah, we just settled in down the road and are kinda scouting out the neighborhood.” Said the ram. The four still weren’t moving along, and after two glasses and half a third Sharon didn’t feel like shooing them away. Instead she made her way down to the gate, swinging both her tail and her hips and pretending not to notice the way they were staring. “You like the place?” she asked, taking another sip. “Yeah, but it looks like you scored a better one. Didn’t even see this place listed for rent…” said the jack. “That’s because it isn’t. This house is mine, I’m a townie…” “Seriously?” asked the rhino, his honest surprise sounding a bit funny given his deep voice. “Fuck, we thought you were down her for spring break!” said the stag, and Sharon laughed softly, not minding the salty language. “Sorry to dash your hopes boys…” she almost purred, smiling very strangely for someone who claims to be sorry. “What do you mean?” asked the ram. “So you weren’t hoping it was me and a bunch of other sorority girls in here?” the cougar asked. “Well yeah, but none of those rings looks like a wedding ring, so there’s still hope…” said the ram, giving her a look as transparent as that line. Sharon managed not to giggle. She was just a little tipsy, and the boys might think she was being mean. She was enjoying flirting with these four, and saw no need to be rude. “Well, since we’re temporary neighbors, I’m Andy, this is Carl and David and this big fucker right here is Jordan.” the jack said, introducing himself, the ram, the stag and the hulking rhino. “Sharon.” she replied. “So it’s just you here?” asked David, tilting one of his big deer ears up. She wasn’t sure it was intentional, but it did make him look cute. “I live with Michael…” she said, taking a sip mid sentence. It hid her smile as the four boys considered that she might have a live-in boyfriend. “...but he’s on his middle-school trip.” “Aww man, that sucks…” said Andy, trying to hide a smile as all four boys looked relieved to be talking to a very single mom. “From what he tells me he’s having a great time…” Sharon said with a smile. “No, I mean that you’re stuck here all alone…” the donkey clarified. “Ohh, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s nice and peaceful, and I’m enjoying the ‘me’ time…” “Well, if you change your mind, we’re having a sort of ‘house-warming’ party tonight.” said the ram. Not that Sharon needed to be told. These four were on the prowl for girls and it was honestly flattering that they’d stopped at her door. She definitely remembered getting that kind of attention back when she was in college, and with these four hunks lingering on her doorstep she realized she’d missed it more than she thought. “Awww, aren’t you sweet! But you boys look a little too old to need a babysitter.” “That’s why we’re not looking for one. We’re going around inviting hot girls over.” said the jack, and Sharon had to smile at his brazen honesty. “And you think I’m a girl?” Sharon said, swishing her tail as she cocked a hip that was very definitely womanly. “Okay so you’re twenty…” Andy trailed off, but instead of finishing the number Sharon just made a ‘higher’ gesture with her free hand. “Thirty… wait, you can’t be…” “Forty one since February!” Sharon quipped. “Bullshit!” said Jordan. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to see some ID…” said Carl, and Sharon laughed softly at their little act. “Trust me boys, it’s been a while since I had to lie about being older than I actually am…” she insisted. Shame to pour cold water over these four, and Sharon was sure that her age would put a damper on their obvious interest. “Okay, but you don’t look like you're forty, you don’t sound like you’re forty. Why not go all the way and stop acting like you’re forty? Maybe just one night, see how you like it?” “I’ll think about it. Nice meeting you boys…” she said, turning on her heel and walking back slowly enough to give them something to look at. “Okay, see you tonight!” the jack shouted after her, and Sharon put her fingers to her forehead as she shook her head, grinning at the boy’s confidence. ***** Sharon had let her little buzz taper off, but a certain giddiness persisted after the wine was flushed from her system. It had been some time since she’d been invited to a party by eager-eyed young hunks. Back in college she’d gotten invites like that every week, and she supposed that this latest one had made her feel younger than she had any right to. Young enough to seriously entertain the thought of attending, even going so far as to consider wardrobe. The outfit that had caught the boys’ eyes wouldn’t do. It looked good, but it was casual and screamed ‘mom’ as far as the cougar was concerned. Her body was doing enough of that without any help from an outfit. She was happy with her body, and the work she put into it showed. She missed being able to slip into slinky little dresses and narrow-waisted jeans the way she could before she’d had a baby, but while she was carrying some annoying pounds around the rear and middle a lot had settled on top. The firm round breasts that had guys salivating in college were replaced by heavier tear-drop shaped mounds that didn’t attract males so much as stun them. Deciding to go with her strength, Sharon opted for a teal bikini and a tropical-print sarong. Something casual yet eye-catching. She wasn’t really trying to score tonight, of course. It was just a bit of fun - a few drinks, some flirting… a bit silly but harmless fun. A part of her had been worried of how she would compare to the girls that her new neighbors had wrangled up, but she was pleasantly surprised when the pretty young women started giving her dirty looks, all except one who was either bi-curious or missing her mother on some subconscious level. She knew her attire would be appropriate since she knew the house the guys had rented. It was built for vacationing in rather than living in and sacrificed living space in favor of a big backyard with both a pool and a hot-tub. After some mingling Sharon found herself escorted by Andy, Carl, Jordan and David to the roiling cauldron that was the hot tub. It was built into a small wooden deck and looked over both the pool and the house, sort of like a VIP area or a big bubbly throne. “Oh, no!” she said with a little smile, shaking her head at the sight of a tray resting on the polished wood by the tub. “Oh yes! Come on, at least one…” insisted Andy as he slid into the hot water and held a hand out to help her in. With a flick of the wrist Sharon divested herself of her sarong and accepted the jack’s hand, while pondering the tray. She didn’t even see the label on the bottle, but you don’t need lime wedges and a salt shaker to serve brandy. She was about to politely turn him down, but the embrace of the hot roiling water washed her complaints away. She had a hot tub at home and liked to relax in it, but it wasn’t quite the same as getting into one with four quite fit young men. She seemed to be the only girl in the bubbling water, but then again there wasn’t a lot of room. The point of a hot tub was to stretch out, not to pile in, and she supposed she was a bit of a novelty for them. They spent every day surrounded by pretty young girls, but she was a MILF playing hard to get while still being flirty enough to give them hope. For her part, Sharon was enjoying the attention, and her ego was pleased to be chosen over the other girls attending, but she wasn’t really looking to ‘party’. “I haven’t done shots in ages!” “All the more reason to do one now. I bet you haven’t been to a party in ages either?” asked Carl, slipping in on her left so that she was caught between him and the jack while Jordan and David sat opposite them. “Do children’s birthday parties count?” she asked, and the four boys groaned. “Look, we know for a fact you aren’t driving home…” Jordan said with a groan, stretching his beefy arms along the rim of the tub as heat soaked through his hide. She was willing to bet all four boys were athletes, but whereas the donkey, stag and ram had chiseled chests, the rhino’s looked like it was the product of a rock-slide rather than a sculptor. “...so quit being a scaredy cat. I thought lionesses were supposed to be badass?” Andy teased, getting a soft giggle from the feline beside him. “I’m a cougar!” “Yeah, we know, that’s why we invited you…” said Carl, prompting more giggles. “I meant my species. Although my grandpa was a lion, so you aren’t far off…” she said, knowing she stood a little taller than most cougar females. “So come on, queen of the jungle, at least do one. Be a cat, not a pussy!” Andy insisted, and Sharon shook her head at his persistence and his language, but when the tray was held in front of her… Okay, let’s see if I remember how to do this… she thought, shaking some salt on her wet paw-pad, accepting a shot glass full to the brim. She licked the salt before downing the whole glass, surprised that the tequila the boys brought was actually quite smooth. While the liquid heat slid down her gullet she bit into a lime wedge and sucked in a burst of sour citrus juice as the boys around her whooped. “Okay, now all you boys have to do one!” she insisted with a feline grin. “Tit for tat, huh?” asked Carl, already pouring out four more glasses. The guys went through the same routine, adding to a growing pile of lime rinds on the tray. “Be honest Sharon - aren’t you glad you came?” asked the ram beside her as he threw an arm across the rim of the tub and incidentally behind her back. A cheesy move, but the shot and hot water had relaxed the feline too much to be critical. “Honestly - yeah, I am. I’m probably gonna regret it in the morning, but I’m having fun…” “See, I knew you’d come. Carl did too, but David and Jordan over there figured you were just too nice to shoot us down and were betting you’d be a no-show.” “Awww, hope you boys didn’t lose too much money betting against me…” Sharon teased. “It wasn’t money. We lost, so we’re sitting here and those two smug bastards have the good seats…” David said, prompting the two studs on either side of the cougar to lean a little closer just to drive the point home. “Is that how it went? I figured you two drew the short straws…” “Lady, there’s nothing short about me…” Jordan boasted, and Sharon laughed into her hand at the big rhino’s unsubtle boast. When David reached for the tray and poured five more shots she rolled her eyes but went through the same routine. “So is that how you used to do tequila shots back when you were in college?” asked the bighorn beside her. “Yeah. You boys know some other way?” she asked. It was only two shots, but after the wine she’d had earlier and the heat of the water she was feeling quite pleasantly buzzed. “Well it isn’t as fun licking the salt off your own hand…” he said, holding out the shaker. Sharon obliged by offering her paw palm-up and was surprised when the ram instead shook some salt out on her breast, immediately bending down and licking it off as the feline squealed in surprise at the brazen move. “Are you sure you got it all?” the cougar asked in a teasing tone. “I could go in for another lick…” the bighorn suggested, and Sharon put a finger to her chin as she pretended to consider before diving down enough to submerge her tits just before rising back up, with water pooling briefly in her cleavage before it dripped out. “I’d apologize for Carl’s behavior, but if I had his seat I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.” David confessed, not bothering to hide the fact he was staring at Sharon’s soaked tits. The cougar was tempted to remind him where her eyes were, but people looked at those all the time. She felt like a little ego-boost would do her good. “Definitely the best pair we’ve ever seen. ‘Cept we’re not really seeing them…” rumbled the rhino. “Something wrong with your eyes?” the cougar asked coyly. “I think what Jordan is saying is that if you really wanted to wow us, you’d lose the top…” Andy suggested, unperturbed by the laughter this got from the buxom feline. “Boys, I just got here and you’re already trying to make me get my tits out?” “That doesn’t sound like a ‘no’ to me…” the bighorn next to her said, ogling the cleavage straining against the soaked bikini top. “It isn’t… but it probably should be. I just met you boys earlier today… I’d feel awfully vulnerable just exposing myself like that…” she insisted. But the thought was making her thighs rub together, and filling her with a heat unrelated to the warm water bubbling around them. She was confident that her tits would look good even swinging loose, but she wondered if the boys would consider her a tease if she played along and then dashed their hopes. “I get ya. And it’s nor fair asking you to make the first move like that…” Andy said, the jack's hands disappearing under the roiling surface. “So it falls on us as your hosts to make a show of… good… faith!” he said, and Sharon covered her smile as his hands emerged holding up his soaked swim trunks. The remaining three laughed at the jack making a jackass of himself and as Andy swung the wet garment around his head there were hoots and cat-calls rising from the crowd even before he flung his trunks away. “Come on bros, all for one and one for all…” he said, and Sharon almost doubled over with laughter as the remaining three boys divested themselves of their only articles of clothing. Sure, the interesting parts were under the surface and obscured by the bubbling water, but it didn’t change the fact she was now sharing this tub with four handsome, buck-naked boys… “Not that it wasn’t an impressive display, but would anyone care to explain the symbolism behind it?” she asked, once she got her breath back. “We’ve made ourselves vulnerable. Our trunks are out of reach, so we’re dependent on your kindly nature in helping us get them back, otherwise we have to leave the tub bare-assed in front of everyone…” Carl explained, and Sharon rolled her eyes. “So I’m supposed to play fetch with your undies?” the cougar asked, trying not to try and peek under the surface of the water, or at least not to be caught peeking. “No rush. The hot-tub jets are much better without clothes getting in the way…” David said, tipping his antlers back as he relaxed to illustrate the point. “Is that so?” Sharon asked as the young buck tried his best to sell the idea. “Why don’t you meet us halfway and find out? Come on, you don’t even have to toss it away, just drop it down on the deck.” insisted Jordan, and Sharon was about to ask him which half, but figured she was better off losing her top. it would give them something to stare at and hopefully stop things from getting too out of hand. “Hmmmm, pour me some courage first, let’s see if that helps…” she said, and five shots were poured out as the salt shaker made the rounds. None of it wound up on her tits this time, but the way the boys were looking once they all took their sour bites of lime made it clear their interest hadn’t dimmed. That was probably a shot too far Sharon… she thought to herself as she reached back and undid the string binding the bikini top. When the soaked fabric went slack the boys cheered her on as she lifted the thing off and let the wet garment flop down on the polished wood of the deck, giving the four boys and no doubt a few people by the pool a look at her bare chest. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and smiled as only a cat can before slipping down and letting her heavy chest sink under the roiling water, closing her eyes and savoring the groans of the four boys. “Awww come on! What’s that for?” Andy bemoaned but failed to hide his grin. “I’m testing David’s theory. You know, I think he’s right - without clothes in the way, the jets really feel heavenly. I think I’ll just stay like this for a while and let them do their magic…” she said, as the buck got pelted with lime rinds. “Come on, we barely got a glimpse!” Carl complained, in a cute, pleading voice. “Still more than I got. if I reca-hey! I don’t remember telling you you could touch…” she said addressing the jack who’d taken advantage of her talking to Carl to lay a hand on one of her submerged breasts and give it quite an obvious grope. “I don’t remember you telling me I couldn’t…” Andy insisted. “That’s not how it works…” the cougar admonished, but didn’t really put any steel into her voice. She knew she should lay down the law, as the responsible adult, so that these four didn’t get the idea that they could treat females this way. But it felt like such a mom thing to do. She was having fun, she didn’t really feel threatened by these boys and Andy really did have such a strong hand… And it had been a while… “Oh, I know how it works. Tit for tat, or tat for tit. So for the record, I’m saying you can touch…” the jack said, spreading his legs a little in case his offer wasn’t obvious enough. Sharon knew for a fact she shouldn’t. That she should either pry the jack’s hand off her tit, or just lay back and let the boys play with her rack without escalating things any further. But she was buzzed and she was having the kind of fun she hadn’t had in ages. And these four boys were very handsome, and lavishing her with the kind of shameless attention that went straight to her ego. Especially with so many pretty girls running around looking for the kind of attention she was the center of. So she played it cool as a hand moved under the roiling surface of the steamy water, finding the jack’s muscular thighs and following it up and up until she found what she was looking for. She wasn’t sure if Andy was enjoying the bubbles of the jacuzzi or her hand-filling breast, but her hand was wrapping around a donkey-dick that was fully unsheathed but still in that thrillingly meaty stage that precedes a rock-hard equine erection. She repaid Andy’s grope with a good firm squeeze and a tug that had the jack’s ears flicking as he groaned. The shaft swelled in her hand, an unsubtle response of a very healthy young male being stimulated in just the right way. But cruelty is as much a feline trait as curiosity, and Sharon didn’t bother hiding her smile at Andy's disappointed groan as she released his shaft and slid her hand down to cup his sack. The roiling water hid it, but her mind painted a picture from memory of similar equines - smooth black skin, thin and taut as it held two fat egg-shaped testes. The jets surging underneath made the jack’s package seem light as she fondled him but she knew better. She had her fingers splayed and yet the damn things couldn’t quite fit in her hand. This could get a mare in a lot of trouble… “Atta girl. You know another fun way we do shots?” Andy asked as he picked up the bottle, and Sharon was about to politely decline but stopped when he just brought it to his lips and took a swig. What she didn’t expect was the donkey to take her chin in his strong hand lean in and press his muzzle to hers. Sharon’s ears perked but her half-hearted protest was muffled and then drowned as the jack opened his mouth, pried hers with his tongue and let liquor rush in. The cougar let the strong spirit linger on her tongue before forcing it down as Andy’s tongue slipped in to fill the void, his hand giving her tit a slow hard squeeze that had her moaning into the sudden kiss. When it broke, she found herself gasping for breath. “You could at least give a girl some warning…” she admonished, feeling Carl lay his hand on her other breast. “Didn’t you tell us earlier today that you aren’t a girl?” “Mhhh, you’re pushing your luck, stud…” she said, her hand still down there. Curiosity won over and she let it trail up, unsurprised to find the jack now fully erect under the bubbling water. She let her hand trail along the underside, up and up. Ahhh, the memories this brings back… Sharon mused, knowing that both the hard liquor and the equine erection were pushing her down memory lane. The texture of a stallion, the thin silky skin stretched over something so thick and hard, the veins along it that would throb once he was sheathed somewhere snug and warm, the medial ring that would graze a girl’s clit just right. While her hand rose up, Andy’s went low - under the water, along her stomach and lower still. She turned to face him, halfheartedly staring him down as hoof-nailed fingers pinched the fabric of her bikini and tugged it aside. Her pussy was bared and she couldn’t help but sigh as the jets played gently across her sex. She felt his hand cover her mound, pinky and index finger dimpling her labia before they splayed them open. The kiss of hot water for a second or two before the jack's ring and middle finger quite casually slid in as deep as he could get them, curling and… “Mmmmmhooohhh God…” she moaned, softly but loud enough for the four boys to hear, leaving little doubt about where Andy's hand was or what she was letting him get away with. I’ll put a stop to this. I’ll take my hand off his cock, take his hand out of my… just… a little longer… “Is this fair warning?” the jack asked, his muzzle an inch from her ear as those hard fingers curled and rubbed that spot. If only he didn’t know what he was doing… “Mhhhh… I really shouldn’t…” she murmured as the jack nuzzled the side of her neck. “But you wanna… don’t you?” “Hmmm, but I shouldn’t…” Sharon almost purred, smiling and knowing that last shot had probably been too much, not to mention what Andy had forced into her mouth. Carl leaned over and she tilted her head up to make room for his horns. His big horns as he opened his mouth and lifted her breast. She let out an unmistakably satisfied murmur as his lips sealed on her nipple, his tongue teasing as Andy’s pumped. Jacob and David both had one arm out across the rim of the tub but one under the water. They were all hard, they all wanted her. Four of them! Three was her record, back when she was in her prime and feeling it. “You want it, don’t you Sharon? Come on, how long has it been?” asked the Jack with his fingers rubbing against her special spot. “Mmmmmhmmm… too long…” Sharon purred out her admission, thrown her head back when what she really should have been doing was putting on the brakes. These boys were at a certain age, away from their parents, away from school and looking to make the most of their vacation. The way she had done back in college, before she became a respectable mother. She’d gone on dates when Michael was very little, but then he reached an age where he was still too young to understand about his mother’s urges but to be jealous about her going out with strange men. She wouldn’t really have to do anything to make this happen. She just had to do nothing… “Nhhh, that’s… there, right t-there…” she purred. Her stomach tensing and her whiskers twitching as Andy rubbed her spot in just the right way to make his fingers feel electric. Deep under the water the cougar’s toes curled, and both her exposed nipple and the one being suckled by a ram were hard, her mocha areola wrinkling as the nubs jutted out. Remembering she was in public, she put a hand on the back of Andy’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. With a thick equine tongue in her mouth, the feline let herself moan as she came around the fingers pumping her pussy. It wasn’t really her first time getting drunk and being fingered in public. There were parties where she’d slip away in some corner, make out with a guy and open her legs up when he went in for a touch. If he could make her cum that was just him passing the test and she’d drag him along somewhere more private for some serious fun. But when Andy broke their kiss she felt like it wasn’t just her tolerance for alcohol that had gone down. “Fuck babe, I knew you were a live one the moment we walked by your house…” Andy said, his voice low and growly as he stood up, the water reaching just above his waist, rippling and roiling but failing to hide the black length just under the surface. If Sharon had any doubt what he had in mind it was gone when he reached down and grabbed her ass before pulling it up. Water sloshed as the cougar was hoisted from the submerged bench, her back coming to rest on the polished wood of the deck as her beasts spread out across her chest. She tilted her head down, the view of the night sky replaced by the sight of a soaked equine body, young and toned and ready for action. The roiling water was washing across her belly and her pussy was just under the surface, but she didn’t need to see what was going on. Andy was on mark - his tip nudging the supple sex that was still quivering from his touch. Sharon was sure she could still stop it and talk him - and no doubt the rest of the boys - into handjobs, titfucks or blowies. But she didn’t want to. This boy wanted to fuck her, and all she had to do was let him. Her breath caught in her lungs as the probing tip caught, her labia spreading around it as Andy angled himself just right to aim it at the opening of her slick feline love-tunnel. When he thrust in he was… ambitious, but not rough. Half of his donkey-dick slid in easily, but not without drawing a cry from the now speared cougar. God, it had been too long! Her only sex toy was a massage wand that she got a lot of use out of. She’d bought a pricey dildo a while back that wound up just gathering dust. She loved being filled, but it had to feel right - warm, silky, throbbing… and attached to a young hunk, like this one was. She took the rest of Andy’s cock with a gasp that was drowned out by the jack’s groan, which was followed by an… “Oh… my God!” She didn’t see the speaker, but based on the tone of voice she would bet it was some breed of “Stefanie”. Sharon realized that her cry had been louder than the music, and that she had an audience now. Andy’s fit equine body would block most of the view, but everyone had seen her climb in and would know who the jack was hunched over. Another buck of the jack’s hips, another few inches of thick equine cock and she forgot why she should care. None of these kids knew her, and all would be gone by the end of spring break. She’d be just some juicy gossip to share on campus, forgotten a week or two later. By that time she’d be a responsible single mom again, so why not, for this one night… “Ngggauuuughhh!” she cried out as Andy gave another buck, this one punching against her cervix as his sack slapped against her pucker. “How is she?” asked Jordan, leaning forward and laying a huge gray-skinned hand on Sharon’s left tit. “Fuckin’... tight!” Andy groaned, his fingers digging into the cougar’s hips as he held himself hilted. “You need to get out more, Sharon…” “So I’m back of the line again, huh?” complained the rhino, still groping her breast while Jacob grabbed the other one. “Don’t give me that… just think of it as -ngh!- best for last…” the donkey stud said. The words registered in Sharon’s brain, fogged as it was by tequila and some serious… stimulation. She wasn’t really surprised, and it wouldn’t be her first time. But four guys and Jordan… his erection had been hidden by the roiling water, but she could well imagine what a male his size had packing. She was getting a grip on her breathing, but her whiskers still twitched every now and again as half-grimaces flashed across her muzzle. She’d been worked up but Andy hadn’t eased it in. He still felt like an intrusion inside her, something startlingly foreign. But Sharon hadn't forgotten how this worked. As her breaths became even her body relaxed, and so did some of the muscles in her leonine love-tunnel. Her body was stretching, molding itself to the young donkey even now grinding his hips against her barely submerged crotch. The hot water was helping and by the time he was thrusting Sharon knew his cock would feel like it was made to fit inside her. Like it belonged in there. Andy started fucking her just a little before that, pulling out just a little but getting more and more length into his strokes. The noises she made had been… encouraging, and hopefully not loud enough to reach any ears beyond the hot-tub. Even so, she still heard a few whoops and encouragements thrown the jack’s way. His body would mostly be hiding hers but they’d see the naked stud's back hunched and flexing as he fucked the woman who’d climbed into a hot tub with four horny young males as if she didn’t know how it would play out. “Hhnnooooouhhhyesss!” Sharon gasped out, her ears flicking back as Andy’s found just the right angle. “There we go… watch me make her purr…” The words barely registered, blurring together with the loud music and the noise of the party-going crowd. The water was sloshing back and forth as the jack found his rhythm, pumping his dark donkey-dick into Sharon’s depths. Heat spread out from the cougar’s core, in a way that tequila shots couldn’t really mimic. The living, throbbing length made her tail twist under the roiling water, clouding the feline femme’s reason and driving away her cares and worries. The sound of trickling water made her eyes focus on Carl as the naked ram got out of the tub and onto the wooden deck. He knelt just behind her, stroking a long, fleshy-pink cock as David took his place and began playing with one of her tits. Sharon wasn’t surprised to see him spread his knees apart and angle his cock down with one hand while the other settled under her chin and tilted her head back. The ram’s sack glistened, heavy and dripping as the young caprine took advantage of her parted lips and slid his tip between them. There was a hint of clean, chlorinated water as his cock sank in but soon enough it was replaced by the taste of a male - a young one in his absolute sexual prime. The sack moving closer and closer to her nosepad looked full and heavy. The first night of spring break - they were pent up and looking to unload, and she knew where this load would be going. When she felt the tip graze the back of her throat, Sharon let it open up, letting Carl slide in until his heavy sack was bumping her nose. “Holy shit, got it in one!” the ram groaned, stroking her throat that Sharon had no doubt was gently bulging from the cock stuck half-way down it. “This is our lucky night…” Sharon’s nostrils flared when the ram pulled out, and she knew she’d have to time her breathing carefully. It wasn’t her first time taking a cock like this, but she couldn’t remember ever getting fucked by one guy while deepthroating another. This wasn’t really her favorite way to blow a guy - she was proud of her technique and had she been given the chance she was sure she would have impressed these boys. But these four were young, dumb and full of cum and were thrilled to have a lonely housewife to use as their sex-toy. That’s certainly what she felt like - unable to speak, unable to move, with any will to resist sapped by tequila and neglected needs she was at the mercy of these four horny college-boys. Andy had a grip on her hips and Carl was holding the sides of her head and both boys were just doing at it - pumping their cocks into warm, tight holes. Everything became a blur to the cougar and the combination of alcohol, friction and limited oxygen weren’t helping. She was aware that she was suckling on Carl every chance she got, getting a groan from the ram every time she swallowed and her throat tightened around him. It was a swelling deeper down that brought some semblance of focus. Hard, hoof-nailed fingers dug into her hips as Andy railed her as hard as he could. Only the fact that his lower half was under water was slowing him down and keeping Sharon from screaming into the cock fucking her muzzle. Her legs tensed as the swelling flare rubbed her insides harder than even the jack’s medial ring, the mushrooming tip making the already thick equine cock feel distressingly big. She head a ray just as the flare punched deep, the urethra kissing her cervix just before the first rope of donkey-spunk slapped against it. None of these boys were felines, so there was no risk, but she was shocked by the casual way the jack was pumping her womb without even bothering to ask. But the heat of his load did feel delicious, the cougar’s eyes rolling back a little as she focused on the warm mess her body was taking. The jack was still half-hard when he pulled out, leaving Sharon on the verge of climax as his flare popped out. Her freshly fucked pussy was just under the surface of the bubbling water and she felt her body give up the jack’s load just as new hands settled on her quivering legs. “Dude, seriously? Come on, let me go next, you’re a tough act to follow…” she heard David groan, which means that the big hands groping her thighs belonged to… “How about this - if you can drag me away, she’s all yours…” proposed Jordan with all the confidence of a rhino. Sharon felt quite loose after having just been fucked by a very well endowed jack, but the glans even now prodding at her sex was having a hard time slipping in. “Come on kitty, Andy’s opened ‘em for me before. I know for a fact you can take this…” Jordan insisted with a confidence the middle-aged feline didn’t share. She felt a thick finger pry one o her folds away, felt warm cum drain from her sex before the blunt tip plugged her up. She could imagine Jordan holding his cock just behind the glans, struggling to work it into her. If she could speak she’d tried to talk sense to him, and offer to lick him to orgasm while he fucked her tits. But the ram was breeding her muzzle and breathing was a full-time job as the caprine sack slapped her nose and Carl’s cock fucked her throat. A buck from Jordan took her by surprise, but more importantly - it took her. Sharon’s cry was muffled by the groaning ram, and writhe as she might there were two huge hands holding her hips firmly in place. Jordan’s tip was in and staying in, and as the rhino slowly slid himself deeper Sharon was stretched so much that her clit was pressed tight against his throbbing girth. Like the needle on a gramophone, the little pink nub traced over every little vein and contour of the monster pushing equine cum out of her with every inch she took. Sharon was holding on by a hair, but lost her grip when the tip reached her g-spot. Her vision blurred and she lost sight of the ram’s sack swinging and slapping her face as he bred her muzzle. She could no longer tell how many there were - on her, in her. Her pussy was trying to clench even though it was stretched like never before and the cougar was losing her fight for breath. Her gasp ought some focus back along with the rush of oxygen, but there was a part missing. She’d never heard or felt Carl cum, but her mouth was filled with the bitter-salty taste of caprine sperm and she was sure that most of it had been shooting down her throat. The cock Carl was rubbing against her lips was still drooling spunk but was going soft, unlike the monster between her legs. Sharon licked the spunk from her lips and the ram’s tit before he moved away and she looked down her curvy body. from her vantage point Jordan looked even bigger - a behemoth covered in glistening gray skin, his shoulders squared as he held her in place. And he felt bigger than he looked! Coming down from her second orgasm, Sharon could feel his pulse as it traveled along the network of veins that ran along the rhino’s erection. a fast heartbeat. He was eager. He also didn’t care about what had just been in her mouth as he leaned down to kiss her, although by now Sharon had swallowed almost everything he ram had left on her tongue. She thought he was being really sweet and wrapped her arms around his thick neck without even thinking about it. She only noticed his own arms slipping between her back and the wood of the deck when he already had her in a hug, and the thick pachyderm tongue exploring her mouth did a good job of muffling her surprised cr as she was easily picked up by the big jock. “NnngggoouuhhhGod!” the cougar groaned as Jordan sat down on the deck with her seated in his lap and on his cock. “Comfy?” he asked, his voice rumbling against her neck as gravity took over the job of pushing more rhino into Sharon’s body. “Eeehhhh… easy… okay?” she panted out. her back was to the crowd but they were out of the water now, and while nobody could see her face they were all getting a great view of her feline pussy straining around Jordan’s girth. The thought of it should have horrified her, but there were gorgeous college girls out there wearing next to nothing, and a part of her savored the fact that no one was looking at them. “Sorry guys. I was gonna go fast and hard, but you heard the lady…” the rhino rumbled. “Fuck you…” said a voice from behind her, and even though her heart was pounding in hr ears Sharon recognized David - the stag who was still the only one who hadn't gotten his dick inside her. “Don’t mind Bambi, Sharon. Take as long as you like…” Jordan insisted, moving his huge hands to the cougar’s ass. It was a little bigger than she liked in spite of her work-out regimen, but Sharon was thrilled to find out that Jordan could grope her cheeks the same way guys used to when she was in college. She relaxed a little into his touch, which meant another two inches of rhino pushed into her straining pussy, forcing her body to adjust. “Mnnnnhhhh… you boys are just… terrible…” Sharon groaned, idly stroking the subtle bulge in her belly. “You’re a piece of work too. Been a while, huh?” asked the stag from behind, just as he wrapped his arms around her and began to play with her tits. “T-too long…” Sharon almost purred out. The stag had sweet fingers, and knew how to work the handfuls of feline flesh. “I get that a lot. Too long, too thick… get a lot of that from girls. But you’re not a girl, are you Sharon?” Jordan asked, and any response the cougar might have made was replaced y a gas when he flexed his cock in the snug grip of her sex. The tip of the rhino’s cock had been pressed against her cervix for a while, but that little flutter and gravity finished the job and brought Sharon’s thighs into contact with Jordan’s lap, her labia straining as she held every last inch of the pachyderm jock. “Fuck, you’re tight! It’s your show now, kitty. Lemme see you ride…” Jordan said, using his hands to move her ass back and forth as he kneaded her cheeks. Sharon didn’t trust her legs enough to try and rise off the rhino’s horn, but grinding her ass against his lap was making her toes curl and his thick neck tense, she she guessed it would be enough. And small wonder, since she was wrapped tight enough around him that she could feel his heartbeat. So she began arching and flexing her back, feeling the last of Andy’s cum seep around the cock now claiming every bit of room in her pussy. She laid her hands on Jordan's heavy shoulders and leaned forward, thrusting her ass into his thick-fingered hands. He was happy to let her move, but he also kept kneading her cheeks, making the mature feline groan every time he grabbed and pulled them apart. “Fuck, I just got an idea…” said the stag behind her. “I was wondering when it would get past that thick skull…” Sharon wasn’t sure what David’s idea was, nor did she really are as she swiveled and ground her pussy against Jordan’s crotch. and when the hot, hard tip of the stag’s cock kissed her exposed pucker the realization came too late. Sharon yowled as only a cat could as the ideally tapered cervine cock opened her up, letting the rest of the stag’s girth stretch her ass. A lot of Andy’s cum had settled in her crease but her tail-hole still burned from the sudden intrusion with nothing but that improvised lube. Through exhaustion, tequila and the fact that she wasn’t actually as young as she used to be, Sharon realized that at some point during this evening she’d crossed the line and lost control. If she had any left she wouldn't be wincing as a horny stag pushed his way under her puffed-up tail while her body was straining to hold his rhino friend. But it was hard to be reasonable while buzzed and horny, and even the pain of an unlubed anal entry wasn’t enough to bring her out of it. She squirmed, but that didn’t help. It only made her walls rub around the pachyderm cock stuffing her pussy and sap any willpower she might have mustered to try and stop this. She knew the boys wouldn’t stop on their oǌn. Even if they’d been sober they were living the fantasy of hormonal teens - a MILF putting out and up for anything. To his credit David wasn’t actually rough. In fact she was sure this wasn’t the stag’s first time taking a girl’s ass with that cervine cock that was so ideally suited for reaming a nice, snug pucker. The more she took the more she struggled to remain conscious. Her breaths were shallow and her exhales sounded too much like moans for her own good. Hands roamed across her wet body, groping, squeezing and tweaking. The feel of cervine hips pressing against her ass was such a relief she almost came right then, bu as the stag began to move she knew she wouldn’t last long. He was rocking into her and Jordan was helping her along lifting her hips with those huge arms of his. She caught sight of Carl and Andy sitting beside them and watching, two more young cocks stirring and looking like they would soon be ready for action. It was too much to think about, so she buried her face in Jordan’s thick neck, pressed against his muscular body as thick, throbbing erections moved in and out of her pussy and ass. She’d relaxed enough back there that David could rut her in rapid, shallow thrusts. She could feel her ass rippling, the wet fur doing nothing to mask the slapping noises. Jordan’s climax took her by surprise, but the rhino had her attention as soon as she felt the first blast of his cum. It rushed into her already flooded womb, flowed back in a hot rush between her stretched walls and his throbbing shaft only to squirt noisily as he gave her way more than her body could hope to hold after she already took Andy’s load. The rush of heat was enough to trigger her own climax, announced by a thin whine coming from her muzzle as the clenching of her pucker slowed the stag behind her and her tenuous grip on consciousness failed her. ***** When Sharon opened her eyes she winced at the glare filling the room. It seemed to stab through her corneas and into her brain as various aches and pains began to register. A number of complaints were coming from below the waist, especially between her legs and under her tail. The wet, slimy sensation between her thighs and cheeks suggested that she hadn’t showered last night. Small wonder, since she didn’t remember reaching her house, let alone her bedroom. Then again, Jordan alone would have had little trouble carrying her upstairs. Her ears registered something, and as her brain spun into gear Sharon realized that it hadn’t been sunlight that had woken her. She fumbled for the phone just to silence the chirping, her feline eyes managing to focus on the screen. Unsurprising, she had four new contacts, and the sight of the numbers indicating unread messages made the cougar bury her face in her pillow to muffle the cry of frustration as she considered what she’d gotten herself into…	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602171	{"authors": ["rand0mSF"], "language": "English", "title": "Spring Broken Cougar"}
I’ll Eat You Last The rest of the 107th are long gone by the time Steve reaches the lowest level of the HYDRA facility. He doesn’t remember kicking the steel door in, only registers it’s lying bent on the floor as he steps over it. The lab beyond is cold and dark, lit by a handful of harsh white lamps suspended from the ceiling. The room reeks of chemicals, something sour, and… blood. There’s only one table that isn’t empty. It’s Bucky. He lies in the center of the room, bare to the waist, strapped down by heavy leather straps. Still here. Still whole. “Bucky!” Steve’s voice cracks as he rushes toward the table. Steve skids to a stop beside the table and finally gets a proper look at him. Bucky’s head lolls to the side, chin tipped against his shoulder, eyes shut. His skin is pale. Dark bruises bloom along his arms, violet and blue, evidence of syringes and whatever twisted things Zola has done here. His dog tags still hang around his neck, resting against his bare chest. There’s a small hole stabbed straight through Bucky’s chest, black, ragged, the skin around it bluish. It’s almost a perfect circle. Almost too clean. It freezes Steve where he stands because the hole sits exactly where Bucky’s heart is located. Steve’s stomach drops. Bucky’s chest isn’t even moving. Panic claws up his throat. He seizes the restraints and tears them off the table, leather and metal snapping like paper under his hands. He bends down, pressing his ear to Bucky’s chest, desperate. No thump. Not even a sound. He checks the pulse at Bucky’s throat, then his wrists, then anywhere he can reach. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Steve’s too late. The thought slams into him, cold and merciless. This can’t be happening. Bucky can’t be dead. He can’t. Steve saved the others, every last man they dragged from this hell, and somehow Bucky is the only one who isn’t making it out alive? The only one who pays for this with his life? Bucky is the reason Steve ever stepped forward in the first place. The reason he pushed, the reason he volunteered, the reason he’s here at all. He came to save Bucky. How is he supposed to accept that his best friend just died? How is he supposed to go home and tell his sisters that their big brother died in the hands of Nazi scumbags? How is he supposed to speak those words out loud? No. Steve refuses to accept it. “Bucky,” he whispers, voice cracking as he grips his shoulders. He shakes him gently at first, then harder. “Bucky, come on. Get up. Please—please, get up.” Steve’s pulse spikes when nothing answers him back. He blinks hard, once, twice, trying to clear the tears already burning in his eyes. “No, no, no. Bucky. Bucky, don’t do this.” He leans in closer, pleading. “Wake up! Do you hear me!? I came for you! We gotta get you back home!” Still nothing. Damn it. This isn’t working. Steve swallows hard, forces himself to move. He slides one hand beneath Bucky’s neck, the other behind his knees, skin cold like ice, bracing to lift him off the table and carry him out. But the moment Bucky’s body leaves the table, his eyes snap open. He drags in a huge, shuddering breath, like someone starving for air after too long below water. Steve goes rigid, hands still supporting him as Bucky gulps down another breath, and another, his chest finally rising and falling. Bucky’s gaze flicks across the ceiling, searching, unfocused, then drops. And when his eyes lock on Steve, everything in Steve’s chest lurches. He’s alive. Bucky’s alive. It feels like a miracle, yet something about it also feels odd. Bucky’s pupils are blown wide, black nearly swallowing the blue, his eyes glazed and strange. “Bucky,” Steve breathes, relief crashing over him so hard it nearly buckles his knees. Bucky swallows once. His lips part, voice rough, unsure. “You’re… you’re Steve.” “Yeah,” Steve says quickly, nodding, pulling him closer without thinking. “Yeah, it’s me. I came to save you.” Bucky gives him the smallest smile before it slips away. His eyes drift downward, taking in Steve’s frame. Steve follows his gaze and can’t help the faint, incredulous smile tugging at his own lips. “I’ve changed… a little,” Steve says. “A little?” Bucky echoes, deadpan. Steve huffs. “I’ll explain later. We gotta get out of here first.” Steve eases his grips, letting Bucky slide forward until he’s sitting on the edge of the table. A moment later Bucky’s feet touch the floor, unsteady, and he slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve takes the weight without hesitation, holding him close, guiding him forward. They manage only a few steps before Steve’s boot knocks into something. He glances down. A torn scrap of Bucky’s shirt lies on the floor, cut in half, its other half nowhere in sight. Beside it is a large syringe. The needle ist thick and long enough to make Steve’s stomach knot. The vial is empty, streaked with thin trails of pale blue and red fluid that cling to the inside. A few drops have dripped from the needle onto the floor, gleaming faintly under	I’ll Eat You Last The rest of the 107th are long gone by the time Steve reaches the lowest level of the HYDRA facility. He doesn’t remember kicking the steel door in, only registers it’s lying bent on the floor as he steps over it. The lab beyond is cold and dark, lit by a handful of harsh white lamps suspended from the ceiling. The room reeks of chemicals, something sour, and… blood. There’s only one table that isn’t empty. It’s Bucky. He lies in the center of the room, bare to the waist, strapped down by heavy leather straps. Still here. Still whole. “Bucky!” Steve’s voice cracks as he rushes toward the table. Steve skids to a stop beside the table and finally gets a proper look at him. Bucky’s head lolls to the side, chin tipped against his shoulder, eyes shut. His skin is pale. Dark bruises bloom along his arms, violet and blue, evidence of syringes and whatever twisted things Zola has done here. His dog tags still hang around his neck, resting against his bare chest. There’s a small hole stabbed straight through Bucky’s chest, black, ragged, the skin around it bluish. It’s almost a perfect circle. Almost too clean. It freezes Steve where he stands because the hole sits exactly where Bucky’s heart is located. Steve’s stomach drops. Bucky’s chest isn’t even moving. Panic claws up his throat. He seizes the restraints and tears them off the table, leather and metal snapping like paper under his hands. He bends down, pressing his ear to Bucky’s chest, desperate. No thump. Not even a sound. He checks the pulse at Bucky’s throat, then his wrists, then anywhere he can reach. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Steve’s too late. The thought slams into him, cold and merciless. This can’t be happening. Bucky can’t be dead. He can’t. Steve saved the others, every last man they dragged from this hell, and somehow Bucky is the only one who isn’t making it out alive? The only one who pays for this with his life? Bucky is the reason Steve ever stepped forward in the first place. The reason he pushed, the reason he volunteered, the reason he’s here at all. He came to save Bucky. How is he supposed to accept that his best friend just died? How is he supposed to go home and tell his sisters that their big brother died in the hands of Nazi scumbags? How is he supposed to speak those words out loud? No. Steve refuses to accept it. “Bucky,” he whispers, voice cracking as he grips his shoulders. He shakes him gently at first, then harder. “Bucky, come on. Get up. Please—please, get up.” Steve’s pulse spikes when nothing answers him back. He blinks hard, once, twice, trying to clear the tears already burning in his eyes. “No, no, no. Bucky. Bucky, don’t do this.” He leans in closer, pleading. “Wake up! Do you hear me!? I came for you! We gotta get you back home!” Still nothing. Damn it. This isn’t working. Steve swallows hard, forces himself to move. He slides one hand beneath Bucky’s neck, the other behind his knees, skin cold like ice, bracing to lift him off the table and carry him out. But the moment Bucky’s body leaves the table, his eyes snap open. He drags in a huge, shuddering breath, like someone starving for air after too long below water. Steve goes rigid, hands still supporting him as Bucky gulps down another breath, and another, his chest finally rising and falling. Bucky’s gaze flicks across the ceiling, searching, unfocused, then drops. And when his eyes lock on Steve, everything in Steve’s chest lurches. He’s alive. Bucky’s alive. It feels like a miracle, yet something about it also feels odd. Bucky’s pupils are blown wide, black nearly swallowing the blue, his eyes glazed and strange. “Bucky,” Steve breathes, relief crashing over him so hard it nearly buckles his knees. Bucky swallows once. His lips part, voice rough, unsure. “You’re… you’re Steve.” “Yeah,” Steve says quickly, nodding, pulling him closer without thinking. “Yeah, it’s me. I came to save you.” Bucky gives him the smallest smile before it slips away. His eyes drift downward, taking in Steve’s frame. Steve follows his gaze and can’t help the faint, incredulous smile tugging at his own lips. “I’ve changed… a little,” Steve says. “A little?” Bucky echoes, deadpan. Steve huffs. “I’ll explain later. We gotta get out of here first.” Steve eases his grips, letting Bucky slide forward until he’s sitting on the edge of the table. A moment later Bucky’s feet touch the floor, unsteady, and he slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve takes the weight without hesitation, holding him close, guiding him forward. They manage only a few steps before Steve’s boot knocks into something. He glances down. A torn scrap of Bucky’s shirt lies on the floor, cut in half, its other half nowhere in sight. Beside it is a large syringe. The needle ist thick and long enough to make Steve’s stomach knot. The vial is empty, streaked with thin trails of pale blue and red fluid that cling to the inside. A few drops have dripped from the needle onto the floor, gleaming faintly under the lab lights. Steve forces his gaze away. He doesn’t have time to think about what HYDRA pumped into Bucky, what they tried, what they did. “Let’s go,” Steve murmurs as he helps Bucky limp toward the exit. “And be careful.” — It’s already dark by the time it’s Bucky’s turn to be checked by the nurse. The rest of the 107th are trudging toward the abandoned barn they found a few miles out, tired, hungry, ready to collapse. Steve stayed behind. He refuses to leave until he knows Bucky’s really okay. He pushes aside the tent flap and steps in. Bucky sits on the edge of a medical cot, still bare to the waist, legs dangling. The black hole still marks his chest, no bruising around it now, the skin pale and smooth as if nothing ever tore through it. His hair is a wild, curly mess. The nurse presses the bell of a stethoscope to Bucky’s sternum, brows drawn tight in concentration. “Would you stop that, please?” she says, gesturing at his swinging legs. “It’s very distracting.” Bucky startles slightly, looking up at her. His feet go still. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says, polite, almost sheepish. “Was strapped to a table for hours. My legs feel funny.” “I know,” the nurse says, patience thinning. “That’s why I’m here. Just stay still so I can help.” Bucky straightens, shoulders drawn back, letting her listen properly. His gaze flicks toward the tent entrance, toward Steve, and he gives a small smile. It’s soft, almost soft enough to convince Steve that everything really is okay. Steve returns it, quiet relief loosening something tight in his chest. Bucky’s here. Breathing. Smiling. Alive. The nurse listens a moment longer, frown deepening. She lowers the stethoscope, coils it aside. She doesn’t look convinced. “Are you feeling any pain?” she asks. Bucky shakes his head, careless. “No. I feel fine.” The nurse hums. She digs a small flashlight out of her pocket and gently pulls back one of Bucky’s eyelids,shining the beam into his eye. Then the other. “Are you on drugs? Morphine, perhaps?” “I… don’t know. Don’t remember most of it.” “Morphine is possible,” Steve says from near the entrance, unable to stay quiet any longer. Both Bucky and the nurse turn to look at him. “He had a bunch of needle marks in his arms. Who knows what they pumped into him.” “Alright,” the nurse mutters, turning away from Steve as she switches off the flashlight and tucks it back into her pocket. She reaches beside Bucky and picks up a rumpled white long sleeve shirt, stained and threadbare, but warm enough. She hands it over. Bucky slips it on, movements a little stiff, like he’s still getting used to having control of his body again. “So,” Bucky says once he’s dressed, “what’s the diagnosis?” The nurse folds her arms. “Hard to say,” she admits. “Your heart rate is… very slow. Three seconds between beats, to be exact. That’s really concerning. Your skin is cold and pale, which rules out fever. And your pupils are fully dilated even under harsh light.” Her eyes flick briefly to Steve, like she’s debating whether to sugarcoat the rest. “You could be dealing with hypothermia or a drug overdose,” she continues. “But it doesn’t present like either. It actually doesn’t look as bad as it should.” She tilts her head, studying him. “It’s probably just shock. You should rest tonight.” “Got it,” Bucky says, flashing her a smile. He pushes himself of the cot. “Thank you very much, ma’am. I already feel better.” The nurse musters a tired smile of her own. “Of course.” Bucky jerks his chin toward Steve as he walks out of the tent, playful. “Come on, Captain.” Steve is still getting used to hearing that title. He turns to follow, but stops when a hand catches his arm. “Wait,” the nurse murmurs, voice low, eyes flicking toward the flap where Bucky just disappeared into the dark. “Could I talk to you for a moment?” “Uh, is there a problem?” The nurse releases his arm. “I lied,” she says quietly. “About his heart rate. It’s even lower than I told him. I think it’s best if you keep a very close eye on the sergeant. Don’t let him wander off alone in case he faints or… his heart stops.” Steve’s stomach knots. His jaw tightens. “Isn’t it a little unprofessional to lie to your patients? And wouldn’t it be safer if he stayed here? You could keep an eye on him yourself.” A faint blush creep into her cheeks. “I’m not… used to the front lines. We’re overwhelmed. Too many wounded for the staff we have. I know you’re not a medic, but Sergeant Barnes will be in better hands with someone who can actually stay with him.” Steve nods. “Alright. I’ll do it myself.” He smiles, grateful. “Thank you for your service.” Her cheeks flush deeper. “No problem.” Steve offers a quick goodbye before slipping out of the tent, canvas flapping closed behind him. Cool night air hits his face as he scans for Bucky. He wonders if he should’ve told her the truth. About the lab, about the restraining straps, about the long, awful seconds where Steve pressed his ear to Bucky’s chest and heard nothing. No heartbeat. No breath. Just stillness. Cold, terrible stillness. A shiver claw down his spine. No. Bucky’s fine. He’s alive. He’s walking and talking and smiling. Whatever HYDRA put him through Steve got him out. That’s what matters. He’ll watch him. Every second if he has to. Even if leading the 107th means his attention is always being dragged elsewhere. He’ll make time. He’ll find a way. Steve would do anything for Bucky. Steve spots Bucky a few feet from the tent, perfectly still, head tipped back, staring up into the night. His mouth hangs open just slightly, like the sight above him is something unfamiliar. Stars scattered across a black sky, and Bucky looks like he’s seeing them for the very first time. Yeah. Whatever HYDRA did to him… they did too much. He closes the distance with quiet steps and stops beside him. “Ready to head back to the barn?” Steve asks. “Pretty sure I saw a decent bed in there somewhere. Maybe you’ll get lucky and no one’s claimed it yet.” Bucky finally tears his gaze away from the sky. “Barn,” he echoes, thoughtful. Then a soft chuckle escapes him. “Barnes. Sounds the same, doesn’t it?” “…What?” “Never mind,” Bucky says quickly,already stepping forward. He fishes his dog tags from his pocket and slips them back over his neck. “Let’s go. I’m starving.” Steve falls into step beside him, offering a small grin. “Yeah? Well, what are you craving?” “Anything, really. But especially meat.” “I’ll see what I can do about that,” Steve says. “But it’ll probably just be canned meat and a bunch of beans.” Bucky shrugs. “Both’s fine. We both know I’ll eat anything.” Steve snorts. “We sure do.” They fall into silence, walking side by side through the dark. The only sounds are their boots crunching over the dirt and the chirp of crickets hidden in the grass. Steve can’t help glancing down at him, which still feels wrong. He’s spent his entire life tilting his head up to meet Bucky’s eyes, not lowering his gaze like this. Now Bucky seems smaller than he actually is. The bruises on his face earlier are already gone, but he still looks sick. His steps are uneven, just the slightest limp, like he’s still relearning how to move without restraints holding him down. Probably from being strapped to that table for hours like he said. “Buck,” Steve finally says, voice low, breaking the silence, “are you okay?” Bucky glances over, a smile tugging at his lips “Never felt better. Like I said, I’m doing great.” “That’s not what I mean… I mean, are you okay mentally? I don’t know what they did to you down there, but I know it wasn’t good.” “It’s fine, Steve. I’m okay. Really. You’re worrying too much.” Steve nods, though the tightness in his chest doesn’t ease. “I’m just saying… if you want to go back home, that’s okay. No shame in it. No one would blame you.” Bucky bumps an elbow into his ribs, light. “Are you kiddin’? I ain’t going anywhere. Just ’cause you’re big and strong now, don’t think you don’t need me anymore. All you did today was return the favor for saving your ass all those years.” Steve chuckles. “So—so you’ll fight alongside me?” “Always.” Warmth floods Steve’s chest, blooming wide and impossible to contain. He probably looks like a complete idiot, grinning the way he is, but he can’t bring himself to care. Fighting beside Bucky. Protecting Bucky for once instead of being the one dragged out of trouble. Actually helping. It feels like a dream come true. No, it is a dream come true. “Oh—and Steve?” “Yeah?” Bucky’s voice softens, turning into something almost shy. “Could you stay with me tonight? I don’t think I want to sleep alone after seeing Schmidt pull his skin off like that.” Steve tries for reassurance. “I’m sure that was just a mask, not his actual skin. And I thought you were fine.” “I am fine,” Bucky insists. He steps closer. Close enough that the brush of his fingers touches Steve’s knuckles. His eyes widen as he looks up at him, pupils still wide . “But I’d feel even better with you around.” Heat creeps up Steve’s neck, all the way to his ears. “I—okay, yeah. Sure I’ll stay with you tonight.” Bucky’s smile widens, slow and satisfied. “Perfect.” — The moment they reach the barn, a wave of cheers erupts, loud and exhausted, but genuine. It’s more attention than Steve’s ever gotten in his entire life. For a second, he doesn’t know what to do with it. The barn is packed. Of course it is. Even with a handful of men still in medical, there’s barely enough room for bodies, much less comfort. Some guys are spread out on the ground floor, making beds out of hay or thin sleeping pads. Others have claimed spots on the loft above, blankets and bedrolls lined shoulder to shoulder. Everyone is kind, welcoming in a way that feels almost overwhelming. Bucky introduces him around with casual pride: Dugan, Jones, Morita, Falsworth… faces Steve recognizes vaguely from the mission, now flushed with warmth and relief. They insist he take the only actual bed on the upper level. A sort of trophy of gratitude, a thank you for breaking down HYDRA’s cage around them. Steve tries to refuse. He doesn’t want special treatment, doesn’t want anyone thinking he expects it. But then he glances at Bucky, pale and shivering in that threadbare shirt. Steve ends up accepting the bed. Not for himself. For Bucky. So he can rest for the first time since he got shipped. The barn settles fast. Within minutes, most of the men are out cold. Some are snoring loud enough to shake the walls, others silent as stones. Steve lies on one side of the bed, Bucky on the other. It’s a queen, thank God, though even that feels a little cramped with Steve’s new size. He keeps stealing glances over his shoulder, trying to see if Bucky’s asleep. But Bucky’s back is turned to him, shoulders unmoving. No shifting. No twitching. No soft breaths. Steve listens harder. But there’s nothing to listen to. Bucky’s never been a snorer, and sharing a cramped apartment together cured him of the teeth-clacking habit in the first week. So silence doesn’t mean much. And considering the bags under his eyes, he’s probably dead tired. Still, the lack of sound makes Steve feel weird. Eventually he forces himself to look away. To lie down properly. To close his eyes. He lets the night wrap around him. Lets the worries dull, lets sleep pull him deeper and deeper. The last thing he sees before he drifts under is Bucky’s face. The moment when Steve reached him,his breath returning sudden. The moment he opened his eyes and looked at Steve like he’d been waiting for him… But sleep doesn’t last long. Steve is yanked out of it by a wet sound, chewing and cracking, and a sharp metallic odor that punches straight into his stomach. Blood. Thick and unmistakable. He frowns, groggy confusion shifting instantly into alert panic. His eyes snap open. He pushes up fast, the old mattress groaning under his weight, and scans the dark. Nothing but rows of sleeping soldiers below. No movement. No threat. Then a soft creak from the opposite side of the loft hooks his attention. Steve’s head whips toward the sound, and only then does he register the empty space beside him. Bucky isn’t in the bed anymore. Hes sitting cross-legged on the ground with his back to Steve. The wooden window above him is cracked open, cold night air spilling through as he stares out into the sky. Steve swallows, throat suddenly dry. What is he doing? And more importantly, what was he eating? “Buck?” Steve calls quietly, voice still thick with sleep. Bucky’s head turns at an odd angle. His face is blank for a second before it smooths into something friendlier. “Steve. Hey. Sorry. Did I wake you?” “Yeah…” Steve pushes himself upright fully. “What—what are you doing over there? You should come back to bed. Get some sleep.” “Can’t,” Bucky says simply. “I’m hungry. Tried to find something to eat. Now I’m… trying to distract myself.” Steve’s brows pull further, confusion edging toward worry. “But… weren’t you just eating something? I heard you chew.” Bucky lets out a quiet laugh. “What are you talking about? I didn’t eat anything. You must’ve imagined it. A dream, maybe. You’re so silly, Steve.” He chuckles again, strangely delighted. “So funny.” Steve forces a quiet, hollow laugh. Bucky’s acting… off. Not like himself. Not even like he’s traumatized. Something’s wrong in a way Steve can’t even explain. Maybe it’s the experiments. The torture. Steve asked around earlier, only a handful of the soldiers who survived Azzano had been taken below, singled out by Zola. None of those men came back. Except Bucky. The others all swore they were dead, but Steve never found the bodies. Didn’t have time to look properly before the facility went up in flames. That thought sits heavy in his chest. He tries not to think about it. He still doesn’t want to think about it. What exactly did HYDRA do to Bucky? What were they testing? Why him? There’s no strategy that makes sense. Just cruelty. Experimentation for its own sake. Causing pain because they can. “Buck, you’re gonna wake the others. Just… come back to bed, alright? Try to sleep.” “Okay,” Bucky says easily. He stands, shuts the window with a quiet thud, and pads back toward the bed. “Sorry.” Steve lips part to say something, only to flinch back when Bucky climbs up beside him on all fours, the mattress dipping under his weight. “What the hell?” The alarm in Steve’s voice is immediate. Bucky freezes, eyes wide and uncomprehending. “What?” he asks, genuinely confused. There’s blood everywhere. Dark smears cling to Bucky’s fingernails, streak his knuckles, paint the cuffs of his neck and the hem of his shirt. It’s splattered across the mattress now, too. Everywhere but his face. His face is perfectly clean. The stubble he had earlier is gone, skin smooth as if freshly shaved. The nurse’s warning echoes in Steve’s ears. “There’s blood all over you,” Steve manages, pulse hammering. “Are you bleeding?” Bucky glances down. “Oh,” he lifts his chin again, meeting Steve’s eyes with easy calm. “My nose was bleeding.” “Your nose?” Steve echoes, voice tight. “Are… are you okay?” “Jesus, Steve,” Bucky groans, flopping onto his back with a thump. His eyes squeeze shut. “Stop asking me that. You almost sound like Ma.” “Sorry… I’m just worried about you—” “You don’t need to worry,” Bucky interrupts, opening his eyes again. He smiles. “I’m good as new.” Steve just nods. He doesn’t trust his voice anymore. Doesn’t know what else there is to say. When Bucky finally closes his eyes, Steve stays exactly where he is. Sleep refuses to come. So he keeps his eyes open. He watches. Bucky doesn’t toss or turn the way he used to. He doesn’t twitch or mumble like he did back home after too many long shifts at the docks. He lies perfectly still. Unnaturally still. And the metallic tang of blood hangs in the air between them. Steve stares at the rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. Counts each slow movement. He’s terrified to lose track of a single breath. — “And then he stole the teacher’s bag and dumped the whole thing in the river so we wouldn’t have to take that damn test,” Dum Dum, because that’s apparently what everyone calls him, snickers. “Lookin’ back, that lad was a real devil. Man, I miss him.” Morning light pours through the gaps in the barn walls as the men cluster around the long makeshift tables, shoveling down breakfast because they haven’t eaten in days. They laugh hard at Dum Dum’s retelling of childhood crimes. Steve laughs too, automatically. But his mind is somewhere else. Across from him, Bucky sits quiet. Not a word since he woke, unless it’s to laugh when everyone else does, or smile when a smile is required. He’s waiting with patience for Gabe to bring him a plate. No fidgeting. No complaining about the cold or the noise or how his bones ache after sleeping on a bad bed. Every so often, Bucky’s eyes flick toward him, catching Steve’s with a small grin. Different from all the others he’s been giving. Bucky also isn’t covered in blood anymore. The stains on his sweater cling stubbornly to the fabric, refusing to fade without a proper wash. His skin remains pale, and his lips look too pink in contrast. His pupil are still blown wide, swallowing the blue of his irises even in daylight. Steve keeps telling himself it’s just trauma. But everything in him screams that something is off. Finally, Gabe returns to the table, arms stacked with plates. Potatoes. Beans. Bread. Meat. Enough for half the group, it looks like. But he sets most of it directly in front of Bucky and only two plates for himself. Steve stares. That’s… a lot. Even for someone who said he was starving. But this is the kind of food Steve should be inhaling now that the serum has cranked his metabolism to impossible levels, not Bucky. “You really gonna eat all of that?” Gabe asks. “Jeez, Sarge, leave some for the rest of us, will ya?” Bucky huffs. “Hell, no. You try getting smooth-talked by some four-eyed Nazi doctor and then we’ll see how much you wanna eat.” Gabe snorts. “Fair enough.” Dum Dum starts in on another story, something about sneaking into the principal’s office, while Bucky waits, still as stone, eyes on his plate. He watches for when the laughter and attention shift away from him. And then he moves. It’s not eating. It’s devouring. He grabs fistfuls of food and shoves them into his mouth, meat, potatoes, beans all smeared together. No fork, no knife. His jaw works furiously, cheeks bulging. He doesn’t pause to chew properly. Doesn’t even seem to breathe. Grease and gravy smear across his lips and chin, drip down his wrists. The wet sounds of tearing and swallowing drown out Dum Dum’s words. Steve can’t even bring himself to look away. Bucky smacks his lips loudly, messily, like a child who’s never learned how to eat among other people. “That’s when we—“ Dum Dum’s voice cuts off. “That’s when we… uh…” His eyes widen. And suddenly, the entire table falls silent. One by one, heads turn. Everyone stares. Bucky stops eating. He lifts his gaze slowly, and looks back at them. A piece of meat slips from his fingers and lands on the table with a wet,heavy tap. “Buck…?” Steve mutters. His voice barely works. Bucky smiles. It’s a big one, bright and wide. Then he gulps down what’s in his mouth with a loud, wet swallow. “Whoops. Where are my manners?” He laughs, like this is all some harmless joke, and drags the sleeve of his stained shirt across his mouth and chin, smearing the mess instead of wiping it away. He picks up the fork and knife he ignored before and licks the metal clean with his tongue. “Sorry, gang,” he adds lightly. Bucky’s been apologizing a lot lately. For everything and nothing. Then, unexpectedly, Gabe reaches over and claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s head tilts, eyes flicking down to the hand like he’s not entirely sure what it’s doing there. “Sarge,” Gabe says with a lopsided grin, “what’s this? You tryin’ to catch a train?” The group bursts out laughing. “Look at him,” Dum Dum wheezes. “Half the food missed his damn mouth!” Jim snorts into his cup. “And using his shirt like a baby bib—hell, I must be seeing things.” Bucky darts a look around the table, wide-eyed, a little stunned. Then, almost as if he remembers how, he laughs. A real one this time. His cheeks flush a soft pink. He’s embarrassed. Somehow, that simple, normal reaction eases something tight inside Steve’s chest. It’s familiar. And it’s Bucky. He lets out a small laugh of his own, nudging Bucky’s knee gently beneath the table. He decides to ignore his best friend’s weird behavior. For now. — Three days later, Steve and the others end up in London. They’re celebrating their escape, their safety, and, uncomfortably enough, Steve’s heroics. The pub is loud, thick with smoke and laughter and the clatter of glasses. It’s everything Steve used to dream about being part of, before the serum. Before he became someone worth cheering for. And yet, it feels strange. Men clap him on the back like they’ve known him forever. Women glance over the rims of their drinks with bold, appreciative looks that make his ears burn. He’s never been looked at like that before, never been looked at at all, if he’s honest. Not like something worth staring at. And the worst part? He sits there completely sober. Not even a hint of a buzz, no matter how many glasses get pressed into his hand. His body swallows alcohol like water now. So instead of celebrating, Steve mostly watches. He feels present, but not included. Like the whole world sees Captain America, but Steve is still sitting awkwardly in the corner, hands folded in his lap, unsure what any of this attention wants from him. Even with the noise and the attention, Steve finds himself looking forward to reuniting with Howard. With Phillips not so much. The Colonel barely hid his disappointment when Steve became a walking propaganda poster instead of a soldier. Steve supposes he’ll have to prove himself before Phillips ever looks at him and sees anything more than a kid who magically sprouted muscle overnight. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to do that yet. Peggy’s supposed to be here too. Every few minutes, his eyes flick toward the door, hopeful. Nervous. He likes her. More than he’s used to liking anyone. But talking to her feels like jumping off a rooftop. He’s not sure if he’ll fly or crash through the pavement. Punching bullies is easy. Flirting with the most capable woman he’s ever met? Not so much. And maybe, if he’s honest, it would be good for him to try. To move on Because even now, even after many years, Steve’s heart still pulls toward Bucky. It always has. He never said a word about it, not out of fear Bucky would push him away, because Bucky would never do that. No, Steve’s terrified of ruining the one perfect thing he’s ever had. Besides, Bucky’s interest has always been loud and obvious, just never for him. Women fall for Bucky the moment he smiles at them. Steve has watched it his whole life, pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending he doesn’t wish, just once, Bucky would look at him the way he looks at them. So Steve keeps his mouth shut and hopes that loving Peggy could be easier. Or at least… less impossible. Steve catches movement at the corner of his eye. Bucky’s weaving through the crowd with an empty glass in his hand, a cocky smirk tugging at his lip. “Hey there,” he says. “Enjoying yourself?” Steve can’t help returning the smile. It happens automatically around Bucky.“Yeah,” he says. A harmless lie. “I always enjoy myself with you around.” Bucky raises both brows. “Woah, woah. Save the flirtation for the gals. No need to waste that charm on me anymore.” Steve feels his cheeks go warm. Before he can stammer out a reply, Bucky jerks his chin toward the bar. “Come on. Walk me over? This glass ain’t gonna refill itself.” “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Steve asks as he gets up. Then they near the bar. “Hell, no. Night’s young.” Steve huffs a laugh. “Alright. But I’m not carrying your drunk ass outta here.” Bucky just chuckles in response. They squeeze between bodies and reach a patch of bar that isn’t already flooded by people. Bucky sets his empty glass down with a little tap. “One more scotch on ice,” he says to the bartender. “Give me the most throat-burning you got.” The bartender nods and disappears with the glass. Steve’s eyebrows pinch together. That’s… new. Bucky always liked his drinks smooth. Cheap, sure, but smooth. Bucky catches the look. His grin spreads lazy and lopsided. “I like the burn.” “Since when?” “No idea. But I like it.” Bucky stares at the counter for a moment, focused, before suddenly lunging forward to grab a fistful of peanuts from the bowl. He shoves the entire handful into his mouth. No hesitation. The crunch is loud,even with his mouth closed. Bits of peanut spill from his lips and scatter across the counter, peppering the floor. Steve watches him chew like a man who hasn’t eaten in weeks. Except Bucky has been eating. Constantly. Anything he can get his hands on. Always with that same line: Starving. Steve tells himself not to worry. That Bucky’s earned the right to be messy or unsure or ravenous if that’s what helps him cope with what happened to him. But the truth sits heavy: this isn’t normal. Not at all. This morning was proof enough. Dum Dum and Gabe lit cigarettes the second they hit London ground, rules be damned. Steve stood beside them, inhaling the secondhand drift with lungs that finally worked, though he still doesn’t dare try smoking himself. They’d offered Bucky one too. He’d taken it. Lit it. Dragged deep. No cough. Not even a twitch. And Bucky always coughed. He’d choke and laugh and wheeze every time he tried to look cool with a cigarette. Not this time. He’d held the smoke in for so long Dum Dum had to remind him to exhale. When he finally did, the smoke poured from his nose like something feral. Then Bucky just stared at the cigarette with a wrinkle of his nose and said he didn’t like it. The bartender comes back and sets the freshly poured scotch down with a soft clink, snapping Steve out of the spiral in his head. Bucky’s eyes light up like a kid handed candy. “Thanks,” he says, already curling his fingers around the glass. He doesn’t sip. He tilts his head back and drains the entire glass in one go. Steve barely has time to blink before the liquid is gone. The large cube of ice slide against Bucky’s teeth, and then disappears behind his lips before he bites down. The crunch is violent and his jaw flexes as he grinds the ice to nothing. Steve swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper. “Buck,” he starts quietly, “what did Zola—“ “Captain.” Both men turn. Peggy stands there, smiling up at Steve, purse tucked neatly in one hand. Her eyes flick briefly to Bucky, curious, before returning to Steve. Her dress is deep red, hugging her hips effortlessly. The matching lipstick, the perfectly done hair, the heels that bring her nearer to Steve’s height. She looks beautiful. “Peggy,” Steve breathes. “You made it.” “Of course.” Her voice is warm. “Did you think I’d miss your big celebration? Congratulations on your first mission.” Steve’s smile comes a little awkward and earnest. “Thank you.” Peggy’s grin softens before her attention flicks back to Bucky. “And who’s your friend?” “This is Bucky,” Steve says. “Sergeant Barnes.” “Ah, the infamous Bucky.” Peggy lifts her hand and offers it to him. “I’ve heard a great deal. I’m Agent Carter. It’s a pleasure.” Bucky flashes her a grin as he shakes her hand. “Pleasure’s mine, ma’am. Though I can’t exactly return the sentiment.” He jerks his head toward Steve. “This guy hasn’t told me a single thing about you.” Steve’s cheeks heat instantly. “I—uh, we—the topic didn’t really come up…” Peggy’s laugh is soft. “Oh, relax, Steve. Your priorities are exactly where they should be. That’s admirable.” Steve looks to Bucky, expecting him to tease, but his smile is gone. His expression wiped clean in a heartbeat. Blank. Watching. Peggy smooths the skirt of her dress with a swipe. “Well, then,” she says, eyes flicking between them. “I’ll leave you two to it. Enjoy the celebration. We’ll catch up soon, Captain.” She gives Steve one last sly, half-lidded look before slipping into the crowd, red dress vanishing among uniforms. Bucky doesn’t watch her leave. His eyes stay locked on Steve. Steve clears his throat, fingers brushing awkwardly at the collar of his uniform. Smooth. Really smooth. “An English gal, huh?” Bucky says at last. “Didn’t take you long.” “Didn’t take me long… for what?” Bucky scoffs, a humorless puff of air. “Oh, come on. The way you were looking at her? There’s clearly something going on.” Steve’s heart kicks once, uncomfortable. “No. There’s nothing going on. Not yet, at least. I mean, maybe—” “So you do like her.” Bucky’s voice cuts clean and cold,no hint of teasing. “Are you going to leave me for her?” Steve jerks back, confused. “…Leave you? Buck, what are you talking about?” “Answer my question.” “How am I supposed to answer a question that doesn’t make sense? What does that even mean?” Bucky steps in, close enough that Steve can feel the cold radiating off him. His voice drops, a strange mix of pleading and certainty. “I just want to stay by your side. Like you promised.” Steve flicks a glance toward the bartender, busy and unaware, because something in him is telling him this isn’t going to end well. “Buck, you’re being ridiculous. Stop acting like a—“ “I’m in love with you, Steve.” Steve freezes. …did he just hear that right? For a moment, the entire bar falls away. No people laughing, no music, no clinking of glasses. Not because of what Bucky said, God knows every part of him has wanted to hear those words for years, but because of how he says it. Blank-faced. Emotionless. Dull. He’s saying it like the words don’t mean anything. Like love is a fact, not a feeling. Steve’s pulse hammers against his ribs. “You… you can’t say that here.” Bucky’s head tips to the side, like he’s trying to understand why Steve isn’t smiling. His pupils are blown wide, a thin ring of blue barely visible. “Why not? It’s true.” Steve looks around, not just for eavesdroppers, but for escape routes. “Because,” he whispers, leaning in, “you could get yourself thrown out of the army. Or worse.” “I don’t care.” Bucky’s voice is stubborn. “I’m done pretending. I’ve spent my whole life covering up what I feel. And now I know exactly what I want.” His fingers brush Steve’s sleeve. “I want you. And I’m not letting her take you from me. You’re supposed to be with— Steve slaps a hand over Bucky’s mouth before the words can go any further. “Buck, enough,” he hisses. He can’t yell. He can’t panic. He can’t let anyone hear this. Acting fast, Steve grabs Bucky by the arm, firm but careful, and pulls him toward the door. Bucky’s boots drag against the floor. He doesn’t fight, but he’s not helping either. He just lets himself be hauled along. They push out of the warmth and noise of the pub into the cool London night. Once they’re tucked behind the building, Steve finally releases Bucky’s arm. Bucky doesn’t move. He just stands there with his back to the wall, eyes locked on Steve. Steve fists his hands at his sides. He wants to sigh. He wants to shake him. He wants to kiss him. All three are terrible ideas. “Do you think this is funny?” Steve asks, voice tight. “Steve, I’m not joking!” Steve’s heart flutters, hope flaring so fast it almost hurts. “So you’re—you’re serious? You’re in love with me? Just like that?” Bucky shakes his head. “Not just like that. Not out of nowhere. I’ve always felt this way about you. And I was too much of a coward to say it. And if that makes me a queer, then so be it. I don’t care what anyone calls me anymore.” Then, suddenly, Bucky leans into him. His arms wrap tight around Steve’s waist, cheek pressing against the center of his chest. Steve stiffens in surprise, staring down at the dark hair beneath his chin. “Oh, Steve,” Bucky murmurs, voice strangely dreamy. “Please don’t tell me he waited too long. He’d never forgive himself.” Steve’s brow knits. “He?” Bucky’s body tenses a little before he pulls back enough to look up at Steve. His smile is quick. “Me,” he corrects. “I’d never forgive myself. That’s what I meant.” “You’re not too late, Buck. It’s just… complicated. I spent years trying to make myself stop feeling this way because I thought you didn’t. And now you’re—dropping this on me like a grenade and I don’t know what to do with that.” Bucky’s smile turns into a lazy smirk, and something hungry sparks behind his too-wide pupils. “I know. I… might have an idea.” “You do?” Bucky nods. “Close your eyes.” “Uh—” “Just do it,” Bucky urges. “For me.” Steve’s pulse rings in his ears. He hesitates, and then shuts his eyes. It feels unreal. All of it. The uniform. The strength in his bones. The fact that he’s no longer the sick kid who couldn’t keep up. The fact that the man he’s loved in silence for years is suddenly here, asking him to want back. Dreams aren’t supposed to come true like this. Cold lips press against his. Cold like snow against bare skin, and yet Steve wants to lean into it, chase it deeper. The kiss is slow, but not unsure. Bucky doesn’t tremble or falter. His hands stay perfectly still around Steve’s waist. It’s a kiss, but there’s something strangely… absent to it. Steve ignores the flicker of unease that tries to crawl up his spine. His face burns. His fingers twitch uselessly, wanting to hold on and not knowing where. When Bucky finally pulls back, Steve opens his eyes. Bucky is staring and that hunger is still there. Not romantic yearning, something far more dangerous. And yet Steve’s heart feels like it might burst. Steve’s throat works around a thick swallow. “Buck…” “That was nice, right?” Bucky asks, but his usual swagger doesn’t quite reach his voice. “When we’re back at the boarding house,” he murmurs, voice low and secretive, “come to my room. I’ve got a surprise for you.” “A… a surprise?” Bucky nods once, slow, like a predator tracking prey. “Don’t get caught.” — Steve waits until the last light under the doors goes dark and the corridor falls silent. His palms are damp, pulse loud in his ears, and he’s still telling himself this is just two friends spending time together when the door cracks open. Bucky doesn’t speak. He just fists Steve’s collar, yanks him inside, and kicks the door shut behind them. One hard shove and Steve’s back slams against the wood. Bucky’s mouth is on him before he can do anything. It’s messy from the first second. Bucky kisses like he’s been holding it in for years. His lips are still cold, but his tongue is hot, shoving past Steve’s teeth. His tongue strokes messy and possessive, curling against Steve’s, retreating, plunging back in, until Steve’s moaning into it without meaning to, hips jerking forward on instinct. There’s too much spit. Too much teeth. Bucky bites Steve’s lower lip hard enough to make him gasp, then soothes it with a rough swipe of tongue that only makes Steve dizzier. The kiss is so sloppy spit I already drooling down Steve’s chin. He’s ever kissed anyone before, not like this, not ever. But… he can tell Bucky hasn’t either. It shows in the way Bucky’s tongue keeps missing the rhythm, in the little frustrated growl he makes when Steve’s mouth doesn’t open fast enough. It shows in how Bucky presses up against him, thigh shoving between Steve’s legs like he can’t get close enough. Steve whines, and the sound seems to snap something in Bucky. He grinds forward, hard, letting Steve feel exactly how much he wants this. Steve’s own cock throbs once, and he can’t stop his hips from rolling back, chasing friction. Bucky pulls back just far enough to let Steve breathe. His tongue slides slow from Steve’s mouth, dragging along his lower lip, then down the line of his jaw until he reachs Steve’s throat. A long, wet stripe, hot and filthy, gathering the spit that’s already on Steve’s skin. When he gets to the hollow beneath Steve’s ear, he bites, teeth sinking in. Steve’s head thumps back against the door, a broken sound catching in his throat. Only then does Bucky step away, one single step, enough to put space between them but not enough to break the heat. His eyes stay locked on Steve’s, dark and half-lidded, as his fingers move to the buttons of his uniform jacket. One by one they slip free. The jacket parts. He’s bare underneath. Has been all night, apparently, shirtless under fabric while they drank and laughed with the rest like nothing was wrong. The jacket hits the floor with a soft thud. And Steve can’t help it. Hi gaze drops. The hole in his chest is gone. In its place is a thick, angry scar, raised and red, spreading wide across his sternum like spilled wax. It devours half his left pec, crawls over the nipple until the dark bud is half-buried in scar tissue. The edges glow faintly, just a whisper of blue beneath the skin. It moves. A slow, living throb, like something under the scar is breathing. It looks unusual. And it makes Steve’s stomach twist. His voice comes out thick. “Buck… your chest. What is that?” Bucky’s eyes flick down to the scar like he’s only just remembering it’s there, then back up to Steve. “It’s a scar. Guess I’m healing,” he says simply. “Wanna touch it?” “I… don’t know. Looks like it hurts.” “It does,” Bucky says, voice dropping low. “Hurts in the best way possible.” Before Steve can answer, Bucky snatches his wrist and drags Steve’s hand up between them. Steve doesn’t pull away. He lets Bucky move him,breath catching as his fingertips brush the raised edge of the scar. The first touch is a shock. It’s searing, hotter than fever, hotter than skin has any right to be, while the rest of Bucky stays cold. Steve’s index and middle finger settle on the ridge of red tissue, and the scar pulses under them like it’s alive, like it knows he’s there. A low throb. Bucky’s eyes flutter shut, a rough exhale punching out of him. Emboldened, or maybe just helpless, Steve spreads his hand wider, palm flattening over the whole thing. The heat sinks into him immediately, branding, almost painful. “Jesus,” Steve breathes. “Come on. Harder,” Bucky demands. “Harder?” “Yeah,” Bucky rasps, eyes blown wide. “Harder. Press against it with your fingers. Dig in.” Steve hesitates only a second, then obeys. He curls his fingers, presses the pads of them hard into the center of the scar. A thick, greedy throb slams against Steve’s palm. Bucky’s head snaps back, a moan ripping out of his throat. His hips jerk forward again, grinding shamelessly against Steve’s. “Fuck,” Bucky gasps. “Just like that—don’t stop.” Steve digs harder, almost cruel, fingertips sinking into the raised flesh until the scar yields, soft and wrong and burning. The blue under the red flares brighter, spidering out in thin veins that pulse in time with the beat under Steve’s hand. Bucky’s whole body shudders, knees buckling for a second before he locks them again. When Steve looks down, his mouths falls open. Bucky’s pants are tented tight, the thick ridge of his cock straining against the fabric so hard the buttons look ready to pop. It wasn’t like that a minute ago. His fingers jerk against the scar, pressure easing. Bucky is getting off on this. On pain. On Steve hurting him. The realization twists hot and uneasy in his gut. He wants Bucky, God, he wants him so bad his own cock is probably leaking already and his hands shake, but… this feels weird. Bucky notices the hesitation instantly. His eyes snap open. “Hey,” he says, soft. “What’s wrong?” His hand settles over Steve’s, not trapping, just resting there “keep going.” “I don’t wanna do it like this.” Steve pulls his hand free. Bucky doesn’t grab, doesn’t cling, but his gaze follows the retreat like a starving man. “Can we… can we do something else?” For a second Bucky’s face flickers, disappointed, lost, then it smooths into a smirk. “Anything you want, Steve. Been dying for this. For you. For any way you’ll let me have you.” Bucky’s hands move to Steve’s jacket, working each button free with the same unhurried care he used on his own. Steve’s chest rises and falls too fast, the jacket parting inch by inch until Bucky pushes it off his shoulders. Steve shrugs it the rest of the way down his arms and lets it drop. Then Steve grabs the hem of his undershirt, yanks it up over his head. The cool air hits his skin, but Bucky’s gaze hits harder. Bucky just stares, eyes tracking over the wide shoulders, the carved lines of muscle that weren’t there weeks ago. A slow, wondering smile curves Bucky’s mouth, like he’s seeing Steve for the first time all over again. Steve flushes hot, but before he can get self-conscious, Bucky’s already moving. He catches Steve’s wrist, and walks backward, guiding him toward the bed without ever breaking eye contact. One smooth pivot and a firm push, and Steve’s ass hits the mattress with a creak of old springs. Bucky doesn’t give him time to settle. He unbuckles his belt, thumbs hooking into waistband and briefs together. One push and everything slides down his legs. His cock springs free, flushed and thick, slapping softly against his stomach. A thin, glistening strand of pre-cum stretches from the fat tip to the discarded briefs before it breaks. He glances down at himself like he’s surprised by what he sees, like the hard, leaking length bobbing against his belly is brand-new. His hand hover, hesitant, then drops away. When he looks back up at Steve, his eyes are huge, a faint flush riding high on his cheekbones. And when Bucky steps closer, Steve stops him. “Wait,” he blurts. “Wait a minute, Buck, I—” Bucky freezes instantly. “What? What is it?” The words come out small, mixed nerves and want. “I… I’ve never done this before. Never. Don’t got any experience at all. I might not know what I’m doing, and I… I don’t really know how it works, doing it with a fella…” Bucky lets out a fond chuckle. “Aw, Steve, that’s okay. You just lie back.” He nudges Steve down onto the creaking mattress with one hand between his pecs. “Let me take care of you.” “That sounds… great,” Steve breathes, dazed, head already spinning. Bucky climbs onto the bed before his fingers drop to Steve’s belt, metal buckle clinking open fast. He yanks it free of the loops and tosses it over his shoulder. “Um, have you done this before?” Steve asks, voice small, curious, worried he’s about to be shown up by someone who actually knows what he’s doing. “Nah,” Bucky says. He pops the buttons on Steve’s fly. “But I’ve read about it somewhere before.” “Really? Where?” Bucky pauses, just a second, eyes flicking to the side like he’s trying to pull the memory from somewhere. Then he shrugs and grins down at Steve again. “Don’t remember. But I know what I’m doing.” He leans in, mouth brushing Steve’s ear. “I know exactly what I want to do to you.” His hand slips inside Steve’s open fly, palm cupping the hard line of Steve’s cock through damp fabric , and Steve’s hips jerk up into the touch before he can stop himself. “Trust me?” Bucky whispers. Steve’s answer is a broken, desperate nod and mumbles, “Yeah. God, yeah.” Bucky goes on and hooks his fingers under the waistband of Steve’s pants and briefs and drags them down in one tug. Steve lifts his hips to help, breath hitching as his cock gets freed, flushed and leaking, a bead of pre-cum sliding down the head. Bucky’s eyes go dark. He wraps his very cold hand around Steve’s shaft and gives one slow, experimental stroke. Steve’s hips buck off the mattress, a strangled sound tearing out of him. Bucky watches, fascinated, like he can’t believe the way Steve’s cock jerks and throbs in his grip, another fat drop of pre-cum welling up under his thumb as he smears it over the head. He leans down, licks his lips once, twice, and then opens his mouth and sinks down. The first wet heat of Bucky’s mouth closing around the head punches the air right out of Steve’s lungs. He claws at the sheets, forcing himself not to thrust up and choke him. Bucky hums, eyes fluttering shut as he takes more, sliding down until half of Steve’s length is buried in his mouth, tongue pressing flat and hot along the underside. Then he starts to move. Slow at first, savoring, cheeks hollowing as he pulls back, lips sealed tight, then sinking down again, deeper this time. His lashes rest against his cheekbones like he’s lost in it. “Oh my God—“ Steve moans as his head thrashes into the pillow. Bucky’s hand settles on Steve’s hip, pinning him gently, and he picks up the rhythm with steady pulls of his mouth, tongue swirling around the head every time he comes up, then taking him deep again until Steve feels the back of Bucky’s throat flutter around him. No gag. Not even a flinch. Spit slicks Steve’s cock, pools warm at the base, and Bucky just groans around him like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He takes Steve apart with every bob of his head, every wet pull, every perfect swirl of tongue, like he’s done this a thousand times before. Bucky pulls off with a slow drag of his lips, the wet pop loud in the quiet room. “You—fuck, you taste so good.” He grins, lazy and wrecked. Then he grabs Steve’s cock by the head and drags his tongue up Steve’s length in one long lick from base to tip. “Hot and thick,” he murmurs against the head. “Meaty. Just how I like it.” Steve’s head jerks off the pillow, eyes wide. Meaty? The word lands strange and off, like it doesn’t belong in Bucky’s mouth at all. Something cold flickers down his spine even while his cock gives a weak, confused twitch. But he decides to ignore it. He’s too horny. “Buck,” Steve whines, the sound desperate, thighs trembling. “Keep going. Please.” Bucky licks another slow stripe up the underside of Steve’s cock, then pulls back with a wicked little grin. “You’re cute when you beg like this. But no can do. Can’t wait any longer. Want you inside me. Now.” He rises up on his knees, swinging a leg over until he’s straddling Steve’s hips. The mattress creaks under them, but Bucky doesn’t seem to care. He plants his hands on Steve’s chest and settles his weight, and Bucky’s heavier than he should be, like something dense and solid. Bucky looks down at him, smug and eyes half-lidded, and rolls his hips back. Steve’s cock slides hot along the cleft of Bucky’s ass, trapped between them, both of them twitching hard at the contact. Steve’s brain finally catches up. “Are we… just gonna do it like this? No protection?” “I got nothing on me. Besides, raw feels the best. You’ll see.” “You sure…?” Bucky only answers by reaching back, wrapping his cold fingers around Steve’s cock and lining him up. The blunt head nudges against tight heat, and Bucky’s breath hitches. Steve braces, breath held, expecting resistance, friction, maybe even pain. Instead the blunt crown kisses heat… and slides off again, skidding up the cleft of Bucky’s ass. Bucky frowns. He shifts his hips,tries again. Same thing. The head catches for one second, then slips away, like something’s refusing to let him in. A third time. Fourth. Each tease of pressure followed by nothing is its own special hell. Steve’s cock is aching, leaking, jumping against Bucky’s skin every time it almost happens. “You’re killing me here,” Steve groans, hips twitching helplessly. “Ah, shit,” Bucky growls under his breath, irritation flickering across his face like he’s mad at his own body for not cooperating. “Hold on. Gimme your hand.” Steve pushes up on one elbow, Bucky’s weight settling heavier in his lap as the back of Steve’s head taps the wall. Bucky snatches Steve’s right hand, brings it straight to his mouth, and slides two fingers past his lips without breaking eye contact. He takes them deep, right to the knuckles, in one smooth glide. His tongue slips hot and wet between them, curling, stroking, coating every inch in spit. Those eyes stay locked on Steve’s the whole time, unblinking, hungry. He sucks hard, then drags his teeth gently along the pads of Steve’s fingers before letting them pop free. “There we go,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. He guides Steve’s slick fingers down between them, presses them right against the hole that keeps dodging Steve’s cock. “Now push in. Open me up properly. Curl ‘em. Spread ‘em. I’ll help.” Steve nods, too far gone to speak, and Bucky rocks back at the exact same moment Steve presses forward. Two fingers slip inside with almost no resistance, just a hot, greedy clutch that sucks them deeper. Yeah, it’s tight. God, so tight his fingers feel squeezed in a fist, but it’s wrong too. It’s wet. Not just spit-wet from Bucky’s mouth; there’s slick coating his fingers the second they breach, warm and thick and too much, like Bucky’s body is making it, dripping for him. Steve’s knuckles glide in easy, swallowed up in heat that pulse and ripples around him. “More,” Bucky pants. “Curl ’em. Right there—” Steve obeys on instinct, crooking his fingers, searching. The second he finds his prostate Bucky jolts like he’s been shocked, a sharp moan ripping out of him that he barely muffles against Steve’s shoulder. The slick keeps coming. It’s dripping down Steve’s wrist now, coating his palm. Steve’s brain trips over it. It’s too wet. Too easy. This isn’t normal. But Bucky’s rolling his hips, riding Steve’s hand, and the thought slips away under the sound of Bucky moaning his name. “Another,” Bucky breathes against his neck, teeth scraping skin. “Give me three. Need you to stretch me so I can take that fat cock.” Steve slides the third finger in alongside the first two and starts to pump. Slow drags out, hard thrusts back in. “You—” Steve’s voice cracks, “I’ve never heard you talk like this before. It’s… downright filthy.” Bucky chuckles, breathless and wrecked, throat working as he rides Steve’s hand harder. A drop of pre-cum beads at his slit, stretches in a long silver thread, and finally snaps, splattering across Steve’s stomach. “Not so charming now, am I?” Bucky pants. “No,” Steve breathes, twisting his fingers just to watch Bucky’s hips stutter, “but hot as hell.” Steve crooks his fingers for one last deep thrust, but Bucky suddenly lifts his hips, sliding free with a obscene sound. Steve blinks up at him, confused, hand still hanging in the air, fingers shiny and dripping. Bucky doesn’t speak. He just grabs Steve’s cock again, lines it up, and presses the blunt head right against his loosened hole. And this time it catches. The crown slips past Bucky’s rim, and Steve’s breath punches out of him, stomach pulling tight, ribs flaring. Before he can even adjust, Bucky drops. One brutal drop of his hips and he takes Steve to the hilt in a single stroke. Steve’s moan rips out loud, cut off only when his head cracks back against the wall. Bucky’s hand is there instantly, palm slamming over Steve’s mouth, fingers digging into his cheek. Those glassy, dazed eyes bore into Steve’s, pupils blown so wide the blue is just a thin ring again. “Be quiet,” Bucky hisses, voice trembling with effort, but his hips are already rolling, grinding down hard like he can’t help it. Inside he’s molten, slicker than anything Steve’s ever felt, walls fluttering and squeezing. Steve’s muffled cry vibrates against Bucky’s palm. His hands fly to Bucky’s hips, his grip firm but still careful enough. Bucky stays buried to the hilt. He becomes perfectly still except for his twitching thighs, letting Steve feel every inch of heat and slick and the impossible clutch of his body. Steve’s gaze drops helplessly. Bucky’s cock is leaking in steady pulses now, clear strands stretching and breaking across Steve’s stomach. Lower, where they’re joined, Steve can see the bulge of his own cock pressing outward against the skin of Bucky’s belly. The sight alone drags a strangled noise from Steve’s throat, muffled against Bucky’s palm. Bucky’s eyes flutter shut, head tipping sideways like he’s drunk on it. Then his free hand clamps down on Steve’s shoulder fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks even through tough skin. Finally, he starts moving properly. Slow at first, just a roll of his hips, a lazy grind that drags Steve’s cock along his walls and makes the bulge in his stomach shift. His mouth stays open the whole time, silent gasps spilling out. Then the rhythm changes. Bucky lifts, thighs flexing, until only the head of Steve’s cock is still inside, then slams back down hard. The mattres creaks. Steve’s balls slap against Bucky’s ass. Again. Again. Faster, rougher, Bucky riding him like he’s trying to drive Steve straight through the mattress and into the floor. The bulge in Bucky’s stomach jumps with every thrust. “Oh, fuck,” Bucky gasps, voice cracking as he slams down again. “This is—so good!” His hand slips from Steve’s mouth only to crash their lips together, a messy, open-mouthed kiss, tongues sliding. Bucky keeps riding him hard the whole time, hips rolling, grinding, never slowing. When they break apart, a thin thread of spit stretches between them, snaps, leaves both their mouths wet and gasping. Steve bites down hard on his own lower lip because the walls are paper-thin and the Howlies are twenty feet away. He just got into this man’s army. He is not letting tomorrow morning’s gossip be about how Captain America got caught getting fucked senseless by his sergeant. The brutal rhythm keeps going. And Steve’s hips jerk on pure reflex, then freeze. The sharp sting of blood is unmistakable, thick and metallic in the air. His gaze drops, and his stomach twists almost painfully. Every time Bucky lifts up, Steve’s cock comes out streaked dark red, shining wet in the dim light before it disappears again into that greedy, clutching heat. It’s smeared down his shaft, smeared across Bucky’s rim, dripping in thin rivulets onto Steve’s balls. Bucky’s bleeding. Badly. “Buck—Bucky, stop,” Steve’s voice cracks with panic. His hands clamp hard on Bucky’s hips, fingers digging in, trying to still the rhythm. “You’re bleeding! You’re hurt—” Bucky’s head snaps down, eyes following Steve’s gaze. For a second he just stares at the mess between them. Then he looks back up. “It’s okay, Steve,” he says, soft, soothing. “It’s okay.” “It’s not okay!” Steve hisses, gripping tighter, trying to lift Bucky off. “You’re torn, Buck, we gotta stop!” Bucky’s hands move fast. One second Steve’s fingers are digging into his hips, the next they’re wrenched away and slammed against the wall on either side of Steve’s head. Steve jerks, startled, and tries to pull free on pure reflex. Nothing happens. Bucky’s grip doesn’t even budge. It feels like steel cables cinched around his wrists, cold and unbreakable. Steve’s serum strong arms strain once, twice, and still don’t move an inch. Bucky’s face hovers inches above his, beautiful, but wrong. The playful, wrecked warmth is gone. “Shut up,” Bucky says, voice dipping, flat and cold, nothing like Steve’s ever heard before. “Let me finish.” Steve’s mouth opens, then closes. The smell of blood is thick now, metallic and warm, coating them both. Bucky shifts his hips in one grind, forcing Steve’s cock deeper into that bleeding heat, and Steve can’t swallow the broken sound that tears out of him. He releases Steve’s left wrist, but the right stays pinned to the wall. Steve doesn’t even try to move it anymore. He just watches, wide-eyed, heart hammering against his ribs. Bucky’s freed hand slides up his own torso, until two fingers find the thick red scar over his heart. He presses hard, digs in deep, nails sinking into the raised flesh like he’s trying to claw something out. The reaction is immediate. His head snaps back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. The scar pulses, the faint blue beneath flaring brighter. Inside, his walls clamp down on Steve’s cock so tight Steve sees stars, a vicious, milking squeeze. “Yes,” Bucky rasps, voice shaking, eyes rolling back. He grinds down harder, riding Steve with short thrusts. “Right there, yeah, hurts so good—” Steve’s freed hand twitches, wanting to reach, to stop him, to pull those fingers away from the scar, but his body won’t cooperate. Bucky’s using the pain like fuel, like every twist of his own fingers drive him higher, makes him ride Steve faster and rougher. Another hard dig into the scar and Bucky’s whole body locks up, back arching. His inner muscles ripple again, greedy, demanding, and Steve’s hips jerk up into him. Bucky comes a lot. Thick ropes of cum stripe across Steve’s stomach, hot and heavy, more than any man should be able to give. It just keeps coming, pulse after pulse, splattering up to Steve’s chest. Bucky’s cock jerks untouched between them, angry red and still leaking even after the last shudder. His fingers are still buried in the scar, blood now seeping between them. And when the last spasm fades, he pulls them free. They come away bloody. Bucky bring them to his mouth and slides both fingers past his lips, cheeks hollowing while he sucks them clean. “Are you close?” Bucky asks, voice husky and wrong, smile sly. Steve doesn’t want to answer. He knows he shouldn’t. But the words drag themselves out anyway. “Yeah.” Bucky’s eyes flash blacker, pleased. “Good,” he purrs, rolling his hips. “Do it inside. Fill me up. Bet it feels amazing.” Steve’s pinned wrists slips free, but he doesn’t move. He can’t. His arms feel like lead, his whole body trembling under the weight of what just happened and what’s still happening. Even though Bucky’s own cock is softening, he keeps moving with rolls of his hips, grinding down. Then he leans down, tongue dragging flat and slow up Steve’s torso, lapping up the thick stripes of his own cum and Steve’s sweat. From the puddle just above Steve’s navel, up the ridges of his abs, over his sternum, until he reaches Steve’s chest. He circles a nipple with the flat of his tongue, then closes his teeth, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make Steve’s back arch off the bed. Steve’s vision tunnels. The heat, the slick, the impossible clench around his cock, Bucky’s weight pinning him, the smell of blood and sex thick in the air… it all crashes together. He comes with a choked, broken sound, hips jerking hard, spilling deep inside Bucky in long pulses. Bucky gasps against Steve’s nipple like he can taste it, inner walls rippling, milking every drop. Bucky stays seated until the very last pulse fades, until Steve’s spent cock gives one final, weak twitch inside him. Only then does he move. He braces both hands on Steve’s shoulders and lifts himself up.the slide is slow and wet. A thick mix of cum and blood follows, spilling from Bucky’s swollen rim in a warm, heavy rush that stripes across Steve’s thigh and pools on the sheet beneath them. Bucky’s legs shake like a newborn’s. He makes it halfway upright before they buckle completely. He collapses forward, chest slamming against Steve’s. Steve’s arms come up on pure reflex, catching him. “Careful,” he whispers, hands sliding over Bucky’s back. The skin there is cool. No sweat. No tremor of exertion. No rise and fall of breath against Steve’s throat. Nothing. Bucky is utterly still. Steve’s heart is still hammering, lungs working overtime even with the serum, but Bucky feels… empty. “Buck? You alright?” For a long second there’s nothing. Then an inhale against Steve’s skin. “Never better,” Bucky murmurs, lips brushing Steve’s pulse. His voice is soft again, almost sleepy. He nuzzles closer, arms sliding around Steve’s waist, scar pressed over Steve’s chest. “Got everything I wanted tonight.” “Yeah,” Steve manages quietly. “Me too.” But the unease sits heavy in his gut, refusing to budge. His eyes drift downward to the dark red stains smeared across the sheets. Then to the blood drying on his own thigh. “I know you gotta go back to your room,” Bucky murmurs. “But… can you stay? Just for a while. Feels nice. Being held like this.” “…Sure, Buck.” — After England, things change. Europe rolls by in fragments; frozen forests and mud soaked trenches. The Howlies set camp, pack up, fight, repeat. Weeks pass like days. Every morning is boots laced tight and weapons checked, night is the roar of artillery echoing in their bones. Steve learns fast. The shield Howard built for him turns out to be a gift and a weapon. He’s still figuring out angles, still missing the catch now and then. The trees and broken walls in their path have become practice partners. He’s improving, but every throw reminds him how new he is to being unstoppable. He doesn’t really feel unstoppable, though. Not when he has to make decisions that get people killed. He came into this war wanting too save everyone. But HYDRA doesn’t hesitate. They shoot to kill. They never surrender. Steve learned that the first night he hesitated. So he doesn’t hesitate anymore. He has to tell himself it’s to protect his men, and that makes it easier to breathe afterward. Over time, Steve notices a shift. Bucky’s weird behavior begins to dull. No more inappropriate table manners. No more blank stares toward the sky like he’s seeing it for the first time. Whatever HYDRA did to him, it seems to be healing. Slowly, unevenly, but healing. There’s something new, though. Something that doesn’t quite fit with the recovery Steve hoped for. Bucky’s… libido has grown. That’s the only word Steve can find for it. Touch seems to be the only thing he’s looking for, and he reaches for Steve constantly. An arm slung over his shoulders. Fingers curling his thigh. A hand smoothing up his spine like he’s checking to make sure Steve is still his. The others think it’s a joke. They tease Bucky when he whistles at Steve or leans in too close. They laugh when Bucky calls him handsome right in the middle of lunch like it’s nothing. Steve laughs too because it’s safer than telling the truth. Because every night Bucky can get him alone, his hands finds Steve before either of them speak. A sloppy make out session in front of the campfire when it’s their turn to watch the camp. A blowjob late at night after Bucky manages to sneak into Steve’s tent. A quick handjob out in the cold when they’re supposed to be improving their aim and moves. And Steve just… lets him. He doesn’t know if it’s trauma, or coping, or something else. He doesn’t know if it’s love blooming after years of pretending, or… something else. Sometimes, an ugly worry sneaks up on him. That maybe this sudden affection is less about Steve and more about the body he’s been given. He’s seen the way women look at him now, eyes tracking his shoulders, his jaw, the uniform stretched over muscle. Peggy hadn’t looked at him that way until after the procedure. Nobody had. So what about Bucky? If Bucky truly loves him, would he have confessed when Steve was still small and sick, lungs burning after a single flight of stairs? Would any of this have happened if Steve hadn’t become the version of himself the world finally finds worth noticing? He hates thinking it. Hates how unnecessary jealous and selfish it makes him feel. But sometimes, even with a war raging around them, that thought won’t leave him alone. Steve wipes the blood from his chin with the back of his glove,breath hot and ragged. One last HYDRA soldier tries to run. Steve lifts his pistol and fires. The man drops. Then silence. Another base gone. He scans the field quickly. Dum Dum’s laughing through bruises, fingers denting the cracked metal on his vest. Jim’s got a stab wound in his arm and a ruined lip, but Gabe’s already wrapping a bandage around him, murmuring something reassuring. Everyone’s standing. Everyone but— Where is Bucky? He turns in a slow circle. Nothing. Not even the glint of the rifle Bucky carries. He should be here. He should’ve come down from his perch by now, should be clapping Steve on the back and cracking some joke about how he still can’t catch his shield half the time. But his sniper nest is empty. Steve’s pulse claws up into his throat. “Bucky?” No response. Steve strides to the rest of the team. “Where’s Bucky? Anyone seen him?” “Haven’t seen him since the ambush,” Dum Dum says, tugging his mustache. “He should still be tucked away in that sniper nest of his. He definitely saved my ass back there.” Jim shakes his head. “No… I saw him move. He was chasing after one of the Hydra bastards trying to run.” He jerks his chin toward the dense trees beyond the wrecked compound. “They headed that way.” Dum Dum frowns. “Ya’ll think he’s alright?” Steve’s heart gives a painful kick. “You stay here,” he orders. “Gear up, take whatever weapons you can carry, just don’t leave until you hear from me. Understand?” All of them nod. Steve bolts. He sprints into the trees, mud kicking up behind his boots, lungs working in smooth, powerful bursts the serum blessed him with. But all that strength does nothing for the weight in his chest. Bucky chased someone. Alone. Is he out of his damn mind? Yes, Bucky’s a sergeant. Yes, he’s more than capable. Steve has seen him take down men twice his size long before Steve ever had muscles to speak of. But HYDRA isn’t some street gang in Brooklyn. HYDRA is what took him once already, what broke him in ways Steve still doesn’t understand. Branches smack against his shield as he pushes deeper into the woods. The smell hits next, sharp and metallic. Steve slows just enough to look down. Blood. A dark trail of it smeared across leaves and dirt. Fresh. His pulse thunders. It could be HYDRA’s. It could be Bucky’s. Both possibilities flood his veins with cold. He draws his pistol, steady hands, despite the storm brewing inside him. He checks the chamber with a thumb. Enough bullets to finish what he needs to finish. Then keeps running, following the blood. Then, deep enough into the trees, Steve hears it. Chewing. A wet, animal sound. Bone cracking. Flesh tearing. It doesn’t sound like any soldier finishing the job with a knife. It sounds like a wolf dragging its kill somewhere dark. He raises his shield automatically. If some wild animal thinks he’s dinner, it’s got another thing coming. The sounds get louder as he creeps forward. His eyes catch on a pair of boots sticking out from behind a thick trunk. Boots that look similar to Bucky’s. Lifeless. Still. “Damn it,” Steve mutters under his breath. He launches himself around the tree, ready for the worst. And unprepared for what he finds. A HYDRA soldier lies sprawled in a pool of his own gore,chest cavity torn wide. Bucky isn’t the one lying down. He’s crouched over the corpse. Eating it. His fingers sink into the dead man’s abdomen like he’s digging for gold. He pulls out something slick and red, strings of tissue stretching and snapping between knuckles. And then he shoves it into his mouth. Blood coats his chin, his throat, his uniform. It drips off him in rivulets, stains soaked into fabric. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t notice Steve. Doesn’t notice anything except the next piece of flesh he can tear free. Steve’s heart sinks into his gut. He can’t move. He can’t think. He can only watch his Bucky tear into a corpse like he’s starving. Like this is survival. Like this is completely normal. What the hell? “…Buck?” Steve whispers. Bucky’s head whips toward him so fast Steve hears a loud crack. The move is wrong. Too predatory. He freezes. Like an animal caught over a kill. A smear of blood glistens across his mouth when he swallows, throat working hard around whatever he just tore from the corpse. Then, slowly he rises to his full height, hands hanging limp at his sides, dripping red. He doesn’t speak. He just stares, like he’s trying to decide if Steve is prey too. Steve’s chest goes tight. He forces the words through a mouth gone dry. “What… what were you doing there?” The answer is all over the ground. All over Bucky. Bucky blinks once. Blood stains his teeth when he parts his lips. “Oh, Steve…” His voice cracks like a child’s on the verge of tears. “It’s all ruined now. And I worked so hard.” His fingers curl into trembling fists. “You weren’t supposed to see this.” Steve’s hand moves before his brain can stop it. He raises his pistol. The barrel points at the one person he swore to protect before he ever had a shield or a rank or a mission. He doesn’t recognize the man in front of him. And that’s what terrifies him most. Steve takes an instinctive step back. His heel catches on a root. “What are you talking—” “No,” Bucky blurts, and suddenly he sounds terrified. “Don’t go. Don’t go and tell the others. Don’t tell anyone. Please.” His breath hitches sharply. “They’ll take me away from you. I don’t want that.” Steve’s throat closes. His vision rims with black. His chest tightens like a fist around his lungs. He knows this feeling. He spent half his life trying not to crumble under it. He forces a breath. Then another. His hand shakes around the pistol so violently the barrel wavers between them. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Just air. Just panic clawing its way up his throat. And then, when the pistol in Steve’s hand doesn’t budge, Bucky’s expression changes. He moves. Fast. Steve barely has time to register the motion before instinct fires first. His finger squeezes the trigger. The gunshot cracks through the trees. The bullet hits Bucky square in the shoulder, Steve sees the impact, the jerk of muscle, but Bucky doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t feel it. He just launches himself forward. Steve hits the ground hard, the breath punched out of his lungs. His shield skitter from his arm as Bucky lands on top of him, knees pinning his hips, hands planted firmly over his chest. He’s trapped. He struggles, arms twisting, boots digging for leverage, but it’s useless. Bucky holds him down. His weight is solid. “Steve,” Bucky pants, eyes wide and wild, “I can explain. I can explain all of this. Just—just give me a second.” Steve shoves at him, voice cracking with fear. “Get the hell off of me!” Bucky’s grip tightens. His pupils swallow what remains of the blue in his irises until his eyes are nothing but bottomless, glossy black. Blood from his shoulder drips onto Steve’s collar, warm and slick. “I’m not your Bucky!” he shouts back. “I’m not James.” Steve trashes harder. “This—this isn’t funny! Let me go, Bucky!” “I’m not him,” Bucky insists. “He’s dead. He’s been dead since Austria. His heart stopped for seven minutes and ten seconds. Lungs collapsed. Brain starved. Gone.” “What…?” It’s barely a whisper. “No. No, that’s not true. I—I pulled you out. I saved you.” Bucky smiles, and there’s no warmth in it at all. “You saved a body,” he says brightly. “And I happened to need one. A vessel. It’s not my first. But…” His gaze sweeps over himself, admiring. “It’s the first human. And it’s the best one yet.” Tears sting hot behind Steve’s eyes. He bucks again, harder, but Bucky holds him down effortlessly, his hips rolling once. “I know everything about him,” Bucky murmurs like it’s sharing a secret. “Every fear. Every thought he never said out loud. He loved you so much. The shame was delicious. And I devoured it until nothing was left but this.” “What are you?” Steve chokes out. Bucky hums, tilting its head like a curious child. “Does it matter? All that matters is that I’m yours now. I love you, Steve. More than James ever got the chance to.” “Get out of him,” Steve growls, voice breaking. “Give him back.” “I can’t. He’s gone for good” “No. You’re lying. You—you stole his life!” “I preserved him,” Bucky corrects gently. “If I hadn’t climbed inside, he’d be rotting somewhere by now. But with me, he gets to stay. So please, let me stay. I can keep him alive for you. I can be him for you. No one else has to know.” Steve doesn’t speak. Everything crashes into Steve all at once. Rage. Grief. Nausea. Bucky’s been dead since… Austria? He doesn’t want to believe it, God, he can’t, but the evidence is dripping off the creature’s chin. So he wasn’t healing. Every strange moment makes sense now. Bucky’s weak pulse. His chest that barely ever rose. The hunger that never made sense. Skin always cold as a corpse. It was something else wearing him. Steve hadn’t saved Bucky that day. He’d only saved a body that wasn’t even his anymore. Steve’s breath fractures. He goes still beneath the creature’s weight, shield just out of reach, pistol useless in his slack hand. None of it was real. Not the confession. Not the warmth. Not even the sex. They weren’t Bucky’s moments. They were stolen imitations. The tears break free. Steve doesn’t fight. Doesn’t speak. He just lies there beneath the thing wearing Bucky’s face and mourns the man he lost long before he ever realized he was gone.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602121/chapters/197702311	{"authors": ["pissxcaca"], "language": "English", "title": "I’ll Eat You Last"}
Change Of Plans Pentatonix was blasting at max volume, the whole flat smelled like cookies and Celina was having the time of her life. No better way to spend your day off with baking and- A knock on the door caused her to flinch so badly, that she almost stumbled over the cookie tray she had sat down on the ground to cool off earlier. Now, that she made her way to the door, she realized that it may or may not have been a tripping hazard… Quickly, she turned down the music and peeked through the peephole, expecting a delivery driver- only to find Tim Bradford standing in front of her door, arms crossed, checking his watch impatiently. Immediately, Celina was on edge, looking around the room for anything the sergeants not supposed to see- she needed to calm down. After drawing Tim’s name at Secret Santa, she was horribly nervous about finding something even remotely close to Tim’s liking and she had already made up the worst scenarios of unfitting presents… But even if push came to shove, she was no longer a rookie, could not be fired out of shit and giggles and this was her’s and Lucy’s flat, where Tim had no say in anything. This was fine. After taking a deep breath - subconsciously - Celina opened the door, immediately babbling out what came into her mind. “Hi. Lucy’s not here. She’s at the station.”, she explained, hoping he’d go away but- “I know. That’s why I’m here.”, he simply stated before squeezing past her into the flat, leaving her flabbergasted. “Well uh… do you need something?”, she asked, awkwardly closing the door behind him. “Yes, I do actually. I need a favor.”, he said, sounding… strangely serious. “What’s going on?”, Celina asked, a bit worried now. Was this about the case they worked on some time ago, where Celina was supposed to vouch for a UC? Did something go wrong in hindsight? “I need you to get a present for Lucy. For me.” Or maybe it was about- “Sorry?” Even if she had tried, Celina really couldn’t contain her confusion. Why should she, Lucy’s roommate and best friend buy a present for her, so her boyfriend could give it to her? “I drew her name in Secret Santa and I’m absolutely clueless. So I thought you could help.” Celina cocked an eyebrow. That was unexpected. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay back the money.”, he assured as if that explained anything. “Uhm.. no offense but I’m more confused about you asking me to get a present for your girlfriend…”, she stated carefully and Tim sighed, puffing up his chest. “Yeah, and I get that. But Secret Santa was never my strong suit and I just don’t know what to give her without it being way too much or way too little. And you’re her best friend, so I thought that you… maybe had more of clue…”, he admitted and for a moment, Celina simply stood there. Had Tim Bradford seriously just admitted defeat? “Uhm… how about I don’t simply buy a present for you but help you?, Celina proposed a little more boldly, though still very careful as she felt like walking on thin ice despite Tim needing her help. “Yeah. I guess that’s alright too…”, he replied after yet another sigh. “Well then… let’s make a list of ideas. Do you want some cookies? They’re fresh out of the oven.”, Celina asked, ushering him towards the couch and following him after turning off the oven. “Uh… yeah sure.” This wasn’t quite the afternoon she was expecting, but if it gave Tim the needed creativity to find the right gift and therefore made Lucy happy… she could live with the change of plans.	Change Of Plans Pentatonix was blasting at max volume, the whole flat smelled like cookies and Celina was having the time of her life. No better way to spend your day off with baking and- A knock on the door caused her to flinch so badly, that she almost stumbled over the cookie tray she had sat down on the ground to cool off earlier. Now, that she made her way to the door, she realized that it may or may not have been a tripping hazard… Quickly, she turned down the music and peeked through the peephole, expecting a delivery driver- only to find Tim Bradford standing in front of her door, arms crossed, checking his watch impatiently. Immediately, Celina was on edge, looking around the room for anything the sergeants not supposed to see- she needed to calm down. After drawing Tim’s name at Secret Santa, she was horribly nervous about finding something even remotely close to Tim’s liking and she had already made up the worst scenarios of unfitting presents… But even if push came to shove, she was no longer a rookie, could not be fired out of shit and giggles and this was her’s and Lucy’s flat, where Tim had no say in anything. This was fine. After taking a deep breath - subconsciously - Celina opened the door, immediately babbling out what came into her mind. “Hi. Lucy’s not here. She’s at the station.”, she explained, hoping he’d go away but- “I know. That’s why I’m here.”, he simply stated before squeezing past her into the flat, leaving her flabbergasted. “Well uh… do you need something?”, she asked, awkwardly closing the door behind him. “Yes, I do actually. I need a favor.”, he said, sounding… strangely serious. “What’s going on?”, Celina asked, a bit worried now. Was this about the case they worked on some time ago, where Celina was supposed to vouch for a UC? Did something go wrong in hindsight? “I need you to get a present for Lucy. For me.” Or maybe it was about- “Sorry?” Even if she had tried, Celina really couldn’t contain her confusion. Why should she, Lucy’s roommate and best friend buy a present for her, so her boyfriend could give it to her? “I drew her name in Secret Santa and I’m absolutely clueless. So I thought you could help.” Celina cocked an eyebrow. That was unexpected. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay back the money.”, he assured as if that explained anything. “Uhm.. no offense but I’m more confused about you asking me to get a present for your girlfriend…”, she stated carefully and Tim sighed, puffing up his chest. “Yeah, and I get that. But Secret Santa was never my strong suit and I just don’t know what to give her without it being way too much or way too little. And you’re her best friend, so I thought that you… maybe had more of clue…”, he admitted and for a moment, Celina simply stood there. Had Tim Bradford seriously just admitted defeat? “Uhm… how about I don’t simply buy a present for you but help you?, Celina proposed a little more boldly, though still very careful as she felt like walking on thin ice despite Tim needing her help. “Yeah. I guess that’s alright too…”, he replied after yet another sigh. “Well then… let’s make a list of ideas. Do you want some cookies? They’re fresh out of the oven.”, Celina asked, ushering him towards the couch and following him after turning off the oven. “Uh… yeah sure.” This wasn’t quite the afternoon she was expecting, but if it gave Tim the needed creativity to find the right gift and therefore made Lucy happy… she could live with the change of plans.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602221	{"authors": ["BooApproves"], "language": "English", "title": "Change Of Plans"}
Mike, What Did You Do? Sign 1 Hand on Will’s back, just between his shoulder blades. The touch is light, pads of Mike’s fingertips. His hand must be curled. But the meat of his palm presses hard into Will as they stomp up the stairs, running, rushing. Sign 2 The fingertips find the same spot between his back whenever he leaves a room. It seems like Mike has to go whenever Will does. He says, “Oh, I forgot my backpack,” or “Wait, the batteries in the walkies need changing” (the batteries always need changing), or “Just do it in my room. I can make space on my desk. And, hey, we can just work on the bed. It’s more comfortable anyway. I used to do it with El all the time.” You used to do it with El all the time? What is he saying? What do you mean, Wheeler? What do you mean? Sign 4 Running up the stairs to Mike’s room. It’s become a bit of a challenge. A race. But Mike hesitates on the second-to-last step and just stops, and tries to elbow Will in order to ‘win’ the ‘race.’ His butt hitting Will’s abdomen with the sudden halt. They never used to do this as kids. Mike had competed with Lucas; punching, and hitting, occasionally head-butting (until Lucas had head-butted him so hard they had pinky-promised to stop and “remember this day”). Sometimes Dustin. But not Will. They had a, softer, kind of friendship. The roughhousing less rough. Will can feel his heart in his temples, his throat, he must be blushing. On the stairs, Mike’s play-fighting includes a little pushing, his hands finding Will’s chest. But it’s fast, and skimming, and fleeting. Boys. Being. Boys. Sign 5 Will is sketching. It’s stupid. He shouldn’t be drawing when they have so much to do, and plan for. And somehow they’re still going to school, although it’s like background noise. As if the teachers are all underwater, and the lessons are coming out of their mouths like bubbles; and Will, he is not paying attention. There are Crawls to plan. But instead he’s drawing their old D&D characters. Trying to get the shine right on Tayr’s armour. Smudging with his finger, then using his eraser to add a highlight on the pauldrons. The face doesn’t look right, and he’s already pushed the pencil too hard into the paper. If he tries to change it, you’ll still see the ghost underneath. The only option is to make all the shading darker to compensate. He considers. Mike is looking at him. Will has been drawing on top of a textbook, sitting on Mike’s bed. Back against the wall, ankles crossed. Feeling like he’s taking up too much room, though he’s not, he’s stick straight. Mike sprawling on his stomach, scowling. Will plays with his shirt collar. “What?” Laughs. “You’re making a face,” says Mike, still frowning. “No,” he hesitates. “You’re making a face.” “Me? I’m copying you.” He uses his socked foot to push Mike’s shoulder, below his shoulder, more like his armpit. “Well, stop.” Crawling over, “What are you drawing?” He hugs paper and textbook to his breast. “Nothing,” grinning. He can’t help smiling, it’s spilling out of him, like heat, or actually more like something just warm: gentle, like drinking a hot chocolate. Exactly. Like drinking a nice, safe, hot chocolate. A nice, safe smile (leaking out of him). Mike puts a finger on the textbook, a little pressure, tipping it down. Not enough pressure that Will can’t stop him. “I want to see.” “It’s not great. I mean, it’s fine.” “It’s fine?” Mike explodes, gesturing. “It’s amazing. Is that Tayr?” “Yeah, I wasn’t sure what kind of armour he had. I know in the game it was medium plate so he wouldn’t have disadvantage on stealth checks. But I was thinking a paladin looks better in full plate mail.” He slows down the last few words, unsure. “But he’s your character.” “Dude, I can’t believe you’re still drawing stuff from our games. I’m so lucky.” Mike’s voice dips, softening, more air, or breath on the last sentence. Then shrugs, exaggerated, his skinny shoulders bouncing. “We’re all so lucky. Lucas, and Dustin, and El. And El! And Max.” He stops. “And Max.” His finger makes a circle in the blankets. “Sorry.” “No! No.” Will doesn’t want Mike to be sad. That’s why he says, “I can’t get Tayr’s face right. I need more practice, with faces.” He squints. “I think his face looks good. I mean, it’s small, and kind of hard to see. But, what I can see, is really, really good.” “Could I draw from a picture of you?” He points his toes nervously. Realizes he’s pointing his toes, and stretches his feet straight up and down. It looks insane. He tries to relax. “Like a reference?” “Yeah,” Mike saves him from babbling. “But, I’m also, like, not really doing anything right now.” Will has no idea what he means. “Neither am I?” “I mean, I could, if it’s easier to draw from a person?” He smiles big. His face is so angular; its a sharp smile, with slightly bent front teeth, and red lips. He puts his hands up to frame his expression. “I’m awesome at staying perfectly still.” Will really wants to draw him. Mike’s smile twitches, because	Mike, What Did You Do? Sign 1 Hand on Will’s back, just between his shoulder blades. The touch is light, pads of Mike’s fingertips. His hand must be curled. But the meat of his palm presses hard into Will as they stomp up the stairs, running, rushing. Sign 2 The fingertips find the same spot between his back whenever he leaves a room. It seems like Mike has to go whenever Will does. He says, “Oh, I forgot my backpack,” or “Wait, the batteries in the walkies need changing” (the batteries always need changing), or “Just do it in my room. I can make space on my desk. And, hey, we can just work on the bed. It’s more comfortable anyway. I used to do it with El all the time.” You used to do it with El all the time? What is he saying? What do you mean, Wheeler? What do you mean? Sign 4 Running up the stairs to Mike’s room. It’s become a bit of a challenge. A race. But Mike hesitates on the second-to-last step and just stops, and tries to elbow Will in order to ‘win’ the ‘race.’ His butt hitting Will’s abdomen with the sudden halt. They never used to do this as kids. Mike had competed with Lucas; punching, and hitting, occasionally head-butting (until Lucas had head-butted him so hard they had pinky-promised to stop and “remember this day”). Sometimes Dustin. But not Will. They had a, softer, kind of friendship. The roughhousing less rough. Will can feel his heart in his temples, his throat, he must be blushing. On the stairs, Mike’s play-fighting includes a little pushing, his hands finding Will’s chest. But it’s fast, and skimming, and fleeting. Boys. Being. Boys. Sign 5 Will is sketching. It’s stupid. He shouldn’t be drawing when they have so much to do, and plan for. And somehow they’re still going to school, although it’s like background noise. As if the teachers are all underwater, and the lessons are coming out of their mouths like bubbles; and Will, he is not paying attention. There are Crawls to plan. But instead he’s drawing their old D&D characters. Trying to get the shine right on Tayr’s armour. Smudging with his finger, then using his eraser to add a highlight on the pauldrons. The face doesn’t look right, and he’s already pushed the pencil too hard into the paper. If he tries to change it, you’ll still see the ghost underneath. The only option is to make all the shading darker to compensate. He considers. Mike is looking at him. Will has been drawing on top of a textbook, sitting on Mike’s bed. Back against the wall, ankles crossed. Feeling like he’s taking up too much room, though he’s not, he’s stick straight. Mike sprawling on his stomach, scowling. Will plays with his shirt collar. “What?” Laughs. “You’re making a face,” says Mike, still frowning. “No,” he hesitates. “You’re making a face.” “Me? I’m copying you.” He uses his socked foot to push Mike’s shoulder, below his shoulder, more like his armpit. “Well, stop.” Crawling over, “What are you drawing?” He hugs paper and textbook to his breast. “Nothing,” grinning. He can’t help smiling, it’s spilling out of him, like heat, or actually more like something just warm: gentle, like drinking a hot chocolate. Exactly. Like drinking a nice, safe, hot chocolate. A nice, safe smile (leaking out of him). Mike puts a finger on the textbook, a little pressure, tipping it down. Not enough pressure that Will can’t stop him. “I want to see.” “It’s not great. I mean, it’s fine.” “It’s fine?” Mike explodes, gesturing. “It’s amazing. Is that Tayr?” “Yeah, I wasn’t sure what kind of armour he had. I know in the game it was medium plate so he wouldn’t have disadvantage on stealth checks. But I was thinking a paladin looks better in full plate mail.” He slows down the last few words, unsure. “But he’s your character.” “Dude, I can’t believe you’re still drawing stuff from our games. I’m so lucky.” Mike’s voice dips, softening, more air, or breath on the last sentence. Then shrugs, exaggerated, his skinny shoulders bouncing. “We’re all so lucky. Lucas, and Dustin, and El. And El! And Max.” He stops. “And Max.” His finger makes a circle in the blankets. “Sorry.” “No! No.” Will doesn’t want Mike to be sad. That’s why he says, “I can’t get Tayr’s face right. I need more practice, with faces.” He squints. “I think his face looks good. I mean, it’s small, and kind of hard to see. But, what I can see, is really, really good.” “Could I draw from a picture of you?” He points his toes nervously. Realizes he’s pointing his toes, and stretches his feet straight up and down. It looks insane. He tries to relax. “Like a reference?” “Yeah,” Mike saves him from babbling. “But, I’m also, like, not really doing anything right now.” Will has no idea what he means. “Neither am I?” “I mean, I could, if it’s easier to draw from a person?” He smiles big. His face is so angular; its a sharp smile, with slightly bent front teeth, and red lips. He puts his hands up to frame his expression. “I’m awesome at staying perfectly still.” Will really wants to draw him. Mike’s smile twitches, because it’s huge. “Is that face,” he gestures at Mike with his pencil, making a circle in the air. “The face you’re going with?” “Yesssss,” through the smile. He pumps his eyebrows. “No,” Will laughs. “No, be normal. And stop doing that with your eyebrows. It reminds me of Steve.” “Ew.” They both exhale. Kind of a shaky laugh. It’s always safe to make fun of Harrington. “Ok, can I pose you?” What was he doing? Mike nodding, small but quick, repetitive. Will puts a finger under his chin. The nodding stops. Mike’s eyes are so dark they look black. They match the ink of his hair. It falls over his shoulders in soft curls. It looks fluffy. Will wonders if it’s soft. Of course it’s soft, who’s he kidding. Quickly, blinking, he uses his finger; the smallest touch, leading Mike, with his hand, his eyes, to tilt his chin down. Then to the side. “There,” he says. “Can you stay there?” Mike swallows, the bob of his throat. His neck is long and white. Adam’s apple visible. Will clasps his hand over his own mouth, and stares at the paper. Shuffles to a new page of his sketchbook, leaving a few sheets between this and the old drawing. The pencil’s pressure has left marks on the paper for several sheets. More ghosts. He starts with shapes. Oval, then lines squaring the chin. A ’T’ to keep the features aligned. Soft lines planning the cheekbones, the hollow curve of his cheeks, eyes with long brows. The outline of hair. The details would come later. He gets lost in it. Forgets that it’s Mike. That he’s in Mike’s bedroom, that he smells like Mike’s house. Even when he’s at school, and gets a whiff of his clothes; they smell like Mike. Same detergent or something. But also. Also. Also. Is Mike being weird, or is it him? Is it just him? He adds shadows under the eyes. The outer edges of Mike’s eyes turn down slightly, making him look sleepy. Cozy. His nose: needing to get this right. Otherwise it will go quickly into not looking like him at all. Noses are important. The sweep, curve, delicate upturned nostrils. There are so many sharp angles, it’s a relief to draw his lips. Plump bottom lip. Plump? He can’t think that. He isn’t allowed. “Sorry,” Will says. “I’m taking so long.” “It feels nice,” Mike whispers. He doesn’t know if he can do this anymore. “It’s done.” Mike shimmies, like a dog getting out of bath. “Can I see?” He shows him. Will expects excitable Mike. He knows excitable Mike. He isn’t sure if he knows this Mike. Is this what El sees? Is this what she gets? Wheeler eases the sketchbook out of his fingers. Will’s hands have graphite on them. Mike’s do too now. His friend holds the book, stares, and stares. “It’s me,” he says. Will forces a laugh, “Yeah, who else would it be?” “Have you drawn anyone else?” “Not really?” “Oh.” What was that ‘oh?’ “Should I?” “If you do, can I see?” Mike’s black eyes look at him, for all the world begging. Worried. Sign 6 The first night. Up the steps. Running. Mike says he’s put an extra cot in his room. They sprint in, giggling. Mike slamming the door behind him, back against it, breathing too hard. Will’s laugh slowly drags out of him, and ends, spent. He’s been here so many times, but it also feels like he’s in Mike Wheeler’s bedroom for the first time. “Hi,” Will says. “Hi.” He jerks away from the door. “It’ll be like a sleepover. It’ll be fun. We can stay up late, and there’s, uh, snacks in the kitchen if we’re really quiet. And, I don’t know, is this ok? Are you ok? You look like, uh, lost?” “Have I been here recently?” he jokes. He thinks it’s a joke. “Well, to remind you, this is my bed.” He flops onto it backwards, the springs clapping. “And this is my dresser.” Peeling out a drawer with a squeal, “I cleared out a drawer, if you want, to, clothes? And this is the closet, would you rather, is the closet better?” He’s losing steam, arms gesturing more and more loosely. “I don’t have a lot. I’m sure a drawer would be, it’s really nice. Thanks.” “And you can take the bed. I’ll use the cot.” His hands tuck into his pockets, shoulders shrinking. “Oh, no. No. I can’t do that.” Mike shrugs, a restricted movement with his knuckles still buried. “We can decide later. I have homework. Do you, have any?” Will nods. Afraid there’s something brittle between them. But as he cheer-leads Mike through calculus, it’s familiar. It’s close to midnight before they realize. Sneaking downstairs, feet in the middle of each board, wary for creaks. Wheeler snags a pack of Starburst, ripping it open in the kitchen, popping a square in his mouth. Holds it out. Will digs for red. “So picky,” Mike flicks his eyes to the side. “I’m not that picky,” he mumbles, sucking. “I just like the red ones.” “They make your tongue red.” Will sticks out his tongue, the square still on it. “And your lips red,” Mike says. Mike is looking at his lips. Will imagines kissing his friend. Sign 7 Later that night. He protests, but Mike insists he take the bed. Wheeler spends a long time getting the bed ‘ready.’ Fluffing the pillow. It smells like him. When Byers wakes, the first thing he sees is sunlight on the cot, Mike’s hair a black stain on the pillow. Mike Wheeler is curled, long fingers tucked into his chest. He looks delicate. Will doesn’t want to hurt him. Sign 11 The haircut. Mike asks him to do it. He thinks he’s joking, because look at his hair. He promises not to use a bowl. Sign 16 Working on D&D again. Just their own personal campaign. Sign 19 Roleplaying, just the two of them, mostly after homework; or after Crawls, exhausted, whispering at the dark ceiling until they fall asleep. Sign 22 Mike never talks about El when they’re together. But he talks about her a lot in front of their friends. Sign 25 Byers brings up El, and Wheeler changes the subject. Sign 28 Mike keeps saying how much he likes his new haircut, twisting the ends. Sign 31 Mike says he misses going to the movies with Lucas and Max. Apologizes for mentioning Max. But calls the movies they used to go to a double date. Sign 36 Mike says he can’t hear him. He's on the bed, and Mike’s in the cot. They are murmuring about their campaign. Their two-person campaign. Wheeler is the DM, and narrates, while Will makes choices. There are no dice. It’s too dark to see, and they do this before bed. There isn’t much combat, it’s mostly talking. “I am Will the Wise, and I demand you let me pass,” he snorts a bit as he says it, louder. Mike’s a guard. “By what right do you go here?” in a silly baritone. Will needs to get into the mansion. An evil vampire has kidnapped a lady of the court. “Please,” he says. He’s so tired, words beginning to tumble into a slurry. “Your boss is bad.” “He’s bad?” Mike says, somehow still in character. “Yeah, he’s, like really bad.” Blanket around his shoulders, Wheeler scuttles across the room. “You keep getting quiet,” he says. Sits on the edge of the bed. His bed. It’s his own bed. It’s fine if sits there. “Did you just say the Dread Lord Strahd von Zarovich is really bad? To his guard?” “Mmm-hmm.” “Do you think that’s going to convince him?” Mike is silhouetted by the window. Blue-y, purple moonlight carving his hair. Maybe if Will spilled a bottle of ink on his sketchbook, and the ink stayed wet: that would capture Mike’s curls. “Yeah. Am I wrong?” Mike licks his lips. “But the guard, uh, doesn’t care. I mean, he’s worked for Strahd von Zarovich for years, and he likes that. He likes that he’s bad.” “Then I won’t leave. Also, I’m sure he’s mean.” “He’s mean?” “The vampire lord.” Will waves his hand in the air, twirling his wrist. “Strahd. I’m sure he’s mean.” “Well,” Mike leans back on the bed, his cot-blanket cocooning him. “That’s an assumption. I’d ask you to roll Insight if we had dice.” Mike’s voice is drifting. Or Will is drifting. “No dice,” Will says. “No dice,” Mike repeats. “If I can stay here, you don’t have to roll. The guard believes you.” He must mean here: the bed. Will suddenly feels awake, the base of his skull tingling as if someone is stroking it. “Ok.” Does he say it too quickly? “The guard lets you in. What do you do?” “I look for the vampire.” Mike’s face is turned towards him. Will was looking at the ceiling, but he shifts, just enough, his nose points at Mike’s nose. His lips in a line from Mike’s lips. His mouth is slightly open on the pillow. “Do I find him?” Will prompts. “Yeah,” Mike breathes. “He’s beautiful.” Sign 37 Mike sleeps in the bed. Will wakes at intervals throughout the night. Mike at the far edge, almost falling off. Mike’s blankets gone, must be on the floor. Mike’s wearing a white t-shirt and flannels. The t-shirt is bright in the dark, and it’s the first thing Will can clock. Mike beside him, shoulder touching his shoulder. Mike’s thigh against his. Morning. Will wakes buzzy, and trembling, and awake, awake, awake. Smiling. Leaking smiles. He’s doomed. Mike’s arm is over his chest. He sighs and Mike’s arm rises and falls. There’s a creak from the hallway. The door is open just an inch. There is a face on the other side. Not close, not peeping, but in the hall, indecisive, watching. She’s seen. Will has assumed that anyone would be angry. His brain fills in anger and disgust, and fear, and something sharp, like a slap. But Nancy doesn’t look angry. Her eyes are glassy. She jerks her head at Will, motioning for him to come out. Carefully, he lifts Mike’s arm, slides his hips off the bed, then places the arm back down. Padding towards the door, closing it behind him, click. Nance puts a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to sleep in the basement?” Croaking, he opens his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. Is she telling him to hide? Is this wrong? Is she scared? Does she think they’re not safe? Does she think something happened? Because nothing happened. Will she tell El? Because nothing, nothing happened. She smiles, the lines near her mouth are like Mike’s. Will’s never noticed, not until he drew him, never knew exactly what those lines looked like. “It’s ok, I don’t know what to say either.” And she hugs him. Will lets himself go loose; he’s crying, silent, nose dripping. He doesn’t want the hug to stop, because then Nancy will see. He doesn’t want her to see he needs this. He shakes in his abdomen, in his core, trying to keep it all in. (Will writes all the signs in his sketchbook, because he’s going crazy).	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602226?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["ByeDisaster"], "language": "English", "title": "Mike, What Did You Do?"}
in a mirror, purple grey There was so much to get ready before they left for Boston. Charlotta the Fourth would be staying, and she would take care of everything. Anne and Diana would be there as well, and all the wonderful friends that she has made in this last beautiful, blissful year. Despite all this, Lavender knew she would be kicking herself internally for the whole carriage ride if she did not look over everything one more time before she left Echo Lodge. So, here she was, on her hands and knees, digging through an old trunk she had not opened in years, just to say goodbye to the framed pictures she did not even like enough to still have displayed. “What are you doing, Mother?” Lavender looks up, meeting the shining blue eyes of Paul Irving, her dear little friend, and now her stepson. A miracle. Now that she was over fifty, she had never expected to have a son. She was still a girl at heart, and never really felt her age even as her hair faded to white. Still, it was a girlhood dream she had quietly mourned. Now, she had one. “I am saying goodbye,” she laughs, well aware of the odd picture she must be. Smiling, he kneels beside her. “I’ll join you.” She lifts out some pictures, wrapped in embroidered felt. “You know, I do not even care about these. I just have them in this chest. I have not looked at them in years. I just feel as though I ought to say goodbye to everything in Echo Lodge.” He nods seriously. “I know what you mean. I’ve been saying my farewells to the rocks at the beach outside my home.” “I understand. The land itself will be harder to leave than most of the people, I am afraid.” Paul smiles. “It is the memories they hold, I think. We leave a piece of ourselves wherever we live. The times I spent with my friends, the waves I watched crash over them. They are like little anchors, keeping those moments alive.” Lavender sighs softly, wrapping a purple ribbon around the bundle of pictures. “I suppose that is why I am here, looking though this trunk. To anchor some moments I do not want to lose.” Paul places a hand on her shoulder. “Even though it is a new chapter, we aren’t really leaving, because these places we have lived will always hold memories of us, as we hold of them. New memories await us in Boston, but it is not the end of our Avonlea memories.” She smiles at him, feeling a warmth spread in her heart. “You are right, Paul. It is time embrace the new and exciting, along with the old and unfamiliar.” Together, they close the trunk, leaving the past neatly tucked away. Now, she is ready to face the future, so different from the life she has lived for so long now. Echo Lodge will wait for her, as will all of Avonlea.	in a mirror, purple grey There was so much to get ready before they left for Boston. Charlotta the Fourth would be staying, and she would take care of everything. Anne and Diana would be there as well, and all the wonderful friends that she has made in this last beautiful, blissful year. Despite all this, Lavender knew she would be kicking herself internally for the whole carriage ride if she did not look over everything one more time before she left Echo Lodge. So, here she was, on her hands and knees, digging through an old trunk she had not opened in years, just to say goodbye to the framed pictures she did not even like enough to still have displayed. “What are you doing, Mother?” Lavender looks up, meeting the shining blue eyes of Paul Irving, her dear little friend, and now her stepson. A miracle. Now that she was over fifty, she had never expected to have a son. She was still a girl at heart, and never really felt her age even as her hair faded to white. Still, it was a girlhood dream she had quietly mourned. Now, she had one. “I am saying goodbye,” she laughs, well aware of the odd picture she must be. Smiling, he kneels beside her. “I’ll join you.” She lifts out some pictures, wrapped in embroidered felt. “You know, I do not even care about these. I just have them in this chest. I have not looked at them in years. I just feel as though I ought to say goodbye to everything in Echo Lodge.” He nods seriously. “I know what you mean. I’ve been saying my farewells to the rocks at the beach outside my home.” “I understand. The land itself will be harder to leave than most of the people, I am afraid.” Paul smiles. “It is the memories they hold, I think. We leave a piece of ourselves wherever we live. The times I spent with my friends, the waves I watched crash over them. They are like little anchors, keeping those moments alive.” Lavender sighs softly, wrapping a purple ribbon around the bundle of pictures. “I suppose that is why I am here, looking though this trunk. To anchor some moments I do not want to lose.” Paul places a hand on her shoulder. “Even though it is a new chapter, we aren’t really leaving, because these places we have lived will always hold memories of us, as we hold of them. New memories await us in Boston, but it is not the end of our Avonlea memories.” She smiles at him, feeling a warmth spread in her heart. “You are right, Paul. It is time embrace the new and exciting, along with the old and unfamiliar.” Together, they close the trunk, leaving the past neatly tucked away. Now, she is ready to face the future, so different from the life she has lived for so long now. Echo Lodge will wait for her, as will all of Avonlea.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602231	{"authors": ["Eldridgesolay"], "language": "English", "title": "in a mirror, purple grey"}
P + 2e Akutagawa sits at his desk staring at the incomplete mathematics exercise on his exercise sheet as he starts to strongly regret not using the bathroom before class. He didn't really have a choice though. God did he try to go today. First of all he woke up late and had to end up skipping quite a few steps of his routine including his morning bathroom trip to be able to catch his train. Thankfully he arrived just on time. His need wasn't that bad at first so he ignored it in favor of focusing on his classes but when the nagging in his lower abdomen became too distracting he tried to use the bathroom between the breaks provided between different subjects but every single one of his attempts was stopped by someone. Like Chuuya stopping him in the hallway to beg him for his calculator because he forgot his and had an exam to take right after, or Tachihara asking him if he could quickly copy his history homework because he didn't have the time to do his. Helping them took enough times that afterwards if he had gone to the bathroom he would've showed back late to class and that was no good. And then, there was lunch and he really thought that he'd be able to go then but at the start of lunch the bathroom was full and he didn't want to wait in line so he decided that he'd go after finishing his meal but when he was done and came to the bathroom it was in the same state. He tried to wait in line but halfway through noticed that he was cutting it too close with his next class and left to make it there in time. But God he should've stayed and taken the scolding he would've gotten for the first few minutes he would've missed. He needs to go bad. He regrets the glass of water he drank this morning, and the juice he had at lunch and whatever other liquids he ingested throughout the day. He regrets not using the bathroom at home. He regrets ignoring his alarm. God does he regret it all. His leg bounces under his desk at an attempt to keep his need at bay while he does his best to focus on his work. He hates drawing unnecessary attention to himself and doesn't want to announce his need to the entire class but there is still an hour and twenty minutes left and he doubts he'll make it that long. He can't ask quite yet though, class just started not too long ago so he's sure that if he were to ask their teacher Mori would tell him that they just had lunch and he should've gone there. No he has to time it just right. It can't be too close to the end of class either or Mori will tell him that there's not that much time left and he should be able to hold it until they're done. So he has to wait. This is a two period class. He'll ask when the first period ends. The last thing he wants to do is draw attention to himself and ask for something so embarrassing but he knows his limits enough that he's certain he won't make it to the end of class. The minutes pass terribly slow. He can't remember a time where he ever let his need get this bad. He does his best to focus on his work but math isn't exactly one of his strong suits and the heaviness in his bladder does nothing to help him focus. He's sitting next to his classmate Atsushi who is a lot better than him in the subject, a fact which infuriates him to no end. Maybe if he were less bitter about it he'd ask him for help on his work, but he's not sure he'd be able to focus on any kind of explanation right now. They don't really get along anyway for a multitude of reasons. They wouldn't be sitting together like this if it weren't for their assigned seats. Akutagawa tries not to squirm too hard or make his need too obvious but it feels like if he doesn't move then it might start leaking out and he can't allow that. He can't piss himself in front of the rest of his classmates. It might've been excusable back in kindergarten but now he's way to old for that kind of behaviour. His knee bounces too high and knocks against his desk, there's enough noise in the room to silence the small sound that accidental action makes but he stills at once anyway. His legs squeezing tightly together. He almost loses his concentration on holding it when he feels Atsushi nudge him and he looks at him with much annoyance. "Are you okay?" Atsushi asks him quietly and Akutagawa just nods because there's no other correct answer to give here, he's not about to admit that he's bursting to his classmate. But of course Atsushi does not look convinced and Akutagawa can practically see the wheels turning in his head before he suddenly comes to a conclusion, Akutagawa can only hope it's the wrong one. "Ohhh… do you have to pee?" Atsushi asks, wearing an awkward expression. Akutagawa internally cringes at the crude wording and also at the fact the Weretiger was able to read him so easily, is he really that obvious? He thought he was hiding it better than that. "No." Akutagawa answers immediately because denial is the only acceptable answer here, he can't admit such embarrassing thing in front of his classmate.	P + 2e Akutagawa sits at his desk staring at the incomplete mathematics exercise on his exercise sheet as he starts to strongly regret not using the bathroom before class. He didn't really have a choice though. God did he try to go today. First of all he woke up late and had to end up skipping quite a few steps of his routine including his morning bathroom trip to be able to catch his train. Thankfully he arrived just on time. His need wasn't that bad at first so he ignored it in favor of focusing on his classes but when the nagging in his lower abdomen became too distracting he tried to use the bathroom between the breaks provided between different subjects but every single one of his attempts was stopped by someone. Like Chuuya stopping him in the hallway to beg him for his calculator because he forgot his and had an exam to take right after, or Tachihara asking him if he could quickly copy his history homework because he didn't have the time to do his. Helping them took enough times that afterwards if he had gone to the bathroom he would've showed back late to class and that was no good. And then, there was lunch and he really thought that he'd be able to go then but at the start of lunch the bathroom was full and he didn't want to wait in line so he decided that he'd go after finishing his meal but when he was done and came to the bathroom it was in the same state. He tried to wait in line but halfway through noticed that he was cutting it too close with his next class and left to make it there in time. But God he should've stayed and taken the scolding he would've gotten for the first few minutes he would've missed. He needs to go bad. He regrets the glass of water he drank this morning, and the juice he had at lunch and whatever other liquids he ingested throughout the day. He regrets not using the bathroom at home. He regrets ignoring his alarm. God does he regret it all. His leg bounces under his desk at an attempt to keep his need at bay while he does his best to focus on his work. He hates drawing unnecessary attention to himself and doesn't want to announce his need to the entire class but there is still an hour and twenty minutes left and he doubts he'll make it that long. He can't ask quite yet though, class just started not too long ago so he's sure that if he were to ask their teacher Mori would tell him that they just had lunch and he should've gone there. No he has to time it just right. It can't be too close to the end of class either or Mori will tell him that there's not that much time left and he should be able to hold it until they're done. So he has to wait. This is a two period class. He'll ask when the first period ends. The last thing he wants to do is draw attention to himself and ask for something so embarrassing but he knows his limits enough that he's certain he won't make it to the end of class. The minutes pass terribly slow. He can't remember a time where he ever let his need get this bad. He does his best to focus on his work but math isn't exactly one of his strong suits and the heaviness in his bladder does nothing to help him focus. He's sitting next to his classmate Atsushi who is a lot better than him in the subject, a fact which infuriates him to no end. Maybe if he were less bitter about it he'd ask him for help on his work, but he's not sure he'd be able to focus on any kind of explanation right now. They don't really get along anyway for a multitude of reasons. They wouldn't be sitting together like this if it weren't for their assigned seats. Akutagawa tries not to squirm too hard or make his need too obvious but it feels like if he doesn't move then it might start leaking out and he can't allow that. He can't piss himself in front of the rest of his classmates. It might've been excusable back in kindergarten but now he's way to old for that kind of behaviour. His knee bounces too high and knocks against his desk, there's enough noise in the room to silence the small sound that accidental action makes but he stills at once anyway. His legs squeezing tightly together. He almost loses his concentration on holding it when he feels Atsushi nudge him and he looks at him with much annoyance. "Are you okay?" Atsushi asks him quietly and Akutagawa just nods because there's no other correct answer to give here, he's not about to admit that he's bursting to his classmate. But of course Atsushi does not look convinced and Akutagawa can practically see the wheels turning in his head before he suddenly comes to a conclusion, Akutagawa can only hope it's the wrong one. "Ohhh… do you have to pee?" Atsushi asks, wearing an awkward expression. Akutagawa internally cringes at the crude wording and also at the fact the Weretiger was able to read him so easily, is he really that obvious? He thought he was hiding it better than that. "No." Akutagawa answers immediately because denial is the only acceptable answer here, he can't admit such embarrassing thing in front of his classmate. He tries to relax his posture, to act like he's not one bad movement away from leaking piss into his briefs. Atsushi doesn't question him further mostly because Mori starts speaking, still Akutagawa can feel him throwing the occasional glance his way. He does his best not to move too much in his seat. It's torture. He looks at the clock situated high on the wall next to the board and there's about twenty minutes left before first period ends and he's starting to doubt his ability to wait that long. His lungs decide that now is the perfect time to give him trouble and a few painful coughs leave him. He does his best to keep quiet and not disturb the class but it's hard. The coughing strains his body and on the fifth cough his body betrays him and pushes a bit of urine out past his muscles against his will creating a small wet spot on his underwear. He presses his hand against his mouth and does his best to combat the urge to cough more because he's certain that more will leak out if it happens again, he takes slow deep breaths through his nose. He knows his inhaler is laying down somewhere in his bag but bending down to get it out seems impossible right now. Finally, the urge to cough seems to leave and he can settle down a little removing the hand that was against his mouth. The other one is gripping the edge of his wooden chair tightly, mostly to avoid giving into the urge to shove it between his legs. And also, like this he's able to move a bit to the edge of his chair and press his crotch against his wrist to provide some pressure if needed. Its subtle, or at least more subtle than openly holding himself. "You should just ask." Atsushi tells him but doesn't look at him his eyes instead set on the exercise he's currently working on, pencil scratching rhythmically against his sheet. "Mori-sensei isn't strict about that sort of thing." "I can wait." Akutagawa insists giving up on hiding it, it would only make him seem foolish to keep denying his obvious struggle at this point. "Can you?" Atsushi questions, raising an eyebrow at him. It makes Akutagawa's face burn. "Not to uh make any assumptions here man, but there's more than an hour left and you already seem bad off." He's right, but it's still humiliating hearing him say it out loud. "Class just started, I can't—" Akutagawa tries to argue but gets cut off by a voice calling his name, his heart freezes in his chest. "Akutagawa-kun, Atsushi-kun, I trust that your conversation is about the wonders of quadratic functions and not just the two of you chatting about unrelated things during my class, hmm?" Mori calls out, he's wearing his usual smile but Akutagawa can tell he's not pleased at their behaviour. Everyone is looking at them and Akutagawa can only try his best to look normal and not as if he's on the verge of soiling himself like a child. Maybe he should offer a response here but the words stay stuck in his throat. "I was explaining something to him about the work Mori-sensei." Atsushi quickly says, making up that excuse on the spot. "If Akutagawa-kun struggles with anything he can ask me, it's my job. And my answers might teach your classmates some things aswell. Refrain from interrupting my class again alright?" Mori asks them. They both nod and Mori finally drops it before going back to teaching. Both boys untense at once. Or well, Akutagawa can't relax too much. He wants to hold himself but he can't, people would see. So he just crosses his legs in a way that he hopes looks natural. He certainly can't ask for the bathroom now after such an interruption. He has to wait longer. He doesn't know if he can wait. Atsushi doesn't talk to him again but shoots him some worried glances, he must look really bad off if this is the reaction he's getting. At least no one else seems to be aware of his predicament or paying any attention to him. Small blessings. He's vaguely aware that there's an exercise he's meant to be doing right now but he already struggles enough with math without a full bladder so it's just outright impossible right now. He's holding his pencil in his hand tightly but it doesn't move across the paper. His bladder throbs with desperation and his crossed legs do nothing to prevent the leak that follows. His pencil snaps in his hand. A pitiful whine leaves him. If he leaks any more he thinks that it'll start showing on his pants. Without thinking he gives in and shoves his hand between his legs to hold himself just for a few seconds, it takes the pressure off for a bit. When he feels under control again he removes his hand, glancing around to see if anyone has noticed but no one seems to be looking at him. Well, no one except Atsushi. Who seems more concerned by the second. He rips a small piece of paper off his sheet and scribbles something down before putting it on Akutagawa's desk. He picks up the small note. Do you want me to tell Mori you feel sick and ask to bring you to the nurse's office? He won't be able to refuse that. It's a good excuse, a great excuse even. Akutagawa is unfortunately known for getting ill often and having to go home early or leave mid class. So this wouldn't be unusual and Mori might have the right to deny him to use the bathroom but he can't very well force him to stay here if he's ill. So he nods. He can't think of a better option. Atsushi raises his hand, it takes awhile for Mori to call on him because he's answering other students' questions and every second longer Atsushi is ignored Akutagawa suffers and begs his weak body to just hold on a minute longer, just a bit, he doesn't want to be known as the guy who pissed himself in the middle of math class. Doesn't want that to haunt him until his graduation. His bladder spasms hard enough for him to curl up on his seat, head on his desk to hide his miserable expression. A long leak leaves him and by the time he gets himself under control there's a wet spot the size of his hand at the crotch of his pants. "Yes, Atsushi-kun?" Mori finally says, noticing Atsushi's hand in the air after more than a minute of waiting. "Akutagawa is feeling ill, could I please accompany him to the infirmary?" Atsushi asks. Mori looks at Akutagawa for a second, and he must look pitiful enough for Mori to be convinced even if he's not suffering because of any illness related reasons for once. "Yes, be quick." Oh thank God. Atsushi helps him pack his things away since most of the time he leaves class because of his illness he doesn't come back. When his bag is packed Atsushi stands up and waits for him to do the same. Akutagawa didn't calculate how the change in gravity would affect his bladder. His hands grip the desk as he pushes himself up and he squirms in place for a few seconds which is embarrassing and he's pretty sure some people notice his obvious potty dance from the snickering he hears not far from him but it's that or pissing himself right there. When he's used to the new position Atsushi puts his hand on his back and helps him out of the classroom. He feels mild relief when they finally step out of the classroom and he's out of all of his curious classmates eyesight. In the empty hallway he allows himself the privilege of shoving one hand back between his legs to squeeze his cock, he doesn't even care that Atsushi is watching at this point. He's already seen Akutagawa embarrass himself in front of him in class earlier this can't make it much worse. "Come on." Atsushi says with urgency grabbing Akutagawa's arm and dragging him down the hallway, there's a bathroom not too far. But every step hurts and makes it feels like the liquid in his overfilled bladder is sloshing around inside. Atsushi's fast pace does nothing to help him hold it. Even with his tight grip on his crotch every step urine tries to leak out and more often than not he fails to hold it back. There's definitely a big wet stain on his pants by now but he doesn't look down to check. "Weretiger—" Akutagawa wants to tell him to stop walking or he'll really piss himself but suddenly they've reached the bathroom and Atsushi attempts to push the door open. It doesn't budge. He tries to pull instead of pushing which also does nothing meaning that someone must've locked the male bathrooms for some godforsaken reason. A distressed sound leaves Akutagawa as he rips his arm away from Atsushi's grip and shoves his now free hand between his legs. It barely helps. "Shit." Atsushi says, because he did not plan for this and neither did Akutagawa. There's a bathroom on the floor below and above. But Akutagawa can't handle any stairs right now. He doesn't want to piss himself, but it's hopeless. "I-I can't hold it." Akutagawa says as he feels his control slip further. Atsushi says something but Akutagawa doesn't catch it. The previous continuous leaks turn into a stream between his legs and no amount of squeezing or trying to hold back works, the best he can do is slow the stream down a bit and all that does is hurt. So he removes his hands from between his legs to avoid getting them more wet and lets go, the previously weak stream quickly turns into a stronger one and he shudders in relief at the sensation of his sore bladder emptying after holding it for so long. It soaks into his pants until the fabric of his school uniform can't absorb any more liquid and the urine soaks through and starts pooling on the ground, he doesn't notice the small sounds of relief that leave him as he lets go. It takes almost a minute before the stream weakens before turning into a few final dribbles. Now that his bladder is empty and he can think a bit more rationally the consequences of all this immediately hits him. His pants are ruined and even with the dark color the stain is obvious and glistens against the light. There's a huge puddle on the ground. And worst of all Atsushi is still standing there and was there to witness his accident, he doesn't dare to meet his eyes. He's humiliated. And now he's sure Atsushi is going to go around and tell everyone about this. This is going to be just like the time he threw up during class last year, he's never living it down. His hands are covered in pee so he can't wipe away the stray tear that rolls down his face, he blinks rapidly in an attempt to avoid more. "Hey." Atsushi calls out, his tone sounds shockingly gentle instead of mocking. "It's okay, you tried your best. Wasn't your fault it was closed but uh let's get you cleaned up before someone shows up and sees you like this." Akutagawa wants to argue that it's no excuse for wetting himself at his age but he feels frozen and the words stay stuck in his throat, Atsushi grabs his arm again and pulls him along down the hallway. Automatically Akutagawa follows. He doesn't know where Atsushi is taking him until they reach the nurse's office. Thankfully it's empty right now. Atsushi brings him to one of the beds hidden behind curtains and closes the curtains again when they get behind them. "I'll try to see if there are some wet wipes stored around here, you should take your pants off." Atsushi tells him before leaving the bed area and pulling the curtain back closed behind him. Akutagawa stands there like an idiot for a few seconds. He feels like smashing his head against the wall right now or burying himself in a very deep hole to never be seen again but realistically those aren't options so instead he does as Atsushi told him to. He steps out of his shoes and peels his socks off which have somehow also gotten wet. Before pulling his soaked pants down. He folds them neatly before setting them down on the floor. His underwear is soaked aswell, but stripping to that level in here doesn't bode well with him. He'd rather not have the Weretiger walk in on him half naked. It's mortifying enough to know that he saw him wet himself earlier. Soon Atsushi is back carrying a pack of wet wipes, and surprisingly also a towel. He hands both to Akutagawa "Here! I hope this is enough but it's all I got." "Thank you." Akutagawa says gratefully. "I didn't find any spare uniforms though, sorry..." Atsushi apologizes, as if that were his fault somehow. "My sports uniform is in my locker if you would be kind enough to go get it for me." Akutagawa says and Atsushi always glad to be of help of course agrees. Akutagawa fetches his locker key out of his bag and hands it to Atsushi. Atsushi promises to be quick before leaving the infirmary. Akutagawa would've preferred a shower but wet wipes are better than nothing. Certain that he's now alone he pulls his soaked underwear down before wiping the remaining urine off his legs with the towel. He proceeds to do his best to clean himself using the wet wipes provided . It works well enough. When Atsushi gets back he hands him his uniform through the curtains, thankfully having the sense not to walk in on him like this. Akutagawa quickly changes out of his regular uniform into the sports one. He grabs his soiled clothes, unsure what to do with them because he can't just put them in his bag. Atsushi ends up handing him a plastic bag that he puts them in. "Thank you for your help." Akutagawa says to Atsushi. He probably would've wet himself in class without his help which would've been considerably worse than this. "Oh it's no problem!" Atsushi responds with a small smile. "… Could I ask you one last favor?" Akutagawa asks after a few seconds, Atsushi humms so he goes on and tries his best not to feel pathetic as he asks him. "Could you please not tell anyone else about this?" Atsushi seems shocked at the request. "I- Akutagawa I wasn't going to! Of course I won't tell anyone about this you don't have to worry about that. What kind of person do you take me for?" "Well, we haven't exactly gotten along in the past and I know I haven't been… pleasant to be around." He says and looks away in shame. "So if would make sense for you to want to get back at me. I've… humiliated myself in front of you in class and I- I even wet myself in front of you today. I don't understand why you haven't mocked me once. I deserved it." Atsushi looks at him as if he just said the dumbest thing of the century. "Akutagawa, I don't hate you. Yes we haven't exactly been friends I guess but that doesn't mean that I want to make you suffer. The idea of telling others about this didn't pass my mind once. I don't want you to get bullied or mocked for this. It was an accident, it happens. Just because you had some back luck today doesn't mean that you deserve the worst." Akutagawa stands there dumbfounded, unsure of what to say in response to that. He startles when Atsushi puts his hand on his shoulder. "Just… don't beat yourself up about this okay? It's no big deal. I won't bring it up again in the future I promise." He squeezes Akutagawa's shoulder before letting go. "I should get back to class now, take care okay?" And with that he leaves the nurse's office. The spot where Atsushi's hand laid a few moments ago still feels warm. He goes to sit on the bed. Things could've gone worse and Atsushi was surprisingly nice about the whole situation. The last time something like this happend to him, the time he threw up in class…. well let's just say it took a few months for Dazai to stop making throwing-up motions at him whenever he saw him. Some people probably did notice his desperation while he was in class but at the very least he did not piss himself in front of them. And Atsushi did say he wouldn't tell anyone so it should be fine. Having an accident like this was upsetting sure and he's still a little shaken but he feels a lot better than he would've without the Weretiger's help. Maybe he judged him too harshly in the past. He needs to find a way to make it up to him or return the favor someday. He waits for the nurse to come back before feigning filling ill and getting her approval to go home, she asks him if he wants her to call his parents but he refuses. He doesn't live far anyway. His gym shorts don't provide much warmth against the cold winter air as he walks to his train stop but he would've certainly felt much worse wearing his wet pants. Akutagawa swears to never skip using the bathroom in the morning ever again, the few minutes saved were not worth the humiliation he went through today. The next day when he enters the classroom Atsushi smiles at him and instead of ignoring him like he might have in the past, he smiles back.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602246	{"authors": ["EvacuPiss"], "language": "English", "title": "P + 2e"}
Fevered House noticed it the moment Chase walked into the conference room. It was subtle at first. The kind of thing anyone else would miss. But House had spent an entire night coaxing the kid version of Chase through crayons, bedtime, and a story about a flying dog, so he knew the signs now. Chase looked wrong. Not the kind of wrong that meant pneumonia or a random autoimmune meltdown. The other kind. The soft, quiet, shrinking-in-on-himself wrong. His steps were careful. Too careful. Shoulders round, eyes heavy, skin pale in the way that only fever could manage. He was clutching a file with both hands like it was the only thing keeping him upright. And his lower lip was pushed out just the slightest bit. House narrowed his eyes. That was new. Chase dropped into his chair with a tiny huff, the kind that would have been a sigh if he were twenty-six. But he wasn’t twenty-six right now. Not entirely. House walked up behind him and rapped his cane against the back of his chair. No reaction. Not even a flinch. Interesting. Normally, Chase jerked at least five inches into the air whenever House snuck up on him. Today he just blinked slowly, head wobbling a little before he lifted his gaze. His pupils were huge. His face flushed. His hair all mussed from where he had probably run his hands through it one too many times. And the moment House really looked at him, Chase immediately ducked his head like he had done something wrong. Yeah. Something was going on. Foreman was rambling about test results, Cameron was asking questions, and Chase was staring at a single paragraph on a page like he was trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics. House poked his arm with the cane. "Hey. Sunshine. You alive in there?" Chase startled this time. A tiny little jump, nothing like his usual startled yelp. His cheeks flushed more. "I'm fine," he mumbled, voice syrupy and hoarse. "Had a long night." House snorted. "Long night is my thing. Nice try." Chase fidgeted, shoulders climbing up to his ears. His eyes flickered to the window, to the floor, then briefly to House with a look that was far too timid to belong to a grown doctor. House leaned closer. His hand brushed Chase's forehead. Hot. Too hot. "Congratulations," House said, pulling back. "You're running a fever. And also running your mouth with lies. Very on brand." Chase shook his head quickly, wincing at the movement. "I can work." "Nope. Sorry. Try again. You can barely sit upright without listing to one side like a sad little sailboat." Chase’s lip wobbled. Actually wobbled. House stared at him. Well. It's not like Chase never did that as an adult. Though it looked particularly infantile today. House tapped his cane twice. "Question. How old are you right now." Chase immediately stiffened. He tugged at his sleeves, cheeks coloring a deep pink. "I don't know what you mean." House gave him the most unimpressed stare known to man. "Yeah. And I do not know what Vicodin is. Try again." Chase’s breathing hitched. He looked at House like the truth was dangerous, like he was waiting for some horrible reaction. Finally, so quietly House had to lean in to hear it, Chase whispered: "Three." House blinked. Three. Great. Just great. Three was younger than last time. Three was tiny. Three was clingy. Three was feverish and scared and not capable of pretending to be a functioning medical professional for the rest of the shift. House studied him more closely now. The flushed cheeks. The watery eyes. The way he kept rubbing his face against his sleeve like he was fighting off tears. His breathing had a slight whine in it, that soft little sound kids made right before they cried. And he was leaning ever so slightly toward House. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But House noticed. He sighed. He was screwed. Chase's file slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Chase gasped softly, eyes immediately going huge and wet, like he was expecting to be yelled at for dropping it. Oh for the love of all things unholy. "Get up," House said, voice gentler than his words. "We're leaving." Chase blinked frantically. "But I have work… I'm supposed'ta work." "You are supposed to not collapse in the middle of the hallway and force me to fill out paperwork," House interrupted. "I am allergic to paperwork. And to pathetic feverish toddlers pretending to be adults. So get up." Chase stared at him, confused and scared and so small. House softened just a fraction. "Come on, kid. Up." Chase slowly pushed himself out of the chair. His legs wobbled. House grabbed his elbow before he faceplanted and pretended it was about preventing workplace injury. This close, Chase smelled like fever and hospital soap. His eyes drooped. He swayed. House tightened his grip. Cameron finally seemed to notice something was wrong. "Is he okay?" "No," House answered. He did not elaborate. He did not need her input. He steered Chase out of the conference room, ignoring Foreman’s concerned frown and Cameron’s confused questions.	Fevered House noticed it the moment Chase walked into the conference room. It was subtle at first. The kind of thing anyone else would miss. But House had spent an entire night coaxing the kid version of Chase through crayons, bedtime, and a story about a flying dog, so he knew the signs now. Chase looked wrong. Not the kind of wrong that meant pneumonia or a random autoimmune meltdown. The other kind. The soft, quiet, shrinking-in-on-himself wrong. His steps were careful. Too careful. Shoulders round, eyes heavy, skin pale in the way that only fever could manage. He was clutching a file with both hands like it was the only thing keeping him upright. And his lower lip was pushed out just the slightest bit. House narrowed his eyes. That was new. Chase dropped into his chair with a tiny huff, the kind that would have been a sigh if he were twenty-six. But he wasn’t twenty-six right now. Not entirely. House walked up behind him and rapped his cane against the back of his chair. No reaction. Not even a flinch. Interesting. Normally, Chase jerked at least five inches into the air whenever House snuck up on him. Today he just blinked slowly, head wobbling a little before he lifted his gaze. His pupils were huge. His face flushed. His hair all mussed from where he had probably run his hands through it one too many times. And the moment House really looked at him, Chase immediately ducked his head like he had done something wrong. Yeah. Something was going on. Foreman was rambling about test results, Cameron was asking questions, and Chase was staring at a single paragraph on a page like he was trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics. House poked his arm with the cane. "Hey. Sunshine. You alive in there?" Chase startled this time. A tiny little jump, nothing like his usual startled yelp. His cheeks flushed more. "I'm fine," he mumbled, voice syrupy and hoarse. "Had a long night." House snorted. "Long night is my thing. Nice try." Chase fidgeted, shoulders climbing up to his ears. His eyes flickered to the window, to the floor, then briefly to House with a look that was far too timid to belong to a grown doctor. House leaned closer. His hand brushed Chase's forehead. Hot. Too hot. "Congratulations," House said, pulling back. "You're running a fever. And also running your mouth with lies. Very on brand." Chase shook his head quickly, wincing at the movement. "I can work." "Nope. Sorry. Try again. You can barely sit upright without listing to one side like a sad little sailboat." Chase’s lip wobbled. Actually wobbled. House stared at him. Well. It's not like Chase never did that as an adult. Though it looked particularly infantile today. House tapped his cane twice. "Question. How old are you right now." Chase immediately stiffened. He tugged at his sleeves, cheeks coloring a deep pink. "I don't know what you mean." House gave him the most unimpressed stare known to man. "Yeah. And I do not know what Vicodin is. Try again." Chase’s breathing hitched. He looked at House like the truth was dangerous, like he was waiting for some horrible reaction. Finally, so quietly House had to lean in to hear it, Chase whispered: "Three." House blinked. Three. Great. Just great. Three was younger than last time. Three was tiny. Three was clingy. Three was feverish and scared and not capable of pretending to be a functioning medical professional for the rest of the shift. House studied him more closely now. The flushed cheeks. The watery eyes. The way he kept rubbing his face against his sleeve like he was fighting off tears. His breathing had a slight whine in it, that soft little sound kids made right before they cried. And he was leaning ever so slightly toward House. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But House noticed. He sighed. He was screwed. Chase's file slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Chase gasped softly, eyes immediately going huge and wet, like he was expecting to be yelled at for dropping it. Oh for the love of all things unholy. "Get up," House said, voice gentler than his words. "We're leaving." Chase blinked frantically. "But I have work… I'm supposed'ta work." "You are supposed to not collapse in the middle of the hallway and force me to fill out paperwork," House interrupted. "I am allergic to paperwork. And to pathetic feverish toddlers pretending to be adults. So get up." Chase stared at him, confused and scared and so small. House softened just a fraction. "Come on, kid. Up." Chase slowly pushed himself out of the chair. His legs wobbled. House grabbed his elbow before he faceplanted and pretended it was about preventing workplace injury. This close, Chase smelled like fever and hospital soap. His eyes drooped. He swayed. House tightened his grip. Cameron finally seemed to notice something was wrong. "Is he okay?" "No," House answered. He did not elaborate. He did not need her input. He steered Chase out of the conference room, ignoring Foreman’s concerned frown and Cameron’s confused questions. Chase stayed close, following House with small, uneven steps like he was trying to match his pace. Halfway down the hallway, Chase tugged lightly at the back of House’s jacket. House stopped. Chase ducked his head. "My tummy hurts," he whispered, voice tiny and shaky. House took a slow breath. And there it was. The reason the regression was stronger this time. Sick. Scared. Miserable. House felt an irrational surge of protectiveness spike in his chest. "Yeah. Fever will do that," he said calmly. "Good thing I am kidnapping you." Chase’s eyes went wide. "You not mad?" "Kid, if I got mad every time one of you turned into a disaster, I would 've died of hypertension years ago." Chase stared at him, clearly not understanding the joke, but the tiniest relieved sigh escaped him anyway. House walked him out to the parking lot, keeping a firm hand at his back so he did not topple over. Chase stayed pressed close, fingers twitching like he wanted to hold onto something but was afraid to try. The moment they reached the car, Chase hesitated. He looked up at House, eyes shiny and uncertain. "I don' feel good," he whispered. House opened the passenger door. "I know. That's why you're not staying here." Chase climbed in slowly, curling up slightly once he sat down, hands tucked between his knees. He looked impossibly small in the seat, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. House buckled him in without comment. Chase blinked at him, surprised. House shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side. The moment he started the engine, Chase let out a soft, miserable whimper he clearly did not mean to make. House glanced at him. "I am assuming that is the fever talking." Chase sniffled. "I wanna go home." "My home," House clarified. "Yours is too far and I am not dealing with you throwing up on the sidewalk." Chase nodded tiredly. Then: "Can I... I sit closer?" House blinked. "You are already in the passenger seat. This is not a minivan." Chase’s lip trembled again. "I feel bad." House stared at him. He looked pale and feverish and so heartbreakingly little that House had to grip the steering wheel tighter to stop himself from reaching over and ruffling his hair. "Fine," House said gruffly. "Scoot the seat back. Recline a bit. That is as close as you are getting unless you want to sit on the gearshift." Chase obeyed immediately, reclining the seat and curling slightly on his side so he could see House. His eyes drooped again. House pulled out of the lot. Barely two minutes down the road, a soft sound came from the passenger seat. A tiny, sniffly whine. "House...?" "Yeah, kid." "My neck hurts." House sighed. "Your throat. Yeah. That happens when you have a fever." Chase squeezed his hands together, looking guilty for even speaking. "Sorry." "Don't apologize." Chase looked confused. House clarified. "You whining means I know you are still conscious. Helps me track your level of patheticness. It's useful." Chase blinked at him slowly, then let out the tiniest breathy giggle. Clearly the boy understood nothing. House felt his chest tighten in some completely unacceptable, emotionally compromised way. Great. Adorable fever toddler Chase. Just what his sanity needed. House turned onto his street. "Almost there, kid." Chase nodded, eyes glassy. "I don' wanna be sick," he mumbled. "Nobody does." Chase whimpered softly and curled closer to the door, looking utterly miserable. House swallowed hard. Yeah. He had a theory now. The worse Chase felt physically, the younger he regressed. Poor little idiot was probably terrified. House parked the car and turned to him. "Alright. We're home. You are gonna get medicine, water, and a couch. And maybe a cartoon if you do not cry on my upholstery." Chase blinked at him sleepily. "I like cartoons," he whispered. House pretended that did not melt him into a puddle. "Yeah. I figured." He got out, opened Chase’s door, and held out a hand. "Come on, kid. Let’s get you inside." Chase reached for him immediately. And House knew he was in deep trouble. Because that small, feverish hand in his? Yeah. That was adorable. And he was absolutely going to take care of him. By the time House got Chase through the apartment door, the kid was practically draped over his shoulder. Not that Chase was heavy, he never had been, but right now he felt even smaller than usual. Every bit of him was warm and wobbly and limp with fever. House kicked the door shut with his foot, balancing Chase against him so he would not jostle him more than necessary. Chase made a tiny sound. It was not a word. More like a confused little exhale that trembled at the end, as if he was not quite sure where he was or what his mouth was supposed to be doing. House tightened his hold. "Yeah, I know. Rough day. Again." Chase buried his face in House’s shirt, clutching a single handful of fabric with fingers that were slow and clumsy. His fine blond hair tickled House’s throat. He felt more like a feverish toddler than the grown doctor who had started this shift that morning, and this time House did not need the kid to explain a thing. He understood it already. Exhaustion, stress, illness, fear. They stacked up in Chase until the man cracked inward, folding into a smaller and smaller version of himself. And House, whether he wanted to admit it or not, had become the designated catcher when Chase fell. "Alright, little koala," House murmured as he walked them toward the couch. "Let me put you down so I can get things ready." But Chase refused to let go. His fingers tightened and he made a soft unhappy noise, high pitched and pathetic in a way that tugged at something deep in House’s chest. House sighed. "Fine. Cling. You're making this harder, but you are also adorable, so I guess it evens out." He sat carefully on the couch with Chase still attached to him. Chase shifted, trying to climb higher in a clumsy scramble. House steadied him with one palm on his fever hot back. "Careful. You only get one skull and you crack easy." Chase blinked up at him. His eyes were glassy. He did not seem capable of forming a real thought, only focusing on House’s face as if it was the one familiar lighthouse in a fog he could not navigate alone. Then he let out a little whimper. Not pain, more like discomfort and confusion. House brushed Chase’s bangs out of his eyes. "Yeah, kiddo, you feel awful. Fever is climbing again." Chase leaned forward until his forehead pressed under House’s jaw. A tiny shiver went through him. "Cold?" House asked. Chase made a soft huff that might have been a yes. House reached back one handed for the throw blanket. As soon as it touched Chase, the kid curled into a tighter ball against him, practically burrowing into House’s ribs. "You are ridiculous," House muttered. "Ridiculously cute, apparently." Chase let out a sleepy little sigh that sounded almost like a baby settling. House hesitated for a moment before making his decision. "Alright. We are upgrading you to the full care package." He adjusted Chase so the kid was sitting sideways on his lap, head on House’s chest, legs curled close. Chase accepted the movement without resistance. His hand clung to House’s shirt again, small and unsteady. "First order of business is meds. Because you have a fever and you're too young right now to argue with me." Chase’s brows scrunched. His lips pursed in a tiny pout, the kind toddlers make when they do not want something even though they have no idea what the something is. House smoothed a thumb over his cheek. "Relax. I know you hate the taste. You still have to take it." Chase whimpered but did not pull away. House reached for the small bottle he had slipped into his pocket earlier. He shook it, opened it, then tapped Chase’s chin lightly. "Open up, baby doc." Chase made the smallest protest noise, then parted his lips. The dose was small, and Chase swallowed it with a shudder, face scrunching in dramatic misery. House chuckled. "That bad, huh?" Chase did not answer. Instead he leaned fully into House again, exhausted from the effort. "Good job," House said softly. "You did fine." A moment later, a small hand patted weakly at his shirt. As if asking for something, or maybe thanking him. It was hard to tell, but it was gentle and trusting and so very small. House wrapped the blanket around them both. "Next up is food before you crash," House said. "Something soft since you're basically a baby right now." Chase made a faint unhappy sound but did not lift his head. House shifted him carefully and went to get a bowl of warm applesauce. When he returned, Chase was still curled on the couch looking tiny and lost and very much like he needed help for every possible task. House sat beside him, pulled Chase back into his lap, and scooped a small spoonful. "Come on. Just a little." Chase blinked sleepily at the spoon, then at House, then opened his mouth. House fed him bit by bit, slow and gentle. Chase ate without fuss except for an occasional soft whine when he got too tired to keep his eyes open. "Almost done," House murmured. "One more bite. Then cuddles until the meds kick in." Chase accepted the last spoonful, then sagged against House in utter, complete exhaustion. "Good boy," House said quietly, almost without realising it. Chase’s fingers curled around House’s sleeve. His eyes fluttered, then closed, a soft little breath escaping him as he melted into House’s chest. House could feel the fever heat, but also the trust. Chase was safe. Chase knew it. Even in this tiny, toddled state, Chase gravitated toward him. House held him closer. "There you go," he whispered. "Sleep, kid. I have you." Within a minute, Chase was out cold, breathing soft and even, one cheek pressed to House’s heart. And House, for once, did not move at all. He kept one hand stroking Chase’s hair and the other resting strong around his back. "Yeah," House murmured. "I'm good at this. Lucky you." He stayed there, keeping the kid warm and safe, listening to the quiet nursery soft breaths. Chase woke slowly, as if surfacing through warm water. His first awareness was that he felt heavy and achey, his head full of cotton. His second awareness was that he was still curled on House’s chest, wrapped in a blanket, House’s hand resting warm on his back. He made a small, groggy whimper. House stirred slightly. "Look who finally decided to rejoin the world." Chase blinked up at him, face flushed with fever, hair sticking up in soft tufts. He looked even younger than before, maybe closer to two than three. His nose was pink, his lips were pouty, and his eyes were hazy with confusion. Then he frowned. A real, scrunched face, toddler style, full of crankiness. House raised a brow. "Ah. The brat stage. Knew we would get here eventually." Chase responded by turning his face away, arms crossing in the wobbliest little attempt at defiance House had ever seen. House almost snorted a laugh. "Do you even know why you are angry, or are you just doing it for the sport of it?" Chase kicked his heel against the couch cushion. A tiny stomp. Then another. He let out a loud whine, long and dramatic. "Yeah, definitely for sport." Chase swatted weakly at House’s hand. Not hard. More like a cranky cat batting at something it did not actually want to move. House caught Chase’s hand instantly, holding it gently but firmly. "Hey. No hitting. We do not do that." Chase glared at him. Or tried to. It looked more like a pouty goldfish. He tried again to swat. House lifted his brows. "Kid. You can be sick. You can be small. You can be cranky. But you do not hit me." The words landed. Chase froze. His face changed in an instant, confusion overtaking defiance. His eyes went wide and wet. His lower lip trembled. Ah. House knew that look. The one that said tiny brain had jumped to the worst possible conclusion. He knew exactly what Chase was expecting. Exactly what he had gotten somewhere in his past. Exactly what House would never give him. "Chase," House said softly, adjusting the kid so he faced him. "Look at me." Chase hesitated, then lifted watery eyes. "You;re not getting hit," House said plainly. "Not ever. I do not hit you. I will not hit you. I am never going to hurt you." Chase stared at him, breathing a little too fast, overwhelmed by his own small emotions. House brushed his thumb across Chase’s cheek. "You messed up. It's okay. You learn." Chase swallowed, tiny and nervous. "So," House said, matter of fact, "you are going to the corner for a minute. Not because you are bad. Because you need to calm down and remember the rules." Chase’s eyes widened in horror. House almost smiled. "A very normal toddler reaction." Chase shook his head. A small, frantic, feverish no. He clung to House’s shirt. "Nice try. You still go." With calm efficiency, House lifted him to his feet, half-carried him across the room, and placed him gently on his feet facing the corner. Chase wobbled, teetering slightly, still dizzy from fever, so House put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You stand here. One minute. Then cuddles. That's the deal." Chase made the most dramatic full body pout House had ever seen. His whole posture drooped. His knees bent. His head hung. His bottom lip pushed out so far it looked like it might topple him forward. "Yeah, yeah. Life is unfair." Chase let out a miserable whine. The kind that said this was the most boring, most unjust fate in the entire universe. He fidgeted immediately. He turned his head. House tapped his shoulder lightly. "Face the corner. You do the minute, you come back. Easy." Chase stomped one tiny foot. Then another. House’s grin was subtle but unmistakably fond. "There it is. Age appropriate tantruming. Beautiful." Chase crossed his arms again and huffed loudly. The sound echoed off the wall in the most petulant way possible. He shifted from foot to foot. He leaned sideways. He tried to peek over his shoulder. House cleared his throat. "Facing. The. Corner." Chase grumbled but turned back, slumping in the most dramatic display of boredom ever witnessed. He bounced on his toes. He poked the wall. He sighed louder than a grown man recovering from surgery. House watched him with undisguised amusement. "You hate this. Congratulations. You are officially a child." Chase let out another whine, high and pathetic and clearly meant to convey his suffering. Finally, House tapped his cane on the floor. "Time’s up, kiddo." Chase spun around instantly, launching himself at House with surprising speed for someone who had been half asleep twenty minutes ago. House caught him easily, lifting him so Chase could wrap arms around his neck. Chase buried his face under House’s chin, clinging tight and trembling with leftover emotion. House rubbed his back. "There. You did it. You are fine. You're safe." Chase made a tiny sniff and nuzzled closer. The fever heat radiated through his skin. His muscles relaxed again, sagging against House in total trust. "No hitting," House reminded him softly. Chase shook his head hard, as if promising. He mumbled something tiny and apologetic that melted against House’s shirt. "I know," House murmured. "You are good. You learned. That is what matters." He carried Chase back to the couch, settling him on his lap where the kid immediately tucked himself into a little ball, thumb brushing near his lips before he caught it and pressed his face into House’s chest instead. House pulled the blanket around them both. "Much better," he said softly, watching Chase calm down. "A bratty toddler, but a cute one." Chase let out a small hum of agreement and melted completely, feverish and clingy and content. House tightened his hold. Chase drifted against him, warm and sleepy, perfectly safe in the arms of someone who would never hurt him. And House held him, steady and solid, proud of his tiny stubborn mess of a patient. Chase’s breathing evened out again, little sleep heavy breaths that warmed the front of House’s shirt. His fever had eased just enough for the trembling to stop, but he still clung tight, fingers curled in House’s sleeve like he needed constant reassurance that he was wanted here. House shifted only enough to reach the nearby water glass. He set it aside again when Chase made a faint noise of protest at the movement. "Alright. Not going anywhere. Calm down," House murmured. Chase snuggled closer in reply, as if satisfied by the promise. House brushed a hand through his hair, pushing soft blond strands away from his warm forehead. "I guess this is where we are for the rest of the afternoon. You, tiny and sick. Me, stuck under you." Chase did not understand the words, not like an adult would. But he understood the tone. He relaxed again, trusting, warm, safe. House looked down at the flushed little face nestled against his chest. "You'll be fine, kid." The apartment was quiet. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that settled instead of threatening. House adjusted the blanket around them, tucking Chase in more securely. "No more tantrums unless they're entertaining. That's the rule." Chase let out a tiny mumble of sleepy contentment. House allowed himself the smallest smile. "Good. I think we understand each other." Outside, the late afternoon light shifted through the blinds, soft and golden. Inside, Chase slept again, warm against House’s heartbeat. This time, House did not bother to pretend he minded. He simply leaned back, held the sick toddler close, and let the quiet wrap around them both. It was enough. For today, it was exactly enough.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602256	{"authors": ["Redwri"], "language": "English", "title": "Fevered"}
The Photo Album Starsky wearily climbed the stairs to Hutch's apartment. Using his own key, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was quiet, as it had been for many weeks now while Hutch lay in his hospital bed, trying to regain his strength after his ordeal with the plague. It had been an exhausting time for Starsky also as, running on adrenalin, he had stayed by Hutch's bedside; a witness to every little milestone that his blond partner had achieved during that tense time. The first goal that Hutch had reached was when the respirator had been removed so that he could breathe on his own again. Starsky was with him through every labored breath that his partner took, holding his hand and quietly speaking words of encouragement as the two locked eyes. Hutch never taking his eyes off Starsky, as if he was willing the brunet to give him strength. Then Hutch's first rasped words..."Starsk... thirsty !" and Starsky, joy leaping up into his chest, reached hurriedly for a cup of ice chips to moisten the blond's throat. Many a time tears welled up in his eyes as he struggled to hold onto his emotions and smile encouragement, feeling relief when Hutch finally accepted a spoonful of Jello. To see his once strong vibrant partner so thin and gaunt broke his heart. All he could do was offer support and tend to Hutch's mail, water his plants and make sure that his apartment was aired regularly. Sometimes he would sink onto Hutch's bed in exhaustion, comforted by the familiar surroundings and drift off into a deep sleep...the most cathartic thing that he could do at the time. Of course he had support. Captain Dobey and Edith, all of Hutch's colleagues and friends and Huggy Bear had come to the fore, relieving Starsky by Hutch's bedside when the brunet found himself worn out and face down on Hutch's bed, a pale weak hand patting at his unruly curls. They also provided meals for him, washed his clothes or ran any errands that needed doing. Even Hutch's parents had made the trip to Bay City to see their dangerously ill son, but while they insisted that Hutch be flown back to Duluth to recover, Starsky had insisted fiercely that Hutch should not be moved and that he, Starsky, was the one who would provide all the aftercare. So, in a few days, Hutch would be well enough to be released into his partner's care. Now Starsky was making sure that Hutch's apartment was ready to welcome back its occupant again. He had already done a grocery shop and filled the fridge and cupboards with Hutch's favourite foods (including a few things for himself, of course, as he was going to be staying with Hutch until he was well enough to cope on his own). Also, Edith, Cal and Rosie were coming tomorrow to decorate the apartment with "Welcome Home" signs and to leave some homemade treats for Hutch. Picking up a small watering can, he headed out to water Hutch's plants taking care not to over water them. His eyes fell on the African Violet. He grimaced. "You know I don't like you!" he whispered and tried not to recall the unpleasant experience he'd had a few years ago, which had involved his partner's plant. Nevertheless he watered it as well then returned to the lounge and looked around hoping he hadn't missed anything. His eyes fell on a photo album sitting on Hutch's table. Casually he strolled over, sat down at the table and opened the album. Black and white images of Hutch jumped out at him. Firstly, a very young Hutch...mop of blond hair...front tooth missing, grinning out at him from a class photo. Next a photo of Hutch with the caption "Grandpa and me aged 10" showed the blond perched on top of a brown horse, with an elderly gentleman who had a kindly face and was sporting white hair and a mustache, standing by the horse's head, holding the reins. (Hutch had told Starsky that, as a child, his happiest times had been spent at his grandfather's farm.) Starsky gave a wry smile. This was obviously where Blondie had first discovered his love of the great outdoors! Another photo showed Hutch pictured with his family at some formal occasion. Wearing a black suit and standing stiffly a little apart from his parents and sister, Starsky was struck by the sad look on Hutch's face, as if he didn't want to be there. A sharp contrast to the happy grin he displayed when with his grandfather. Starsky turned over the pages and stopped as a photograph of Hutch and himself now caught his attention. It was taken at the Academy. He and Hutch were dressed in their uniforms, their arms draped round each other's shoulders, grinning happily at the photographer. Starsky felt a lump in his throat. He closed the photo album. It hurt to think of his strong compassionate partner, lying in a hospital bed, weak as a kitten. He sighed as he got up from the table. Taking a last look around, he headed towards the door. He could not change what had happened to Hutch, but he loved that big blond lummox and he was darned sure that he would do everything in his	The Photo Album Starsky wearily climbed the stairs to Hutch's apartment. Using his own key, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was quiet, as it had been for many weeks now while Hutch lay in his hospital bed, trying to regain his strength after his ordeal with the plague. It had been an exhausting time for Starsky also as, running on adrenalin, he had stayed by Hutch's bedside; a witness to every little milestone that his blond partner had achieved during that tense time. The first goal that Hutch had reached was when the respirator had been removed so that he could breathe on his own again. Starsky was with him through every labored breath that his partner took, holding his hand and quietly speaking words of encouragement as the two locked eyes. Hutch never taking his eyes off Starsky, as if he was willing the brunet to give him strength. Then Hutch's first rasped words..."Starsk... thirsty !" and Starsky, joy leaping up into his chest, reached hurriedly for a cup of ice chips to moisten the blond's throat. Many a time tears welled up in his eyes as he struggled to hold onto his emotions and smile encouragement, feeling relief when Hutch finally accepted a spoonful of Jello. To see his once strong vibrant partner so thin and gaunt broke his heart. All he could do was offer support and tend to Hutch's mail, water his plants and make sure that his apartment was aired regularly. Sometimes he would sink onto Hutch's bed in exhaustion, comforted by the familiar surroundings and drift off into a deep sleep...the most cathartic thing that he could do at the time. Of course he had support. Captain Dobey and Edith, all of Hutch's colleagues and friends and Huggy Bear had come to the fore, relieving Starsky by Hutch's bedside when the brunet found himself worn out and face down on Hutch's bed, a pale weak hand patting at his unruly curls. They also provided meals for him, washed his clothes or ran any errands that needed doing. Even Hutch's parents had made the trip to Bay City to see their dangerously ill son, but while they insisted that Hutch be flown back to Duluth to recover, Starsky had insisted fiercely that Hutch should not be moved and that he, Starsky, was the one who would provide all the aftercare. So, in a few days, Hutch would be well enough to be released into his partner's care. Now Starsky was making sure that Hutch's apartment was ready to welcome back its occupant again. He had already done a grocery shop and filled the fridge and cupboards with Hutch's favourite foods (including a few things for himself, of course, as he was going to be staying with Hutch until he was well enough to cope on his own). Also, Edith, Cal and Rosie were coming tomorrow to decorate the apartment with "Welcome Home" signs and to leave some homemade treats for Hutch. Picking up a small watering can, he headed out to water Hutch's plants taking care not to over water them. His eyes fell on the African Violet. He grimaced. "You know I don't like you!" he whispered and tried not to recall the unpleasant experience he'd had a few years ago, which had involved his partner's plant. Nevertheless he watered it as well then returned to the lounge and looked around hoping he hadn't missed anything. His eyes fell on a photo album sitting on Hutch's table. Casually he strolled over, sat down at the table and opened the album. Black and white images of Hutch jumped out at him. Firstly, a very young Hutch...mop of blond hair...front tooth missing, grinning out at him from a class photo. Next a photo of Hutch with the caption "Grandpa and me aged 10" showed the blond perched on top of a brown horse, with an elderly gentleman who had a kindly face and was sporting white hair and a mustache, standing by the horse's head, holding the reins. (Hutch had told Starsky that, as a child, his happiest times had been spent at his grandfather's farm.) Starsky gave a wry smile. This was obviously where Blondie had first discovered his love of the great outdoors! Another photo showed Hutch pictured with his family at some formal occasion. Wearing a black suit and standing stiffly a little apart from his parents and sister, Starsky was struck by the sad look on Hutch's face, as if he didn't want to be there. A sharp contrast to the happy grin he displayed when with his grandfather. Starsky turned over the pages and stopped as a photograph of Hutch and himself now caught his attention. It was taken at the Academy. He and Hutch were dressed in their uniforms, their arms draped round each other's shoulders, grinning happily at the photographer. Starsky felt a lump in his throat. He closed the photo album. It hurt to think of his strong compassionate partner, lying in a hospital bed, weak as a kitten. He sighed as he got up from the table. Taking a last look around, he headed towards the door. He could not change what had happened to Hutch, but he loved that big blond lummox and he was darned sure that he would do everything in his power to bring Hutch back to full strength, no matter how long it took. This was a partnership that nothing could break...not even the plague!	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75596886	{"authors": ["Cherylailsamoore"], "language": "English", "title": "The Photo Album"}
Stay Suki heard the front door close gently, signifying the return of her wife from a long day’s work. She heard Eve’s trainers land on the shoe rack, her winter coat hung up on a peg. She waited in the kitchen, knowing the savory aroma would draw Eve in. And so it did. Eve sidled into the kitchen, leaning against the counter beside Suki, an arm being immediately wrapped around her waist, Suki leaning her head on Eve’s shoulder, Eve’s head then resting atop the pile. Eve smelled like an interesting concoction of bacon and the cold. She would shower later, but after a long day on the van Suki never begrudged her sitting down for a moment first, getting down a hearty meal to warm through her bones. “Good day?” asked Suki. “Yep.” replied Eve, thoughtfully. Suki was relieved. One of the many topics which had sparked Norma's snide comments was Eve’s current occupation. Another way she’d been made to feel like a disappointment. Suki knew Eve was perfectly content on the bap van. But as with all jobs, some days could drag, others filled with rude, haughty customers questioning her competence. The last thing Eve needed was one of those days. Suki imagined it wouldn’t take much for a spontaneous decision from Eve that she needed to find a new job. She was missing Stacey there too. It wasn’t that Suki would think it a terrible decision for Eve to move on from the van. She just didn’t think it should be catalysed by Norma words. Because in recent months, following the loss of Stacey, Eve had been doing everything for that van, all of the business behind running it, finding a new staff member and taking on extra hours in the meantime. She wasn’t simply someone buttering baps, as many had tried to degrade her too. And with the business still in Stacey's name, Eve made sure some of the profits were still directed towards Lily and Charli, looking after them in Stacey's absence. It was more than a hospitality job, it was a huge part of Eve’s life and Suki knew how important having a project to throw yourself into was in keeping one sane. Besides, Suki had hoped Eve would have a good day, as after avoiding the topic somewhat at their drink at the Albert the day previous, there was something Suki wanted to discuss with Eve. And she didn’t want to wait too long, she figured she may as well get it over with whilst all the business of the last few days was inevitably on their minds, before they moved on and perhaps the emotions would fade. Seeing Eve upset was one of the most difficult things in her life. The way her eyes glazed over, trying to separate herself from the world. The way she always leant into Suki’s touch, as if she could no longer keep herself up. The way her sentences got shorter and her voice got quieter, or alternatively over compensating with self-deprecating jokes and half-hearted humour. The only bright side was that now she could support Eve through those times. She could engage Norma when Eve needed a second to process her emotions, to let the frustration wash over her. She could provide that physical comfort, fingers through the hair, a hand on the back, a reminder to Eve that she was present, that she wasn’t facing these things alone. Because what had been much worse had been back when she hadn’t been able to help Eve through the hard times and in fact much of the time had been the source of her pain. She didn’t like to reflect too much on it now, with time she could see she had done what she had to do to survive; now that she no longer lived in constant survival mode she could sympathise with her former self. She had always been such a private person, so after the well documented events of the wedding, she had detested the knowing looks she constantly felt herself met with, just wanting to hide away. But in time, she was grateful in a way. At least in the end, Nish had truly exposed himself to everyone, in arguably the most undeniable way possible. Although they would never fully understand, everybody could see that perhaps her icy personality had been born from necessity. Those who knew of the complex situation between her and Eve, namely Stacey, could truly understand why she’d had to behave how she did. It also validated her actions to herself. After time spent with Eve, away in their little bubble, she’d often pondered if perhaps she was wrong and that there was a way forward for them. But she hadn’t been wrong. She didn’t like to think too hard on how lucky they’d both been that things had worked out. She reflected often now. Trauma like hers wasn’t something you could ever expel from your brain for too long. But she could see now, how far she’d come. In many ways thanks to Eve. Eve, too, had come a long way. Together, they’d worked through a lot, trying to alleviate some of the guilt Eve had lived with for so long, finding ways to combat the red-hot anger that occasionally came from her and that always frightened her. But there was one last habit that Suki was yet to quash. Eve’s tendency to run	Stay Suki heard the front door close gently, signifying the return of her wife from a long day’s work. She heard Eve’s trainers land on the shoe rack, her winter coat hung up on a peg. She waited in the kitchen, knowing the savory aroma would draw Eve in. And so it did. Eve sidled into the kitchen, leaning against the counter beside Suki, an arm being immediately wrapped around her waist, Suki leaning her head on Eve’s shoulder, Eve’s head then resting atop the pile. Eve smelled like an interesting concoction of bacon and the cold. She would shower later, but after a long day on the van Suki never begrudged her sitting down for a moment first, getting down a hearty meal to warm through her bones. “Good day?” asked Suki. “Yep.” replied Eve, thoughtfully. Suki was relieved. One of the many topics which had sparked Norma's snide comments was Eve’s current occupation. Another way she’d been made to feel like a disappointment. Suki knew Eve was perfectly content on the bap van. But as with all jobs, some days could drag, others filled with rude, haughty customers questioning her competence. The last thing Eve needed was one of those days. Suki imagined it wouldn’t take much for a spontaneous decision from Eve that she needed to find a new job. She was missing Stacey there too. It wasn’t that Suki would think it a terrible decision for Eve to move on from the van. She just didn’t think it should be catalysed by Norma words. Because in recent months, following the loss of Stacey, Eve had been doing everything for that van, all of the business behind running it, finding a new staff member and taking on extra hours in the meantime. She wasn’t simply someone buttering baps, as many had tried to degrade her too. And with the business still in Stacey's name, Eve made sure some of the profits were still directed towards Lily and Charli, looking after them in Stacey's absence. It was more than a hospitality job, it was a huge part of Eve’s life and Suki knew how important having a project to throw yourself into was in keeping one sane. Besides, Suki had hoped Eve would have a good day, as after avoiding the topic somewhat at their drink at the Albert the day previous, there was something Suki wanted to discuss with Eve. And she didn’t want to wait too long, she figured she may as well get it over with whilst all the business of the last few days was inevitably on their minds, before they moved on and perhaps the emotions would fade. Seeing Eve upset was one of the most difficult things in her life. The way her eyes glazed over, trying to separate herself from the world. The way she always leant into Suki’s touch, as if she could no longer keep herself up. The way her sentences got shorter and her voice got quieter, or alternatively over compensating with self-deprecating jokes and half-hearted humour. The only bright side was that now she could support Eve through those times. She could engage Norma when Eve needed a second to process her emotions, to let the frustration wash over her. She could provide that physical comfort, fingers through the hair, a hand on the back, a reminder to Eve that she was present, that she wasn’t facing these things alone. Because what had been much worse had been back when she hadn’t been able to help Eve through the hard times and in fact much of the time had been the source of her pain. She didn’t like to reflect too much on it now, with time she could see she had done what she had to do to survive; now that she no longer lived in constant survival mode she could sympathise with her former self. She had always been such a private person, so after the well documented events of the wedding, she had detested the knowing looks she constantly felt herself met with, just wanting to hide away. But in time, she was grateful in a way. At least in the end, Nish had truly exposed himself to everyone, in arguably the most undeniable way possible. Although they would never fully understand, everybody could see that perhaps her icy personality had been born from necessity. Those who knew of the complex situation between her and Eve, namely Stacey, could truly understand why she’d had to behave how she did. It also validated her actions to herself. After time spent with Eve, away in their little bubble, she’d often pondered if perhaps she was wrong and that there was a way forward for them. But she hadn’t been wrong. She didn’t like to think too hard on how lucky they’d both been that things had worked out. She reflected often now. Trauma like hers wasn’t something you could ever expel from your brain for too long. But she could see now, how far she’d come. In many ways thanks to Eve. Eve, too, had come a long way. Together, they’d worked through a lot, trying to alleviate some of the guilt Eve had lived with for so long, finding ways to combat the red-hot anger that occasionally came from her and that always frightened her. But there was one last habit that Suki was yet to quash. Eve’s tendency to run away and disappear as soon as things got difficult. The problem was, the last few times this had happened, Suki had somewhat been at fault. Alas she never felt she had a leg to stand on, she didn’t want to sound as if she thought Eve was in the wrong when it was clearly her. But there were other occasions, like last night, where all she wanted was to envelope Eve in her arms, protect her from the world, stay up with her all night if necessary, making sure she didn’t think for a second that she was alone. And instead, Suki had to face a cold bed, a long night of worry as Eve didn’t answer her phone, knowing that alcohol would be playing a heavy part in proceedings. She hated it. But it wasn’t about her. It was about needing Eve to keep herself safe. Just because so far she had always apologetically sidled home the next day, didn’t guarantee she always would. And so whatever method it would take, she needed this habit stamping out. She nudged Eve to free her so she could continue cooking. She’d made one of Eve’s favourites, lasagne. Her increased free time meant almost every night she would now cook fresh, warm dishes, and Eve couldn’t deny that it was a treat, Suki forever batting her hand away as she tried to steal some as it simmered. But today it was already formed, and Suki pulled it from the oven, cheese bubbling on the top. The last few mealtimes with Norma had been charged, snide comments when served Indian food for lunch about whether that was all Eve ate nowadays, once again also implying Eve had no influence in her home. As if they hadn’t together cooked a vegetable cottage pie the night before. So it was a blessed relief, to have dinner back to being a sacred time for the two of them. Suki reached into the fridge for a bottle of wine, but Eve admitted she should probably have a night off the booze. After drinking heavily two nights ago, followed by a few in the Albert last night, she knew it would be healthy to have a break. Annoyingly, it meant she felt as if she was listening to her mothers advice, acknowledging their fridge's healthy wine collection. But she also appreciated that it would be even more immature to have a drink to in some convoluted way try to defy her comments. Besides, Norma wasn’t here anymore to worry about. It was only Suki, and she wouldn’t judge. In solidarity, Suki instead poured them glasses of water and sat across from Eve, occupying their usual positions. Eve took the spoon, ladelling a healthy portion onto each of their plates. As they settled down and began eating, Suki decided to just go for it. “Eve.” Suki began. Eve looked up, sensing the hesitancy in her tone. “I know it’s been a difficult few days, and you’re probably not feeling the best about yourself right now.” Suki knew she had to frame this carefully, the last thing she wanted was more guilt on Eve’s shoulders. “So I need you to understand I’m not making a dig or trying to upset you. But I did want us to talk about your tendency to disappear for the night when things get hard.” Eve’s eyes flitted away, not wanting to look at Suki. It wasn’t exactly a practice that she was proud of. She’d listened to Suki’s voicemails, she knew how distressing it could be for her wife, having no idea how or where she was. Every time she did it, she would later regret it, telling herself that next time she’d act like an adult, face her problems head on. But then when things overwhelmed her she would panic, convinced she couldn’t trust the actions her emotions might lead to. So she’d leave. One drink, she would promise herself. But then one would turn to two, and the world would feel like it was caving in on her and she’d see Suki’s messages, but she’d now be in an even worse state to face her problems, so her phone would be powered off and the drinks would keep coming. Finally, she’d convince herself that Suki would be angry if she returned home, so she’d find an alternative place to crash. All that before the excruciating embarrassment of having to traipse back in in the morning, horrendously hungover and the exact same problems still to face. So yeah, it wasn’t exactly her favourite character trait. And she didn’t really want to talk about it. But she would. For Suki. “I’m sorry.” It was all she could think to say. She knew the impact it had on Suki. She had seen her yesterday, yawning away, having gotten next to no sleep. She remembered the relief washing over her face when she came through the door. And she had thought about it. How she would feel if Suki vanished into the night, knowing nothing for certain other than that she was probably drinking herself to oblivion, trying to contact her knowing she would probably get no response. It would break her. Yet she had done it to Suki, too many times now. Eve continued. “I just couldn’t be here with her anymore. I couldn’t trust what I might say. Or do.” She put her head in her hands, pushing her hair back off her face. “I know.” agreed Suki. Eve had relayed the heated conversation to her, and as expected, it was no wonder she had been so upset. “I don’t blame you for needing some space, I will never mind if you need to take yourself away for a minute, get some fresh air, some processing time. But then you need to come back. Or let me come to you. I can help you. But all this drinking, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism.” “I know.” confessed Eve. For over 30 years now, at the first sign of trouble she had always turned to drink. But her life wasn’t just her own now. She had other people to think about. Especially if she wanted a child. Suki had been right. If they were to adopt, she needed to find better ways to deal with her emotions, the current ways simply would not cut it. “I do want to change.” she whispered. “I know you do, Eve, and I also know that old habits die hard. That’s why I want us to work together. Think how well we worked together yesterday. How much more productive that was in figuring out where we were at and what we wanted. Because you let me in. You let me help you. And when it got too much for you, I could step in. And how many times in the past have you helped me through stuff. Or have I fallen apart when I didn’t let you in. We’re a true partnership, we always work better together.” Eve nodded. She was right. They both knew it, it just wasn’t always enough after lifetimes of keeping things bottled up, having no-one you could trust but yourself. “I’ll try and be better.” Promised Eve. Suki smiled at her gently. “I was thinking. Maybe, you should have a place you can go. The bench in the community gardens perhaps. I’ll give you some time and then I’ll just come and sit with you, and we can talk, if you want, or we can just sit. And then we’ll come home, sleep and the next day we can face things together. How does that sound?” Eve nodded. “It sounds good. I’ll try, I really will.” “Good.” said Suki. “And if not then always remember, I don’t care what time of night it is, or what state you’re in. Once you’re ready to sleep, please come home. I won’t lecture you. I’ll let you sleep. But at least I’ll know you’re safe.” Eve looked at her sheepishly. It all seemed so simple when Suki put it like that. There was one last thing Suki needed to address. She knew her flaws. “And if it’s my fault, if I’ve done something stupid again, then I know I can’t ask for you to do all that. But please, try and stay. I’ll sleep on the sofa, give you the space. Or go to the Slater’s if you need, but go straight there and always let me know where you’re going.” Eve nodded with a grimace. She didn’t like to think of the times Suki had upset her, they were back in a much better place now. And when it was good, it was always so good that it was hard to believe times could be so hard. But as she often said, life was never boring with Suki. It was one of both the best and worst things about her. “And hopefully,” finished Suki. “Nothing bad will ever happen again anyway and this won’t be a problem.” This got Eve laughing. “Here’s to that.” she said, holding up her wine glass of water to clink with Suki’s. As Eve tucked back into her lasagne, her appetite returning as the emotions choking her up evaporated, she felt a small weight off her shoulders. How lucky was she, to have met someone so supportive of her destructive ways, who only wanted to help her, not punish her. She felt a change in her. It was strong enough that she felt like she could finally try, she was determined to break the pattern, to make the change. For Suki. For herself. And for their future little family.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75596906	{"authors": ["Whale_bones"], "language": "English", "title": "Stay"}
Bruises and Breaks Shane was exhausted. Halfway to playoffs, every win had felt like a miracle stacked on another miracle. But as the season neared its end, the strain was impossible to ignore. Troy had three broken fingers and had tweaked his knee somewhere in the first half of the season, Bood was playing on a fractured ankle, Dykstra had busted his elbow and was putting off surgery until after playoffs, Chouinard had a broken thumb and had just made it out of concussion rehab, Hayes had a broken hand and a shoulder that threatened to dislocate at any moment, Ilya had been slammed at a Colorado game by Matheson and had been nursing a busted hip and bruised ribs ever since, and Shane himself had a stubborn knee injury. But somehow, they were managing. Actually, more than managing—they were dominating. Every game was brutal, exhausting, and still they were winning. Ilya had scored 73 goals before the regular season ended, Wyatt was hovering around a .930 save percentage with an insane Anaheim shutout, and Luca, astonishingly, had contributed 62 goals in his rookie fucking season, establishing himself as Shane’s right winger. Their most recent game, the night before, had ended 5-4 after a last-minute goal against the Admirals. Shane had taken a brutal hit from left-winger Wagner early in the second period but had immediately stolen the puck and scored, keeping their lead intact until the final buzzer. Needless to say, Shane woke up that morning and it hurt to breathe. Every movement flared pain up his right side. He groaned, learning shallow breaths for a second before heaving himself out of bed for a run. Two miles in, he surrendered, walking back to the hotel, every step jolting his ribs and making him regret leaving the bed at all.\| He grabbed two breakfast sandwiches from the buffet—edible enough—and rode the elevator up, humming lightly at the thought of his husband, bedruffled curls, sleepy smile. God, he was so fucking lucky. Sometimes Shane couldn’t believe this was his life. He ducked into their room, heart thunking in his sore ribs, knee throbbing. Ice after a hot shower, maybe some ibuprofen—anything to take the edge off. Shane dug into his pocket for the key, slipping inside and hoping he could convince Ilya to spend a lazy day with him. They weren’t flying home until the next afternoon, and he wanted nothing more than to bedrot with his beautiful husband. Shane dropped the key, tugged off his runners with a soft huff, then rounded the corner to see Ilya sprawled over pillows, shirtless, scrolling through videos on his phone. Bruises painted his chest in green, yellow, and purple, but he was still impossibly gorgeous. Shane’s eyes roamed over Ilya’s defined abs before he sat on the bed, kissing him and running hands through his wild curls. They stayed like that for a minute, breathing each other in, savoring the rare stretch of time they could just be.\| Finally, Ilya pulled back, brow furrowed. “Why back early? Did not think you would be so… fast.” “What, you didn’t miss me?” Shane teased, dodging the question. “Also, breakfast sandwiches.” “Hmmm. Did miss you. Always miss you. But… morning run? Why short?” Ilya’s accent curled around every word, tired but persistent. “Didn’t feel like it today. I’m tired,” Shane said, taking a messy bite of his sandwich, crumbs scattering, ignoring the full weight of Ilya's dogged attention entirely. Ilya leaned back mock-stern. “You, Shane Hollander, are tired. Who are you, and what did you do with my Shane?” Shane shrugged with his mouth full. “I’m real. Just skipped a mile. Big deal.” “You are suspicious,” Ilya said, narrowing his eyes. “Something is wrong.” “It’s not. Just sore, okay?” Shane mumbled. Ilya huffed, then waved him off. “Fine. Shower. But… I am watching.” Shane emerged from the shower refreshed, hair damp, but groaned when he saw his ribs in the fogged mirror—angry reds and purples creeping toward his sternum, another thick bruise marking his forearm where he’d hit the boards. He pulled on his ragged hoodie, from some old camp, oversized and comfortable, and loose shorts, glancing briefly in the mirror before heading back toward the bed. Ilya, sitting upright, caught the small wince as he crawled towards the center of the bed. “Shane… your knee?” Shane sighed and tucked his face into Ilya’s side. “A bit. Ribs too." Ilya, well practiced in Shane’s vague answers, immediately tugged at his hoodie. “I see. You hurt. Knew it is not good when you took so long to get up.” Shane tried to protest, but Ilya was already tugging. “Let me see,” he demanded. Shane exhaled, lifting his elbow so Ilya could reveal the bruises. “Shane…” Ilya traced gently along his ribs, wincing at the tenderness. Ilya muttered something in Russian, then, "Knew I should have killed Wagner. Fucking bastard." Shane hissed as Ilya pressed at the center of the bruise, and Ilya instantly backed off. Then he groaned as he rolled off the bed. “Ice, Hollander. Was stupid to run like that.	Bruises and Breaks Shane was exhausted. Halfway to playoffs, every win had felt like a miracle stacked on another miracle. But as the season neared its end, the strain was impossible to ignore. Troy had three broken fingers and had tweaked his knee somewhere in the first half of the season, Bood was playing on a fractured ankle, Dykstra had busted his elbow and was putting off surgery until after playoffs, Chouinard had a broken thumb and had just made it out of concussion rehab, Hayes had a broken hand and a shoulder that threatened to dislocate at any moment, Ilya had been slammed at a Colorado game by Matheson and had been nursing a busted hip and bruised ribs ever since, and Shane himself had a stubborn knee injury. But somehow, they were managing. Actually, more than managing—they were dominating. Every game was brutal, exhausting, and still they were winning. Ilya had scored 73 goals before the regular season ended, Wyatt was hovering around a .930 save percentage with an insane Anaheim shutout, and Luca, astonishingly, had contributed 62 goals in his rookie fucking season, establishing himself as Shane’s right winger. Their most recent game, the night before, had ended 5-4 after a last-minute goal against the Admirals. Shane had taken a brutal hit from left-winger Wagner early in the second period but had immediately stolen the puck and scored, keeping their lead intact until the final buzzer. Needless to say, Shane woke up that morning and it hurt to breathe. Every movement flared pain up his right side. He groaned, learning shallow breaths for a second before heaving himself out of bed for a run. Two miles in, he surrendered, walking back to the hotel, every step jolting his ribs and making him regret leaving the bed at all.\| He grabbed two breakfast sandwiches from the buffet—edible enough—and rode the elevator up, humming lightly at the thought of his husband, bedruffled curls, sleepy smile. God, he was so fucking lucky. Sometimes Shane couldn’t believe this was his life. He ducked into their room, heart thunking in his sore ribs, knee throbbing. Ice after a hot shower, maybe some ibuprofen—anything to take the edge off. Shane dug into his pocket for the key, slipping inside and hoping he could convince Ilya to spend a lazy day with him. They weren’t flying home until the next afternoon, and he wanted nothing more than to bedrot with his beautiful husband. Shane dropped the key, tugged off his runners with a soft huff, then rounded the corner to see Ilya sprawled over pillows, shirtless, scrolling through videos on his phone. Bruises painted his chest in green, yellow, and purple, but he was still impossibly gorgeous. Shane’s eyes roamed over Ilya’s defined abs before he sat on the bed, kissing him and running hands through his wild curls. They stayed like that for a minute, breathing each other in, savoring the rare stretch of time they could just be.\| Finally, Ilya pulled back, brow furrowed. “Why back early? Did not think you would be so… fast.” “What, you didn’t miss me?” Shane teased, dodging the question. “Also, breakfast sandwiches.” “Hmmm. Did miss you. Always miss you. But… morning run? Why short?” Ilya’s accent curled around every word, tired but persistent. “Didn’t feel like it today. I’m tired,” Shane said, taking a messy bite of his sandwich, crumbs scattering, ignoring the full weight of Ilya's dogged attention entirely. Ilya leaned back mock-stern. “You, Shane Hollander, are tired. Who are you, and what did you do with my Shane?” Shane shrugged with his mouth full. “I’m real. Just skipped a mile. Big deal.” “You are suspicious,” Ilya said, narrowing his eyes. “Something is wrong.” “It’s not. Just sore, okay?” Shane mumbled. Ilya huffed, then waved him off. “Fine. Shower. But… I am watching.” Shane emerged from the shower refreshed, hair damp, but groaned when he saw his ribs in the fogged mirror—angry reds and purples creeping toward his sternum, another thick bruise marking his forearm where he’d hit the boards. He pulled on his ragged hoodie, from some old camp, oversized and comfortable, and loose shorts, glancing briefly in the mirror before heading back toward the bed. Ilya, sitting upright, caught the small wince as he crawled towards the center of the bed. “Shane… your knee?” Shane sighed and tucked his face into Ilya’s side. “A bit. Ribs too." Ilya, well practiced in Shane’s vague answers, immediately tugged at his hoodie. “I see. You hurt. Knew it is not good when you took so long to get up.” Shane tried to protest, but Ilya was already tugging. “Let me see,” he demanded. Shane exhaled, lifting his elbow so Ilya could reveal the bruises. “Shane…” Ilya traced gently along his ribs, wincing at the tenderness. Ilya muttered something in Russian, then, "Knew I should have killed Wagner. Fucking bastard." Shane hissed as Ilya pressed at the center of the bruise, and Ilya instantly backed off. Then he groaned as he rolled off the bed. “Ice, Hollander. Was stupid to run like that. Should have stopped after hit too.” He pulled ice packs from the mini-fridge. Shane smirked. “You too. Hip and ribs. And it wasn’t that bad. It's hockey.” Ilya huffed, ever unwilling to admit Shane was right, settling back beside him with ice packs and ibuprofen. “Now we sleep. Timer set. Ice off… maybe sleep more.” Shane nodded, already drifting, nestling into Ilya’s chest. Ilya buried his face in Shane’s damp hair, arms curling gently around him. “Why run like that?” Ilya murmured. “Gotta keep up,” Shane snorted. “You are not… useless. For taking break. Deserve it.” Shane shuddered. “I’ve gotta prove it. Got to prove it was worth it.” “You are second best hockey player in the fucking world. You are worth it,” Ilya said firmly. Shane started to argue, but Ilya cut him off. “Three goals yesterday, assist, leading league in points. Very good. Not… pointless. Understand?” Shane exhaled, tired but comforted. “You here with me, making me happy” Ilya nudged, “This is very useful. Now… nap.” “I love you,” Shane whispered.\| “Я тоже тебя люблю,” Ilya murmured contentedly, then, "You are best part of my life." Shane smiled, nuzzling further into him. Shane’s ribs hurt less—still there, but dull. He closed his eyes, sleep taking him, smile staying. Ilya was there, and that's all that mattered for now.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75596921	{"authors": ["PointMade26"], "language": "English", "title": "Bruises and Breaks"}
on a snowy evening There’s a second where Trowa simply looks at him—brows curled, hand still held even after he’d let go. But later, his gaze shifts into a cautionary one when he warns him, “Quatre. No.” He should listen to him. He should obey him. He should apologize, but the most he can manage is a look of regret when he shakes his head, slips from his boyfriend’s grasp and bolts right back through the gate they just exited. “Quatre… Quatre!” In ten minutes, the park will close. Without the Christmas lights illuminating the city, everything underneath the snow-laden trees has become pitch dark. But he can’t just give up! They’re crying… frightened by the dark and the cold and no one else can hear them but him. A child… what feels like one, at least. A lonely one… it feels so lonely out here. Snowy ground, heavy clouds, not a shred of celestial light. Everything a harsh painting of white on black. Snow used to be so magical to him… but now he just wants to go home. This place is so devoid of all things that make Earth beautiful… It’s hard to catch his breath, when the air is so thin and his clothes are heavy. At a fork, he judges each road by the weight of his heart and takes off to the one leading him northwest. Times like this, it’s better to just shut off his brain and listen to his impulses, the workings of the universe. This way, at least, even when everything looks so similar—snow, frail trees, snow, a tall building with windows illuminated at a distance, snow again—he has a guide. He can close his eyes and feel the map in his chest. Finally, he finds them—just there, in the middle of snowy ground, underneath a bluish light that must be coming from the teeming metropolis around them. A furry thing standing on all fours, barking… A dog. Heat washes down Quatre’s chest, but not in a good way. It’s true that it’s afraid, and it’s true that it’s lonely and it wants to get out of here. But… But it’s also true that all lives are precious, and all lives are equal! But… Quatre chokes on his gasp, whirling to the sound of Trowa’s footsteps marching past him—a sound so loud, it’s a wonder he never picked it up, for all his sensitivities. He stands frozen on the spot to watch Trowa crouch halfway towards the lost pup, negotiating the rest of the distance by extending a gloved hand forward. The yapping stops… With soft pitter-patters, the dog shuffles over to its savior, tail whipping as Trowa whispers and coos reassurances to it. He brings the dog to his arms and rises. There’s a dark cloud hovering over his gaze when he turns to face Quatre. Quatre should apologize. But the word is simply too heavy for his voice and his shame. The dog belonged to a couple who’d lost her at a nearby park. The veterinary doctor asked them to stay so that the couple could thank them, but Trowa begged off, indicating that they were late for something. At the bus stop, they watch three busses pass, but never got on any of them. Quatre doesn’t really know what they’re doing here, but he reckons here’s as good a place as any when he followed Trowa to the empty bench and sat beside him. They’ve been here for maybe the better part of twenty minutes now… It takes Trowa that long to figure out how to finally start: “You have to stop doing this, Quatre. I’m not mad that we missed the light show because of the dog, but you have to stop listening to everything your Space Heart says.” Hearing those words sting, worse that they were spoken in Trowa’s voice, after he promised to love him knowing that his heart is a heavy thing to bear. But none could be worse than knowing that Trowa is right. “It’s been years since the last war ended, Quatre. We’re already living normal lives… there’s no reason you have to keep fixing everything just because you can feel them.” But if he doesn’t fix them, who will? Can the world find them, like that lost pup? What if it turns a blind eye, and the dog won’t be the last to feel lonely and afraid? “You have to live in peace, too. You have to believe in the peace we fought for.” But peace is supposed to make everyone happy… so why do sad things still happen? “Peace isn’t gonna fix everything, Quatre… but that doesn’t make it worth less. We’re still here because of that peace. That dog’s still here because of peace.” Because of peace… It’s hard to listen, to believe in his words… but even with all the sadness clouding Quatre’s vision… he can’t deny it, he still sees the truth in them. A factual truth that goes beyond what the heart feels. “I’m sorry,” he utters weakly. Trowa pulls him in and presses his lips to his forehead. “You don’t have to apologize. But please, stop being so hard on yourself… you’re allowed to be happy, too, even with all this sadness. If you try and fix everything, you’ll run out of time.” Time… will that fix everything? If he lets peace run its course, will that be enough? How will he know? He shuts off his mind, seeking a direction, an answer from the universe. But in the silence, there’s	on a snowy evening There’s a second where Trowa simply looks at him—brows curled, hand still held even after he’d let go. But later, his gaze shifts into a cautionary one when he warns him, “Quatre. No.” He should listen to him. He should obey him. He should apologize, but the most he can manage is a look of regret when he shakes his head, slips from his boyfriend’s grasp and bolts right back through the gate they just exited. “Quatre… Quatre!” In ten minutes, the park will close. Without the Christmas lights illuminating the city, everything underneath the snow-laden trees has become pitch dark. But he can’t just give up! They’re crying… frightened by the dark and the cold and no one else can hear them but him. A child… what feels like one, at least. A lonely one… it feels so lonely out here. Snowy ground, heavy clouds, not a shred of celestial light. Everything a harsh painting of white on black. Snow used to be so magical to him… but now he just wants to go home. This place is so devoid of all things that make Earth beautiful… It’s hard to catch his breath, when the air is so thin and his clothes are heavy. At a fork, he judges each road by the weight of his heart and takes off to the one leading him northwest. Times like this, it’s better to just shut off his brain and listen to his impulses, the workings of the universe. This way, at least, even when everything looks so similar—snow, frail trees, snow, a tall building with windows illuminated at a distance, snow again—he has a guide. He can close his eyes and feel the map in his chest. Finally, he finds them—just there, in the middle of snowy ground, underneath a bluish light that must be coming from the teeming metropolis around them. A furry thing standing on all fours, barking… A dog. Heat washes down Quatre’s chest, but not in a good way. It’s true that it’s afraid, and it’s true that it’s lonely and it wants to get out of here. But… But it’s also true that all lives are precious, and all lives are equal! But… Quatre chokes on his gasp, whirling to the sound of Trowa’s footsteps marching past him—a sound so loud, it’s a wonder he never picked it up, for all his sensitivities. He stands frozen on the spot to watch Trowa crouch halfway towards the lost pup, negotiating the rest of the distance by extending a gloved hand forward. The yapping stops… With soft pitter-patters, the dog shuffles over to its savior, tail whipping as Trowa whispers and coos reassurances to it. He brings the dog to his arms and rises. There’s a dark cloud hovering over his gaze when he turns to face Quatre. Quatre should apologize. But the word is simply too heavy for his voice and his shame. The dog belonged to a couple who’d lost her at a nearby park. The veterinary doctor asked them to stay so that the couple could thank them, but Trowa begged off, indicating that they were late for something. At the bus stop, they watch three busses pass, but never got on any of them. Quatre doesn’t really know what they’re doing here, but he reckons here’s as good a place as any when he followed Trowa to the empty bench and sat beside him. They’ve been here for maybe the better part of twenty minutes now… It takes Trowa that long to figure out how to finally start: “You have to stop doing this, Quatre. I’m not mad that we missed the light show because of the dog, but you have to stop listening to everything your Space Heart says.” Hearing those words sting, worse that they were spoken in Trowa’s voice, after he promised to love him knowing that his heart is a heavy thing to bear. But none could be worse than knowing that Trowa is right. “It’s been years since the last war ended, Quatre. We’re already living normal lives… there’s no reason you have to keep fixing everything just because you can feel them.” But if he doesn’t fix them, who will? Can the world find them, like that lost pup? What if it turns a blind eye, and the dog won’t be the last to feel lonely and afraid? “You have to live in peace, too. You have to believe in the peace we fought for.” But peace is supposed to make everyone happy… so why do sad things still happen? “Peace isn’t gonna fix everything, Quatre… but that doesn’t make it worth less. We’re still here because of that peace. That dog’s still here because of peace.” Because of peace… It’s hard to listen, to believe in his words… but even with all the sadness clouding Quatre’s vision… he can’t deny it, he still sees the truth in them. A factual truth that goes beyond what the heart feels. “I’m sorry,” he utters weakly. Trowa pulls him in and presses his lips to his forehead. “You don’t have to apologize. But please, stop being so hard on yourself… you’re allowed to be happy, too, even with all this sadness. If you try and fix everything, you’ll run out of time.” Time… will that fix everything? If he lets peace run its course, will that be enough? How will he know? He shuts off his mind, seeking a direction, an answer from the universe. But in the silence, there’s only the distant hum of traffic, conversations from passersby… the breath flowing out of Trowa’s nose. Not the answers he’s looking for… but what sort of answers does he need? He doesn’t know either… but… What if these are enough? What if… maybe this is where he has to be. In the here and now. At Trowa’s side, where peace has brought him. Quatre exhales, closing his eyes. He lets go of the universe.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75596926	{"authors": ["seaofolives"], "language": "English", "title": "on a snowy evening"}
wishing to be the friction in your jeans Brendon was a virgin. Brendon had told Ryan in the confidence of night time, huddled together under the same blanket, feet pressed into each other’s sides. Ryan had asked him about Audrey, since they’d only started officially dating 3 days ago. Brendon bit at his fingernails and laughed nervously and revealed that his sweet cherry had yet to be popped. If Ryan wasn’t sleepy he probably would’ve made fun of Brendon. If Ryan was drunk he probably would’ve offered to be Brendon’s first. But Ryan just nodded and continued petting Brendon’s hair. That all changed tonight. Pure, innocent, virgin Brendon was to be no more. Brendon was giddy. Audrey was free to join them on tour and Brendon kept sneaking glances offstage to where she was standing while they performed. Brendon had saved up to book a hotel room just for him and Audrey. Brendon had an idea in his head that his first time had to be romantic. His and Audrey’s first time together, even if it wasn’t Audrey’s first. He deployed Ryan to set the mood in the room while he took Audrey out for dinner. Ryan had no idea what the fuck that could even imply but Brendon had pulled the puppy eyes and the pout and the blackmail he always kept handy, so Ryan agreed. Ryan felt stupid as he tossed rose petals over the shitty hotel bed, sprayed perfume, lit candles, dimmed the lights. He set out condoms and lube and felt really weird about it all. As he was scattering a trail of petals from the bed to the door, he heard Brendon’s voice from right behind it. They were back early. Ryan barely had any time to rush to the closet and shut himself in before the door swung open. The petals flew up in the wind. He heard Audrey’s loud laugh, delighted at the display. She was about just as weird as Brendon. Ryan supposed they were a good match. Ryan peeked through the gaps in the closet door. He had a full view of the bed from where he was standing squished between coats. Brendon dragged Audrey to the bed, his hands roaming down her sides, pulling her top off. Audrey grinned as Brendon licked into her mouth. Ryan thought he had pretty good moves for a virgin. They fell back onto the bed together into the pile of petals there. Audrey’s legs came up to wrap around Brendon’s hips and grind up against him. Ryan should probably stop watching them, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Brendon. He couldn’t hear the mumbled words between them, he was just far away enough. He could however hear the louder gasps and moans. He could see Brendon’s hand cup Audrey’s boob and take a nipple into his mouth, Audrey palming Brendon’s ass. Brendon’s face was twisted into concentration as he slipped a hand into Audrey’s jeans, rubbing her cunt, getting her wet. Audrey was whispering to him, probably sweet, sexy things that made Brendon’s face flush. He was doing something right. Audrey moved to push her jeans all the way down and kick them off the bed. Brendon unbuttoned and shrugged his shirt off. He leaned up to kiss Audrey. Audrey kissed dirty, all clashing teeth and wet tongues. Then, more whispers that led to giggles. Audrey rolled them around so Brendon ended up on his back and Audrey hovered above him. Her body obscured Ryan’s view of Brendon. Her shoulders shifted and Brendon groaned out a sound that went straight to Ryan’s dick. He could hear the soft clinking of a belt unbuckling and then Brendon was kicking his pants off too. Ryan wished Audrey wasn’t covering the sight of his cock. Ryan tried to shift his head, to see if he could get another angle. He accidentally rattled the hangers and he cursed softly at the noise. He whipped his head back to the bed to check if Brendon and Audrey had noticed. They hadn’t. Audrey was kneeling between Brendon’s legs now, her head bent low. The new position allowed Ryan to see Brendon’s face again. He was biting his bottom lip and his hand was big as it splayed across the back of Audrey’s head, pushing her down slightly. Maybe Brendon wasn’t completely as virginal as he made himself out to be. Ryan’s dick twitched in his jeans as he watched Brendon’s face contort into pleasure as Audrey bobbed her head. Ryan’s hand unconsciously reached down to the front of his jeans to palm himself. His breathing had gone ragged. He could hear Brendon’s rumbly voice, dropped an octave lower to sound sexier, which in any other context would be corny, but now, it made Ryan’s breath hitch, made him press his face ever closer to the closet door to try and catch even a murmur of what Brendon was saying. It seemed to have the same effect on Audrey as she moaned and pulled off Brendon, crawling back up his body to press their lips together, slow and heated. Ryan imagined himself as Audrey, imagined that it was his hips Brendon was grabbing, that it was him sinking down slowly onto Brendon’s cock. Ryan couldn’t help the soft gasp that left him when Audrey seated herself fully onto Brendon. Their combined moans masked the noise Ryan	wishing to be the friction in your jeans Brendon was a virgin. Brendon had told Ryan in the confidence of night time, huddled together under the same blanket, feet pressed into each other’s sides. Ryan had asked him about Audrey, since they’d only started officially dating 3 days ago. Brendon bit at his fingernails and laughed nervously and revealed that his sweet cherry had yet to be popped. If Ryan wasn’t sleepy he probably would’ve made fun of Brendon. If Ryan was drunk he probably would’ve offered to be Brendon’s first. But Ryan just nodded and continued petting Brendon’s hair. That all changed tonight. Pure, innocent, virgin Brendon was to be no more. Brendon was giddy. Audrey was free to join them on tour and Brendon kept sneaking glances offstage to where she was standing while they performed. Brendon had saved up to book a hotel room just for him and Audrey. Brendon had an idea in his head that his first time had to be romantic. His and Audrey’s first time together, even if it wasn’t Audrey’s first. He deployed Ryan to set the mood in the room while he took Audrey out for dinner. Ryan had no idea what the fuck that could even imply but Brendon had pulled the puppy eyes and the pout and the blackmail he always kept handy, so Ryan agreed. Ryan felt stupid as he tossed rose petals over the shitty hotel bed, sprayed perfume, lit candles, dimmed the lights. He set out condoms and lube and felt really weird about it all. As he was scattering a trail of petals from the bed to the door, he heard Brendon’s voice from right behind it. They were back early. Ryan barely had any time to rush to the closet and shut himself in before the door swung open. The petals flew up in the wind. He heard Audrey’s loud laugh, delighted at the display. She was about just as weird as Brendon. Ryan supposed they were a good match. Ryan peeked through the gaps in the closet door. He had a full view of the bed from where he was standing squished between coats. Brendon dragged Audrey to the bed, his hands roaming down her sides, pulling her top off. Audrey grinned as Brendon licked into her mouth. Ryan thought he had pretty good moves for a virgin. They fell back onto the bed together into the pile of petals there. Audrey’s legs came up to wrap around Brendon’s hips and grind up against him. Ryan should probably stop watching them, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Brendon. He couldn’t hear the mumbled words between them, he was just far away enough. He could however hear the louder gasps and moans. He could see Brendon’s hand cup Audrey’s boob and take a nipple into his mouth, Audrey palming Brendon’s ass. Brendon’s face was twisted into concentration as he slipped a hand into Audrey’s jeans, rubbing her cunt, getting her wet. Audrey was whispering to him, probably sweet, sexy things that made Brendon’s face flush. He was doing something right. Audrey moved to push her jeans all the way down and kick them off the bed. Brendon unbuttoned and shrugged his shirt off. He leaned up to kiss Audrey. Audrey kissed dirty, all clashing teeth and wet tongues. Then, more whispers that led to giggles. Audrey rolled them around so Brendon ended up on his back and Audrey hovered above him. Her body obscured Ryan’s view of Brendon. Her shoulders shifted and Brendon groaned out a sound that went straight to Ryan’s dick. He could hear the soft clinking of a belt unbuckling and then Brendon was kicking his pants off too. Ryan wished Audrey wasn’t covering the sight of his cock. Ryan tried to shift his head, to see if he could get another angle. He accidentally rattled the hangers and he cursed softly at the noise. He whipped his head back to the bed to check if Brendon and Audrey had noticed. They hadn’t. Audrey was kneeling between Brendon’s legs now, her head bent low. The new position allowed Ryan to see Brendon’s face again. He was biting his bottom lip and his hand was big as it splayed across the back of Audrey’s head, pushing her down slightly. Maybe Brendon wasn’t completely as virginal as he made himself out to be. Ryan’s dick twitched in his jeans as he watched Brendon’s face contort into pleasure as Audrey bobbed her head. Ryan’s hand unconsciously reached down to the front of his jeans to palm himself. His breathing had gone ragged. He could hear Brendon’s rumbly voice, dropped an octave lower to sound sexier, which in any other context would be corny, but now, it made Ryan’s breath hitch, made him press his face ever closer to the closet door to try and catch even a murmur of what Brendon was saying. It seemed to have the same effect on Audrey as she moaned and pulled off Brendon, crawling back up his body to press their lips together, slow and heated. Ryan imagined himself as Audrey, imagined that it was his hips Brendon was grabbing, that it was him sinking down slowly onto Brendon’s cock. Ryan couldn’t help the soft gasp that left him when Audrey seated herself fully onto Brendon. Their combined moans masked the noise Ryan made. Ryan couldn’t stop himself anymore. He reached into his jeans to wrap his fingers around his throbbing dick as Audrey started bouncing, her blonde hair wild as it fell over her back and shoulders. Brendon’s hips were working up to roll and match her pace. Ryan’s fist flew over his cock in the same rhythm, despite himself. He bit his bottom lip raw, trying to contain the sounds threatening to spill out his lips. His ears and eyes strained to drink in everything he could from the scene before him. He was beyond caring about how depraved he was being, jerking off quietly to his best friend having sex. Brendon’s mouth was agape and he looked up at Audrey like she was god, sweat dripping down his flushed skin, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Audrey’s ass. They exchanged some words and Brendon flipped them around. Audrey pulled Brendon’s hips closer with her legs wrapped around him. He gripped her thighs and pressed them to her chest. Brendon fucked eagerly, eager to please. Audrey threw her head back and dragged her fingernails across Brendon’s back. The room filled with their grunts and their skin slapping. Ryan’s eyes were fixed on Brendon’s back muscles, tensing and working as he thrusted into Audrey. On the faint red trails already starting to show on his skin. Ryan was close. From the looks of it, Brendon was too. He had his head bent down into Audrey’s neck, leaving red marks and whispering praises onto damp skin. Ryan wanted to see his face, how he looked when he orgasmed. Audrey had guided Brendon’s hand down to rub her off and she let out a high keening moan, drawn out as she fucked herself on Brendon. “Brendon, fuck!” That seemed to do it for Brendon, too and his hips stilled on a downward thrust into Audrey, coming deep inside her with a groan of her name. Ryan let his head drop back against the wall of the closet as he tugged himself to completion, eyes slitted and watching as Brendon pulled out and come dripped out of Audrey’s cunt. Ryan panted, the inside of his pants cooling sticky and gross against his skin. He shut his eyes, deciding that he couldn’t watch anymore. In the quiet of the room now, he could still hear the murmur of their voices, their lips smacking together as they kissed, the rustle of the bedsheets. Ryan was beginning to accept the fate that he was stuck in the closet until the morning and he was trying to come up with excuses for when Brendon eventually finds him curled up in the corner with an obvious wet patch in the front of his jeans. At the sound of a door shutting, he snapped his eyes open. The both of them had gone into the bathroom. Ryan took the opportunity to slide out of the closet and book it out of the room. The next day, Brendon looked all smug and glowy as he climbed into the van, arm wrapped around Audrey’s waist like a prize. Spencer patted him on the back and Brent whistled. Ryan offered a grin, trying to will away the memories from coming back to him. When Brendon looked at him, all he could think of was those eyes darkened with lust.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75596981	{"authors": ["carouselofpics"], "language": "English", "title": "wishing to be the friction in your jeans"}
of icarus and eve She timed it perfectly. Since the day of Papa’s first defeat, he and Defense Attorney Edgeworth had been neck in neck, matching one another, win for win, loss for loss. It burned at Papa, that his perfect record had been lost, and that he couldn’t reliably defeat the attorney responsible for taking it from him. And if it burned at Papa, surely it was burning at Defense Attorney Edgeworth as well, even if Defense Attorney Edgeworth had never possessed the immaculate record Papa did. After all, he was a defense attorney, and believed in his clients, no matter how deserving they were—and with every guilty verdict, she watched his resentment grow. So when Papa won their latest match-up, she ‘accidentally’ missed the ride with her father, and made her way to the defendant’s lobby to take the elevator down with Gregory Edgeworth. Step one, complete. He couldn’t take his eyes off her the entire ride down—everything she was wearing was well within standard dress code for the courthouse, but carefully arranged to show her…advantages. And if she was wearing Papa’s customary jabot instead of her usual white ribbon, pinned with her mother’s broach, and if that jabot emphasized how the jut of her jaw could look exactly like his—well, she was visiting Papa after all, and he had been understanding of her frustration when the dry cleaner hadn’t had her usual clothes ready in time for the trial. That part of her setup had been tricky to arrange. See, Papa didn’t know what she was doing here, and she didn’t want him to know. She was doing this for herself, her own—satisfaction—for her own reasons, and if he had known what she was doing, he would have twisted it to his own ends, and that would have robbed her of the joy of doing it herself. For herself. She might tell him eventually. She might not. It would depend on how successful the rest of her plan was. "You are Defense Attorney Edgeworth, correct?" she asked once the elevator had begun to move, tilting her head about twenty degrees to the side, and blinking once. Just slowly enough that her eyes—the same color as her father's, but with her mother's long eyelashes—could catch his attention. She had left her whip at home for the day—intimidation would only hinder her efforts— so her hand clenched at her side in vain when she automatically sought the comfort of its presence. He coughed awkwardly, and turned to stare straight ahead at the shiny chrome elevator doors. His cheeks were faintly flushed, as though he were worried she’d caught him staring. "Uh, yes. Yes I am. And you are?" She smiled slightly, but not as widely as she wanted to— he had taken the bait. Hook, line, and now all she had to do was sink him. Franziska held out her hand, and he reached out, studying her face, and took it. "Franziska. Franziska von Karma. I believe you know my father?" she said as sweet as bitter almonds, and another smile flitted across her face faster than a crack from her whip. He swallowed, but his grip on her hand tightened briefly. Good. She had been a little worried that— even if everything had gone according to plan—her last name would scare him off. But she had timed things perfectly, and now it drew him closer. When she stepped closer to him, only then did he finally drop her hand. He matched her half-step, and drew slightly closer in turn, though she'd be surprised if he'd noticed. "Yes," Edgeworth conceded. "I faced him in the trial earlier— I assume you were there for that." She nodded. "I often attend Papa's trials, when I am in the state. However, it isn't often that I've had the chance to watch the two of you face off against one another," she said, watching how his back straightened slightly. She only had a little further to go. "I must admit, it was quite impressive. Papa does not often face much difficulty in bringing a case to its conclusion." She held her tongue and didn't mention that Papa winning the trial was the only proper outcome. That wasn't why she was here. Convincing a defense attorney they were wrong to believe their client was a fool's endeavor. And she was no fool, certainly not after getting so close to achieving her goal for the conversation already. She watched the small expressions as his face twisted slightly, bitter in the reminder of his loss. The wound was still a little too fresh for him to shrug it off completely. Franziska played at biting her lower lip as she debated whether it would be more expedient for her purposes to rip it open further, or pretend to apply a salve. Perhaps a little bit of both. "You were very good." The salve. "Pity that your client wasn't innocent, I don't think Papa would have won otherwise" And there was the dig. It worked far too easily, as she watched Gregory Edgeworth’s reaction. The muscles in his neck jumped and tightened. Defense attorneys were always so righteous regarding the innocence of their clients, even when they were plainly guilty. Franziska knew full well that Papa had employed several,	of icarus and eve She timed it perfectly. Since the day of Papa’s first defeat, he and Defense Attorney Edgeworth had been neck in neck, matching one another, win for win, loss for loss. It burned at Papa, that his perfect record had been lost, and that he couldn’t reliably defeat the attorney responsible for taking it from him. And if it burned at Papa, surely it was burning at Defense Attorney Edgeworth as well, even if Defense Attorney Edgeworth had never possessed the immaculate record Papa did. After all, he was a defense attorney, and believed in his clients, no matter how deserving they were—and with every guilty verdict, she watched his resentment grow. So when Papa won their latest match-up, she ‘accidentally’ missed the ride with her father, and made her way to the defendant’s lobby to take the elevator down with Gregory Edgeworth. Step one, complete. He couldn’t take his eyes off her the entire ride down—everything she was wearing was well within standard dress code for the courthouse, but carefully arranged to show her…advantages. And if she was wearing Papa’s customary jabot instead of her usual white ribbon, pinned with her mother’s broach, and if that jabot emphasized how the jut of her jaw could look exactly like his—well, she was visiting Papa after all, and he had been understanding of her frustration when the dry cleaner hadn’t had her usual clothes ready in time for the trial. That part of her setup had been tricky to arrange. See, Papa didn’t know what she was doing here, and she didn’t want him to know. She was doing this for herself, her own—satisfaction—for her own reasons, and if he had known what she was doing, he would have twisted it to his own ends, and that would have robbed her of the joy of doing it herself. For herself. She might tell him eventually. She might not. It would depend on how successful the rest of her plan was. "You are Defense Attorney Edgeworth, correct?" she asked once the elevator had begun to move, tilting her head about twenty degrees to the side, and blinking once. Just slowly enough that her eyes—the same color as her father's, but with her mother's long eyelashes—could catch his attention. She had left her whip at home for the day—intimidation would only hinder her efforts— so her hand clenched at her side in vain when she automatically sought the comfort of its presence. He coughed awkwardly, and turned to stare straight ahead at the shiny chrome elevator doors. His cheeks were faintly flushed, as though he were worried she’d caught him staring. "Uh, yes. Yes I am. And you are?" She smiled slightly, but not as widely as she wanted to— he had taken the bait. Hook, line, and now all she had to do was sink him. Franziska held out her hand, and he reached out, studying her face, and took it. "Franziska. Franziska von Karma. I believe you know my father?" she said as sweet as bitter almonds, and another smile flitted across her face faster than a crack from her whip. He swallowed, but his grip on her hand tightened briefly. Good. She had been a little worried that— even if everything had gone according to plan—her last name would scare him off. But she had timed things perfectly, and now it drew him closer. When she stepped closer to him, only then did he finally drop her hand. He matched her half-step, and drew slightly closer in turn, though she'd be surprised if he'd noticed. "Yes," Edgeworth conceded. "I faced him in the trial earlier— I assume you were there for that." She nodded. "I often attend Papa's trials, when I am in the state. However, it isn't often that I've had the chance to watch the two of you face off against one another," she said, watching how his back straightened slightly. She only had a little further to go. "I must admit, it was quite impressive. Papa does not often face much difficulty in bringing a case to its conclusion." She held her tongue and didn't mention that Papa winning the trial was the only proper outcome. That wasn't why she was here. Convincing a defense attorney they were wrong to believe their client was a fool's endeavor. And she was no fool, certainly not after getting so close to achieving her goal for the conversation already. She watched the small expressions as his face twisted slightly, bitter in the reminder of his loss. The wound was still a little too fresh for him to shrug it off completely. Franziska played at biting her lower lip as she debated whether it would be more expedient for her purposes to rip it open further, or pretend to apply a salve. Perhaps a little bit of both. "You were very good." The salve. "Pity that your client wasn't innocent, I don't think Papa would have won otherwise" And there was the dig. It worked far too easily, as she watched Gregory Edgeworth’s reaction. The muscles in his neck jumped and tightened. Defense attorneys were always so righteous regarding the innocence of their clients, even when they were plainly guilty. Franziska knew full well that Papa had employed several, while legal, distinctly less-than-tasteful methods of reaching his preferred verdict, but it was such an easy thing to pretend that she didn't. An irresistible opening for a man to take revenge on his rival through disillusioning his daughter. Tantalizing enough that Edgeworth wouldn't be able to leave their conversation in the elevator. The elevator doors opened, and she stepped out. He followed her, and they walked together to the courthouse doors. He held the door for her as she exited. "Wait," he called. She turned back toward him, acting as though she hadn't expected this. "Yes, Mr. Edgeworth?" she asked. He made a face, frowning. "Call me Gregory." He offered her a card from the inside pocket of his jacket. An address was embossed on the front in tasteful gold lettering. A business card. An invitation. Exactly what she'd planned this meeting to get. "I would love to catch up with you more at a later time. Feel free to drop by my office sometime." She smiled again, letting this one last longer than the ones that had come before it. "I'll be sure to do that, Gregory." Step two complete. Step three was more tricky than the rest of the plan by far. It relied less on luck, but if she did not place her feet precisely where they belonged on the path before her, she would surely fail in her endeavors, and everything that had gone before would be wasted. And failure was not an acceptable outcome in any endeavor a von Karma set out to achieve. Step three began thusly: Franziska was well aware that her father would be returning to Germany in order to attend to some business there—and she was well aware of which persons in the Prosecutors Office she could apply pressure to in order to find herself placed on a case opposing Gregory Edgeworth. It hadn’t been very hard, her record was immaculate, and Chief Prosecutor Skye was rather short handed at the moment, and would have taken help from a chicken, if it had passed the bar. Damon Gant had laughed, after she’d left the room with the case files in hand, and made an uncouth comment about her wanting to test herself against the ‘bitch-breaker’ who’d taken down her father. She’d reached the elevator at that point, but her mind plays out the rest of the scene for her against her will—Gant’s eyebrows wiggling, and Chief Prosecutor Skye smacking him, but unable to prevent her own thoughts from following the logic he’d laid out. Never mind that she was doing exactly what they were joking about her doing. Her immaculate reputation would ensure that it stayed as nothing more than a joke between them, and a distasteful one that Lana Skye would soon try to forget. The woman had a younger sister of her own, and Franziska knew that she couldn’t help seeing the much younger Ema whenever she looked at Franziska. Once again, she borrowed one of Papa’s jabots to wear to court—but she went further this time. She left her whip at home, but she did not go into the courthouse unarmed. Papa’s spare cane accompanied her, and she hadn’t even needed to ask to borrow it. He’d insisted over the phone, once she’d told him what she’d be doing while he was away. The phone call had been tense. The last things her father had said to her were to avoid disgracing the family name with a loss at Gregory Edgeworth’s hands at all costs. After her reassurances, she’d ended the call, dropped her phone on her desk, and made her way down to the precinct shooting range. It was funny how Papa would ask her for things he’d never managed to do himself. Franziska took a deep breath, and pushed open the courtroom doors. What she must do now was win. Win—exactly as her father had trained her to do. No more and no less. She must embody his methods, his mannerisms, playing to her good breeding and charm (though she doubted anyone had ever called Papa’s unique brusqueness ‘charm’ except her mother.) Never once stepping outside the lines her father had drawn for her from the day she was born. There were times Franziska allowed herself to dream of stepping beyond the shadow of her father. Of reaching such perfection that he would be forced to look up into the blinding halo of her star. This could not be one of those times. So, every second more she spent at the bench before the Judge handed down the inevitable verdict, she spent ruthlessly quashing the lonely girl who spent months wishing for her father to look at her, when he bent over his files, and muttered about Gregory Edgeworth, and flew back to America without setting eyes on her once. After this sole outing in the courtroom, she knew she would have outdone him in the eyes of the object of his obsession at the very least. The Judge handed down the verdict. Gregory Edgeworth’s eyes glittered at her from behind the defense’s bench. There was something in them beyond the hate that filled his eyes when he looked at her father—that hate was there too, of course, but it was tempered by something else. Step two was paying dividends, it appeared. She bowed twice. Once to the Judge and the courtroom at large. And a second, shallower thing, barely noticeable, to the Defense Attorney doing his level best to control his son-slash-assistant. Step three complete. Franziska sniffed as she left, musing over the events of the trial. Gregory Edgeworth’s son had been disgraceful—interrupting his father, and jumping atop the cross examination. No wonder defense attorneys were so soft. Papa would have never allowed her beside him in the courtroom, let alone her behavior to be such a stain on his performance. At best, she could expect to watch from the gallery. Never from beside him, at the prosecution’s bench. She has mixed hopes on the elevator ride down to the first floor. It had been unexpected and unwelcome for Gregory to bring his son, but she will overcome this obstacle as she always does. The back of the tan trench-coat Gregory wore over his black court suit was almost around the corner when she arrived at the courthouse door. She had only a half-second to steady herself before making her move. Pity. It seemed like his son was still with him—this would require some delicacy in handling. “Gregory,” she opened. It was a risky opening move, but she hoped that it might set him off-kilter enough to give them some privacy for the next round. They had just gone several hours with her only calling him by his last name, after all. “You—Prosecutor—” his son began, and Gregory set a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were not on his boy, but on her. Good. She hadn’t sacrificed that pawn, the weight of his name on her tongue for the first time since his defeat, without reason. “Miles. Why don’t you go on ahead to look over the post-trial paperwork?” Gregory’s voice was soft as he addressed his son. There are threads of affection running through it that she didn’t know the human voice was capable of, let alone that they could be directed from a parent to their child. For a moment, she found herself wanting, selfishly and fiercely, before she tucked that wanting away back where it belonged. Back where it would stay, until she’d finished this fourth step in the plan. It hadn’t been something guaranteed, this fourth step, since there were too many variables in how the trial would—how Gregory would respond to the trial’s natural conclusion—to be able to rely on the completion of this step in the execution of her plan. “Father?” the boy, Miles, asked, looking back up at Gregory. He seemed perplexed that all of Gregory’s focus was on Franziska, and she tamped down firmly on the corresponding surge of elation and satisfaction in her breastbone. “Go on, Miles,” Gregory encouraged. With a last look at his father, Miles left the courthouse, disappearing into the bright toffee-gold sunlight of the late afternoon. With that, there were no barriers between Franziska and her prize. “Why are you here, Miss von Karma?” he asked. She tsked, and stepped forward, running her tongue along the backs of her teeth. “Please—call me Franziska.” It was enough to unbalance him. Whatever reasons he’d imagined brought her here were erased in a moment. “I merely wished to say that I found your case well-fought. Your use of logic was impeccable—I admire your strategy.” “Ah, well—erm.” And there it was. She had what she came here for. She’d reminded him of her father, while softening the blow enough to reel him in further, confusing his instinctive treatment of her while positioning herself as ripe for the picking, if he ever wanted to get one over on her father. She smiled at him again, and gave him a fuller bow, before slipping past him to leave the courthouse, his eyes hot on her silhouette as she left. Perfect. Exactly as planned. There was only one move left, before the indomitable Gregory Edgeworth was placed in check-and-mate. The final step in her plan came as a fruit of the long labor known as patience. Papa was antsy about her remaining in L.A. for so long, but she knew that she needed to bide her time to see this through to completion. When she at last received notice that her father would be facing off against Gregory Edgeworth once more…she did not leave with him for the courthouse on the first day. Nor the second. And on the third, instead of following Papa to witness the next sentence in their rivalry handed down, she drove through the congested streets of this American city, until she found the address on the card that Gregory had given her during their first meeting. Then she found an adequate coffeehouse nearby. And then she waited for the trial to conclude, and for Gregory’s quaint and homely little black car to pull into the limited parking in front of his office. She tossed back the last of her espresso back—though that too was far too American and inferior to her taste—as though it were a shot of Jaeger (and there were a myriad of reasons she would have preferred the Jaeger, not the least of which was the taste,) and tipped the barista on the way out. She might not be used to America, but she wasn’t a monster. The strange spiky-haired boy seemed to appreciate it, as he began to close up behind her. The walk to the office building across the street was just long enough for her breath mint to dissolve completely in her mouth, erasing the taste of bitter coffee. The sharp sting of mint was more fitting for her nature anyway. Franziska was sure Gregory would agree. The barista’s eyes lingered on her from across the road as she stepped up to the office doors and knocked. She shook off the feeling of being watched, and squared her shoulders in front of the door. The thing was—if anyone ever found out about what was about to happen, nobody would or could blame her for this. First, she was a woman grown, and Gregory was certainly a man grown, and they would both be very interested in what was about to happen, since her plan had been so successful. Further, she had never done anything untoward whilst in public. She was younger than the man’s own son. There was no one in the world who would believe that a woman, only recently turned twenty two, would’ve been able to orchestrate the whole affair on her own. If things ever came to light. As it stood, there was no reason that the barista watching should make her so nervous. Franziska von Karma brushed off the momentary cowardice that paralyzed her, and raised her fist to the door and knocked. In the time it took Gregory to get to the door, she had time to contemplate her typical posture: shoulders square, back straight, jaw firm and steady. Heels tucked together and knees bent just enough that she wouldn’t tip over in a faint if she were forced to hold this position for hours. It was how she had always carried herself. Before Gregory answered the door, she dropped her arms to clasp her hands behind her back, let her shoulders dip inward, and shifted her weight to her right foot, the left heel popping up enough from the ground that she felt like a doe poised to flee. All that remained of her former certainty was her straight spine. The door opened. He’d had time to hang up his coat. He was left in the suit he wore in court, and a shiver ran along Franziska’s spine at the strangeness, seeing a man who had only ever existed in one context for her, somewhere new. Somewhere exciting, or at least she hoped what would come to pass would be exciting. For a given definition of excitement. “Oh! Franziska! I wasn’t expecting you to—shouldn’t you be with your—” he started, before thinking better of his questions and stepping aside. “Please, come in.” She smiled, a flinty thing that cracked across her face quick and jagged, and accepted his invitation. He closed the door behind her, and for a moment they stood too close together in the narrow atrium of the modest office he’d secured for his firm. Hmm. He was wearing cologne. It was faint, and it took her a moment to identify anything, though it smelled familiar. Bergamot. She knew that part well enough—many of her favorite blends of tea incorporated bergamot. Something sharper—cognac perhaps? Something faint and herbal lazed at the end, though she couldn’t decide whether it was lavender or rosemary. Gregory cleared his throat. Neither of them moved, and she shifted to the balls of her feet, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. She wasn’t that much shorter than him, but she had opted for shoes without a great deal of heel to emphasis what difference there was between their heights. “Um. Would you like to talk in my office?” he offered. “I’m the only one in the office right now, so we won’t be disturbed, but I must admit that the chairs in there are much more comfortable than the ones in the waiting area. It tends to keep the more…” he trailed off. “Elitest?” she suggested. Franziska was well aware of the impression her family tended to leave. “Elitest,” he agreed. “It tends to keep those types away from the office. We’re happy to defend whoever needs defending, but Redd White’s assistants came by a few years ago.” He winced. “It didn’t end well. Miles—you remember Miles?” She hummed, a noncommittal confirmation. She wouldn’t be able to achieve the perfect victory she’d come here for if he kept talking about his son. Best to seem aware, while being uninterested in pursuing the conversation in that direction. Besides, this angle of attack would help quench the strange burn in her chest that was beginning to make her quite uncomfortable. Gregory continued. “Well, Miles told me that if I ever so much as thought about defending that man or his company, he’d leave the firm and sign with Grossberg and Hammond.” The laugh at the end of his anecdote came across forced and disingenuous. Her unvoiced opinion had come across then. They’d arrived at Gregory’s office, but she didn’t bother to look around. Her gaze remained locked on the defense attorney in front of her—the defense attorney who shifted back and forth, before hurriedly crossing to the window and closing the blinds. Such a small decision, to give away his hand so completely. “Why are you here?” he asked. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue before answering. It was the only visible nervousness she’d permit herself. “I think you know.” It’s more blunt than she’d ever been with him. It was also the only thing she could think to say. Gott, there was no reason he should be standing so close to her. The moment had arrived. Her heartbeat rose, staccato and quick-step in her chest. If he did what she hoped he would, it would seal the deal—he would be unable to go back to the way things were before. It was the “make or break” moment, so to speak. She had not come so far only to fail—she was perfect, she must be perfect, and she would rather throw herself from the window of Papa’s office than permit herself to fail once. His hand was on her jaw. The jaw that she’d inherited from her father—and he tilted her face up, her eyes widening, toward him. She had not expected the only defense attorney to ever defeat her father to have slightly chapped lips. Later, when replaying the encounter for her own…amusement, Franziska would skim over the way her nerves had sung as Gregory pressed his lips to hers. She’d stepped forward, even though her knees had begun to quake unacceptably, and she had to trust in Gregory’s still stability to avoid collapsing to the floor. A new-placed, wide-stretched palm at the small of her back kept her steady, and pulled her closer. The folds of her bow brushed against where their chests were pressed together. He kissed better than anyone she’d ever kissed before. His tongue slipped into her mouth, flicking over the near invisible chip in her bottom right incisor, from when she’d been thrown from horseback when she still competed in jumping events. Papa had put a stop to her riding after that. She’d not thought about that memory in years, content that while her smile might never be perfect, nobody would ever notice its flaw. His hand was warm, and his thumb skimmed over the line of her cheekbone. Franziska’s breath hitched as Gregory drew back. He seemed…concerned, almost. “Is this what you wanted, Franziska?” “Not in so many words,” she demurred. It was true that what actions were taken in the actual encounter were the least-detailed part of her plan.“But I would be lying if I said I had never hoped for it,” she added, hoping the layered truth would serve to obfuscate the matter more. “I see,” he began, and she decided it would be best to derail him before he got another question out. She’d seen his capacity cross-examining witnesses. She knew how quickly a testimony could turn into incrimination. “I bet you do.” Her lips and teeth met the softness under the corner of his jaw. His eyes were still intent on hers, as he watched her dip lower toward his clavicle, and beneath her mouth she could feel his throat bob as he swallowed and spoke again. Her distraction might not have been as effective as she’d have liked. “Franziska.” He started. Stopped. Inhaled, and she could feel his windpipe work under her tender ministrations. It was a heady realization. “Is this all you wanted, or were you—that is, would you be opposed to going further?” Oh. She had been expecting him to press further, not to offer her—this. Now, this? This was delicious beyond all she’d imagined! Evidence, directly from his own mouth, that he had crumbled and buckled, and given in completely—and that he thought it was his own idea. If only she could coach every witness so thoroughly! She might never again have a trial last longer than the first testimony. “No.” The word came out fast and breathless. “I,” she decided on blunt honesty again, “I would like that very much. If we were to go further.” It’s what he wanted to hear, after all. What she needed to tell him, to play the situation to her ends. Still, it was true—this was what she had wanted from before she’d even stepped into the elevator with him. Franziska was not expecting him to smile at her revelation. “In that case,” his hands dipped down to flutter at her thighs, before he thought better of picking her up. Gregory was younger than her father, but the cusp of fifty was still the cusp of fifty—and the risk of pulling a muscle and cutting off their fun more quickly than expected was clearly not a risk he was willing to take. “Come here. It will be more comfortable for both of us.” He drew her further into the room, to the customary and oft-unused sitting space universal to defense attorney firms everywhere, usually intended for the purpose of setting clients at ease. Franziska might not be a client, but it was certainly putting her at ease. She settled into the black leather couch, not having the time to arrange herself to her best angles before he followed her down, and then they were kissing again, and she was loosening Gregory’s tie. His legs had settled between hers, and only the iron control of a von Karma allowed her to avoid shifting forward to grind against his thigh. She drew her focus back to the matter of his tie. Somehow it was harder than her own bow, or the jabot she wore occasionally, and it took only a moment before he was reaching up to help her with the knot. She decided to leave him to it. Her hands slid down his chest, and she fancied she could feel more than just his lungs—the pumping of his heart beneath his ribs—as her fingertips traced along his sternum and his chest rose and fell. She kept going. His belt was much less complicated to undo than his tie. Gregory’s tie fell to the ground in a slither of silk that left her wondering what other uses it might have, later. Much later. His hands joined hers once again, though this time they were shy as she worked at the button of his slacks. Ah. There was no zipper. She began to work at the buttons of the fly. Rather than continuing her work to unbutton himself, Gregory lifted his hands. One awkwardly cupped her back again. This time a thumb slid up under her blouse to stroke the base of her spine. The other hand settled on her hip once more, his fist wrapped around the material of her skirt—only touching her in the transitive form of the fabric. Ah. He’d decided to affect a gentleman’s behavior. Her nails dug in as she reached his waistband, having defeated the fastenings. There was no room for that facade here—he had already crossed that line, and they knew that well. She had no patience for his pretension, pretending to be more than he was, pretending to be better than he was, when the truth was that he was simply a man. Like any other. And she had proof. Just like any other man, when faced with evidence in her hands, he sunk to his knees before her. He dropped from the couch to the floor without a word, and now he sat between her spread legs. She let the facade of the ingénue break enough to smirk down at him. That smirk quickly faltered, because he’d leaned in toward her center, hot and heavy hands dragging down her thighs to hold her knees apart, and she had not been expecting this. “Ah!” This time, her gasp of realization made it to her tongue, as she panted at the feeling. From all her research, scouring forums and blasé literature from obscure bookshops where she could be assured nobody would remember her face, men tended to avoid going down on women. Even in her scant handful of fumbling juvenile encounters that never went further than hands shoved furtively into pants, and harsh quick kisses, it had always been her experience that men would chase their own pleasure. Women were somewhat different, she’d found—or at least the ones who had been drawn to her—and there was a reason that she’d never fully explored that side of her sexual desires. Men were often simpler, and more easy to anticipate with the resources available to her. This was to say: Franziska would have preferred to suck him off. At least that way she could have continued what had been so comfortable for her—playing Gregory’s reactions and needs against him, spinning him around her finger as his strung out nerves frayed and threatened to snap. The risk, the thrill, of accidentally ending this too quickly. Her own perfection working against her. The slight distance, being removed from the action. Playing the situation like she’d been taught to play a courtroom. Instead, Gregory ran a broad and flatted tongue across her tights’ tight center, and Franziska shivered beneath two sheer layers of fabric. Was this his gentleman’s affect again? Her hands had found their way to the couch cushions. Her toes curled in her shoes as he nuzzled against her center. The air in the room was so cold against her face. It cut through her top as though she were as nude as Gregory, and sent goosebumps prickling across her breasts. His polite hand had moved from bunched in her skirt to the top of her tights, and skimmed across the elastic. Steadily dipping below. Until his palm was pressed against the length of her thigh. It was funny. He hadn’t complimented her directly a single time throughout their tryst. Yet the burning focus of his tongue as it danced along the edges of her labia, darting as far into the seam of her core as possible while curtailed by the fabric yet between them, was as intimate as anything she could imagine him saying. Perhaps he would say those words she could see trapped in his eyes if—she would have to think on it more. If she were cross-examined, it might be possible to wring a confession from her. She would like to hear his arguments. The feverish heat grew, and she found herself twitching forward in half-halted movements, her self-control faltering as her pleasure increased, every drag of Gregory’s tongue over her driving her further into madness. The edge of orgasm hovered just beyond her grasp, and almost as soon as she realized it was a possibility, she found herself pushing back against Gregory’s shoulder. “Please,” she gasped. “I—please I need you—just—” the words spilled over one another, overlapping and messy. She couldn’t bear the idea of getting herself off on his face pressed against her, seeing more than the slick shine around his mouth. Having him watch her come undone. The moment where her muscles would clench and roll and she would be on offer for him, having had none of the satisfaction of seeing him undone first. Gregory froze as soon as she spoke, withdrawing and wiping his face. “Are you sure?” he asked. The question was gentle. Franziska’s answer was not. She grabbed his lapels, and tugged him up into yet another furious kiss, slipping his slacks down toward his knees, and wrapping her leg around him to tug him close. “Yes,” she managed as she pulled back, loosing her grip on his shirt enough to reach for his cock. The soft skin under her fingers was unexpectedly delightful—as was the jumping tension in his jaw as he held himself back from thrusting into her grip like a horny teenager. Franziska licked her lips, and contemplated whether she could get him into her mouth at this angle. She gave up after a moment. Later, she promised herself. Later. Gregory had leaned back, fumbling into the drawers of his desk as best he could while still holding her against him on the couch, looking for something in his desk, despite her fingers loosely wrapped around his cock. After a moment, he frowned. “I don’t have any protection,” he said, and went to remove her hands and tuck himself back into his slacks. She did not expect that the first time she would touch his member would be in a desperate bid to prolong their encounter, despite logic of the situation. It was simple fact that he had no protection, and if she were to be brutally calculated about it, as she had been with everything between them to this point, it would be for the best that she not take such a risk with a man who’s sexual history was unknown to her—and with whom it would be an unmitigated disaster if he were to impregnate her. His cock sat heavy in her hand. Unfortunately, her logic and common sense had been buried beneath the burning arousal that stemmed from between her legs, and she had a legal prodigy’s natural talent for convincing herself that she should ignore her own better judgment and listen to the easy argument made by her body and strengthened by her very nature. She was a von Karma, and she would not lose—even to herself. “That’s okay,” she finally replied, and his cock throbbed in her hand. She’d made arrangements for a birth control prescription the moment she turned eighteen, and that would have to be insurance enough for the time being. It would be a simple matter to stop at a store and acquire a morning-after pill on her way home to be completely certain. The sketched outline of a post-case debrief for her plan was coming together in her mind, growing clearer by the moment. “If you’re sure then.” She had been sure for a very long time. It was funny. As Gregory pressed his cock into her, she could almost feel her grasp of the English language vacate her mind and start to pour from her ears. Or perhaps that was the single bead of sweat that rolled down her neck and fell somewhere between their hot bodies. “Bitte,” the pleading escaped her mouth before she could wrangle it, soft-edged and plaintive, and not what she had planned for this encounter at all, but Gregory’s cock twitched inside her as he lifted her from atop his lap to set her on top of his desk. His first thrust slid her back, and knocked a file onto the floor. She didn’t know at the moment, but this would become a favorite place for him to take her. In the moment, she rolled her hips against his, as his clever long fingers dance against the place they were joined. Perhaps it was the satisfaction of a plan executed with the perfection that only she possessed, or perhaps it was the man’s natural talent for this, but she found herself strung out and trembling on the edge of something grand before more than ten minutes had passed. Franziska’s first orgasm at hands other than her own came exactly as she had planned it to—as the solid heat of Gregory Edgeworth’s cock drove against her, and his balls sat snug against the cleft of her core. The high lingered. She attempted to push it away. He hadn’t come yet. It felt wrong. His hips shifted, a stutter, as though he were unsure whether to continue thrusting, or to pull out. He must be trying to decide whether she was now overstimulated, or could continue. How…hmm. Sentimental. Sweet was not the best word for a man who’d just taken the daughter of his rival to bed in an attempt to dominate him once and for all. English was still heavy on her tongue, and her eyes were still languidly closed, when she went to point that out. “My apologies, Herr Edgeworth. I haven’t done this before. Let me—” for she hasn’t quite put back together the edges of the fragmented self that had been instilled in her since she was young. If she was more aware, she would have deemed his inability to find completion the same weakness that led to him bringing his son into the courtroom with him. But for this moment, her muscles fluttering, undone by something outside the expectations for her life which had been laid out for her since birth, she wanted to reciprocate the care with which he’d taken her apart. Even if she wasn’t quite sure how. Her eyes came open in time to see shock ebb from his, to be replaced by shame and guilt. But—he was no longer hard inside her. It seemed as though her confession had tipped him into orgasm. Interesting. He wasn’t able to look at her directly, she noted, as the lingering tremors of release ran through him, his fingers digging into the meat of her thighs. Her eyes narrowed. She could use this. The evening’s events had been quite enjoyable, after all… “You—” he trailed off, and it appeared that shock was still present, albeit beneath the shame and guilt warring in his tone. Ah. There was her grasp of English. Franziska frowned. “I do not lie, Gregory Edgeworth. I will obfuscate or mislead, as any good lawyer will do—as you yourself have done—but I do not lie.” She couldn’t quite make out what lay behind his eyes anymore. It was a swirl far too complicated to understand in the limited time she had left with him. “I have not done this before.” She gestured to where their bodies where still joined, and his hips jerked. “That is not to say I have no experience. Just not in this particular facet of sexual congress,” she hastily added, and she could feel bits of the carefully crafted persona she’d wrought for the sake of her desires flake apart, torn in the machinery of her attempt to find proper and polite English phrasing. To avoid any more missteps, she let him slide from her body, and reached up to pull him into a bruising kiss. “Oh,” he said, panting, once she let him go. And that was all. He didn’t say anything else as he helped her clean up, and walked her to the door. This time, as they made their way through the office, there were no anecdotes about the man’s son. She expected him to let her continue on her way alone once they’d reached the door, but he simply held it open for her, and proceeded to escort her all the way to her car. Where he held the door open for her to get in. It seemed a defense attorney’s softness extended beyond their client. She would keep this in mind, in the future. Before driving away, Franziska reached up again, wrapped Gregory’s tie around her hand, and yanked him down to press a kiss against the liminal boundary between his cheek and the corner of his mouth. Anyone watching might find it difficult to tell whether it was a platonic and European gesture of affection, or something more than that. But she knew where the slow growing ache in her core came from, and so did he. It was with less than innocent intentions that she closed the car door and merged into the twilight traffic, after delivering her hard-edged goodbye. At the cafe up the street, the spiky-haired barista, who might have just witnessed something that he didn’t want to think about for more than five seconds and would hopefully never have to talk about to anyone ever, dropped his broom to avoid looking at Mister Edgeworth as he walked back to his office. He couldn’t look her in the eyes, as he let her into his office yet again. It was late, the sun had long set, and the lamp posts outside sent long streaks of artificial light through the drawn blinds. It lit up Gregory’s hands as they flexed on the edge of his desk, every other muscle still as his eyes tracked her progress through the room. Franziska took her time as she crossed the room. She liked to look around when she was here, see what had changed since the last time she had deigned to visit. Her eyes lingered on the dark leather couch on the left, tucked between the tall bookshelves, and she couldn’t help the way her lips lifted at the reminder of how the slick surface had felt against her bare back and thighs. Halfway across the room, she paused, and took the time to wonder what it would be like to send Gregory a little gift. Some sort of statue, or vase, or book, or something that he would set on one of those lower bookcases, the ones that framed the base of the window in the back of the room, behind the desk. Something that his visitors would look at, and maybe coo over, maybe complimenting Gregory on his taste, never knowing the shameful secret it screamed. That his taste was in her. Nothing more. It was a nice fantasy, leaving behind something he wouldn’t dare to get rid of, even after the last time they meet like this. She didn’t have a plan on when that would happen—but surely it would happen. Eventually. She turned her attention back toward the man she’d come to visit. His eyes were tight, and a tired weight lurked in the creases and corners of his face. He seemed to be focused on her boots. She’d long since gone back to wearing her heels. Franziska banished the smile, and crept closer. He tensed. Waiting. He never greeted her first anyway, anymore. It was…not unexpected, though he was as complicit in her arrival here as he. “Hello, Gregory. It’s nice to see you,” she said finally, with a full smile. “Franziska,” he acknowledged. He’d found his voice again, somewhere between her third and fourth visits to his office, but in the repetition of their little pantomime, he’d found other ways to avoid his own responsibility in this. For example—she could almost hear his teeth grinding as he followed her penetration into his office. “What brings you here, Miss von Karma?” he asked. She’d been right. His teeth were gritted. As though he hadn’t known she’d be stopping by. At least he’d eventually figured out how to speak with her, through all her conjugal visits to the prison of a man who was convinced that there was still innocence left in this world, despite the damning closure of his blinds. It’s enough to make her laugh, and turn to the nearest bookcase. His books on case-law were well used, and each surface immaculately dusted. But that’s not what caught her attention. Franziska pursed her lips and regarded the collage of Gregory with his son. About half of the photos were moments shot with the neurosis of someone who’d looked at the three year long commitment of law school and thought it sounded like a good time. These were obviously staged, either by the son or by Gregory himself. He’d only graduated fairly recently. He was smart enough to have been an early graduate, Gregory had told her—but he’d wanted his son to have a normal childhood, as she had come to learn during the awkward minutes of pillow-talk that tended to happen before one of them made an excuse for her to leave. This comment had been followed by a witless comment about child labor laws, and she’d only realized a moment before speaking that he had no idea what age she’d been when she prosecuted her first case. It was strange that Gregory insisted that she know about his son. As if his son wasn’t half the reason she never lingered in the office beyond getting what she came for. Sometimes she wished he would ask about her. The other half of the photos were all taken by who could only be Gregory’s junior partner, or maybe the childhood friends that drape around Miles’ shoulders in the picture on Gregory’s desk that he always put in the drawer when he was expecting her. Every time she came to this office, she found herself considering the word “childhood” more than she ever had during her own. She reached out and tipped the frame so that she didn’t have to look at the collage any longer. So that—his son—wouldn’t watch what happened next. Couldn’t watch. She knew his name, of course, but she refused to think it, as her fingers lingered on the shelf. Well. It’s been long enough that she could respond to him. He’d no doubt stewed in his own foolishness enough. She turned to face him again with a clear and amused expression. She wouldn’t think of useless, foolish words anymore. It was time to claim yet another victory for herself, for her own ends. “We both know why I’m here,” she said, and continued across the room toward him, sliding between him and his desk. These days, Gregory always played at sending her away when she arrived at his office. He didn’t even bother to let her in, though his invitation was obvious in the arrangement of his calendar, and the dry texts at the beginning of each week informing her on the days his associates would be out of the office. He never let her in anymore, unless it were one of those rare occasions he called for her directly, shame weighting his breath like alcohol. It’s flattering to consider that she might be his vice of choice. It’d been the right choice to leave her contact information tucked into the pocket of his slacks after that first visit to his office. “Do we?” he challenged fruitlessly. “Perhaps you should elaborate, Miss von Karma.” It had long grown tiresome for her, but she supposed that he needed to perform his new ritualistic struggle for absent purity and goodness—not that he would send her away. No matter how his morals twisted at her presence, and the little reminders of her age, or her profession, or her father—she knew why his knuckles were white on the edge of his desk, knew how nicely that grip bruised the flesh of her hips, knew that his teeth were gritted as much about her presence as they were to hide how excited he was to see her here. “Why Gregory,” she chided. “It’s almost like you don’t want to see me.” Franziska settled herself on the edge of his desk, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Whatever happened to calling me Franziska? Are we not beyond such trivial formalities?” He didn’t rise to the bait this time. Perhaps next time she’ll throw in a barb about him calling her by her father’s name. “I just thought I would visit,” she continued. “I know you get…lonely…here by yourself. I wanted to offer my company—and you did say that you weren’t expecting company today.” His hips shifted, but there was no other outward sign that he’d been affected by what she’s said, or her tone of voice. She leaned in. “Come now. I know that latest loss must have been devastating. Your poor client. It might not be much but—wouldn’t you like to feel better?” It was not her best line—she’d used those up during the initial stages of this tryst, in sinking him down to her level—but it didn’t matter, because his hands were now on her waist, and his thumbs were tracing the undersides of her breasts. Franziska von Karma already owned Gregory Edgeworth in every way that mattered. She could afford delivering a clumsy line or two when he had already swallowed her hook. He sighed, and bent down to press kisses against her neck. She reached up and removed his glasses, folding them up and setting them on the bookshelf. It’s not like they’d do him any favors anyway. He’d reached the age where he really ought to consider bifocals, but he and Papa were so similar in their refusal to even consider the notion. “Don’t forget, Gregory Edgeworth, that you were the one to propose this,” she whispered into his scalp. He made a noise that she couldn’t quite identify into her collar-bone, somewhere on the spectrum between a whimper and a sob, and began to unbutton her blouse. She leaned back on his desk, sliding her hips up until she was secure, and spreading her legs. Just enough to tantalize. An invitation she knew he’d soon take. And no matter what he wanted to think of himself, he had most definitely been expecting her today. This was her concrete evidence, the moment she undid the defense’s case. There was none of the usual clutter on the desk like there was when her arrival was unanticipated, and they needed to move to the couch. His hands were on her, and his eyes were still lowered, but his interest, stirring in his slacks, suggested that he’d given in to the moment at last. He moved from her neck to her breasts, slow and deliberate in his attentions, only pulling back for a second to look up at her. “Franziska,” he sighed, and it was agreement and resignation all at once as he went back to kissing along the lace edge of her bra. It was so delicious, when he said her name. A triumph her father could never take from her. A triumph he could never belittle, given that he’d never know about it. Well. That wasn’t entirely true. Sometimes she wondered—if—well, defense attorneys dealt in impossibilities all the time. If a foolish though crossed her mind sometimes in the moments before she fell asleep, back in her apartment in Munich, with the drone of the ceiling fan and the empty linen sheets to keep her company, that would be a secret she’d carry to her grave. Or perhaps to Papa’s. “Gregory,” she said smugly, and gave in to the urge to slid her finger along the sharp edge of his jaw, tilting his face up to look at her before bending to demand a kiss. Gregory rucked up her skirt around her hips. She never wore tights, when she came to his office like this. The time it wasted to peel her out of the garments, and the undignified mess they made wadded around her ankles wasn’t worth the attention he paid to her legs during the process. She was here for a reason, and he knew it, and he was willing, if not visibly happy, to provide. She glanced at the bookshelf again, the memory of the photos she’d hidden from view still haunting her. Perhaps it was just the shape of her experiences with the man, but she found his smile to be something fantastical—elusive. Hidden. Easiest to find in dreams. Even without the tights, his hands were reverent on her thighs, stroking and squeezing, as he made his way toward her center and the soft lace that covered it. Franziska knew that he’d seen the way the strands of lace wove together in geometry reminiscent of a sunflower when he inhaled sharply. The radial shape was like a stamp, a mark. True that she might discard it easily, that it was only as permenant as she decided it would be, but that was true about their meetings as well. And she was still here. His fingers stroked over the material. She looked up at him beneath lowered lashes as he shivered, and his hands fell down to the fastenings of his slacks. She took the opportunity to wriggle out of her underwear. His belt slid off with a comforting soft leather swish-crack, and she eyed it contemplatively, before deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble of binding Gregory’s hands this time. Though he did make the prettiest noises when she did…she knew that it would only alleviate the delicious addition of shame to the desire she could see in his eyes. Besides, the talent in the man’s fingers was one of her favorite parts. Next time, however, she might finally bring her whip with her, and see what that does to Gregory’s shame. She reached up for the buttons on his shirt, as his hot breath stirred the ends of her hair around her face, and began to undo them. One by one. Until his shirt fell open, and she could trace her hands down along where the muscles of his pectorals met the soft flesh of a man who had never been particularly drawn toward exercise for its own sake. The sharpness of her nails left goosebumps in her wake as she made her way steadily toward her prize. It seemed he understood that today was not a day for foreplay, because no sooner had she fished his cock from his slacks, then he was pressing himself inside her. His rhythm, as it usually did, sat between the fervid pace of someone afraid they were going to be caught at any moment, and a tentative slide that would usually do very little to get anyone involved off. Yet, somehow, it managed to stoke the fire at her core faster than anything she could manage by herself, or with any other partner she’d had since Gregory had first taken her. Franziska relaxed back against the hard planes of the desk and let the guilty rocking snap of Gregory’s hips carry her through and tip her into orgasm once again. As ripples of pleasure pulsed through her, she reached up and grabbed Gregory’s shoulder, digging in her nails until he winced. Perhaps this time she scratched hard enough that he would feel the thin red lines well after she’d left, his cotton button up chafing over the fiery stripes of pain for days. Maybe he’d even go into court like that, face off against her father with her marks scattered across his body. Gregory’s hips stuttered in response and he came, burying himself in her and hiding his face in the crook between her shoulder and neck. Franziska looked down at his sweat damp black hair, the grey that had finally started to lurk at the temples and encroached further upon his scalp by the day. The decision was spurious, but she found herself giving in to the urge to run her free hand—the one that wasn’t holding them upright—through it. His eyes remained fixed on the floor. Maybe someday he’d even be able to look her in the eyes. No matter. This little scene could play out as many times as it needed to, until he finally could. She’d appended her plan after her unprecedented success, after all. She could afford to do so again.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75596986	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "of icarus and eve"}
Help Me Understand The scent of Saki’s lavender shampoo clung to Ichika’s hair, highlighting how out of place she was currently. Outside, the city hummed with the sound of the usual Shibuya chaos, but inside, only the soft click of the clock in the hall punctuated the stillness. Saki snored gently beside her, an innocent sound, oblivious to the restless energy thrumming beneath Ichika’s skin. Sleep felt like a distant shore, unreachable across a sea of swirling thoughts. She had arrived earlier that evening, the sky already darkened into the winter hues. Her guitar was slung over her back, a weekend bag bumping against her leg. Saki, a whirlwind of bright smiles, had practically dragged her inside. “Ichikaaaaaaaa! You’re finally here! I’ve been waiting all day!” Saki’s voice, light and melodic, echoed through the spacious living room. “Sorry for being late.” Ichika offered a small, apologetic smile, adjusting her bag.”If I could have arrived earlier, I would have.” “Don’t worry, no worries! Come on, let’s put your stuff upstairs. I’m just so, so happy that you’re here!” Saki’s enthusiasm was infectious, a warm current that always managed to melt Ichika’s quiet reserve. They ascended the polished wooden staircase, its banister smooth beneath Ichika’s fingertips. The Tenma house was as familiar as ever, having hardly changed through the years since she had visited countless times since childhood. While walking, a sudden movement from the opposite side of the landing, where Tsukasa’s room, devoid of a wall of privacy, caught Ichika’s eye. Tsukasa, Saki’s older brother, stood silhouetted against the soft glow of his desk lamp. His back was to them, a broad expanse of bare skin, flexing subtly as he reached for a clean t-shirt. The fabric he had just shed lay crumpled on his bed, a dark pool against the pale duvet. Ichika’s breath caught. She had known Tsukasa for years, a boisterous, self-proclaimed ‘star’ who often felt more like a distant, booming comet in Saki’s orbit than a close friend. He was just… Saki’s brother. A constant presence in her life, but one she had never paid much attention to. But now, illuminated by the lamp, his shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, the curve of his spine a strong line. Muscles, lean and defined, shifted with his movement - since when had he become so muscular? Tsukasa had always been… strong yes, but this was something else entirely. He turned, half-way, and for a fleeting second, his profile was stark against the light – the line of his jaw, the slight dampness of his hair from a recent shower. She couldn’t tear her gaze away, watching a droplet of water fall from his hair, travelling in a line down the groove of his back. Then, all too soon, the t-shirt slid over his head, obscuring the view. Ichika’s cheeks warmed. She averted her gaze quickly, feigning interest in a framed photo on Saki’s wall. Saki, oblivious, chattered on about her plans for the evening. But the image of Tsukasa, half-dressed, lingered behind Ichika’s eyelids. It was an accidental glimpse, a fleeting moment, yet it had etched itself onto her memory with surprising clarity. Now, hours later, the image persisted. The silence only seemed to magnify the frantic beat of her own heart. She tossed, turned, the soft mattress a sea of discontent. It felt like she was looking at a stranger - or rather, seeing something with new eyes for the first time. She must have been so used to the Tsukasa she grew up with that his larger than life personality, unchanging through the years, had masked the changes in his body. She’d seen some of the stunts that he did in his plays, of course. But, this was… she’d never considered that his body must have accommodated to all of the training he did, much like her own hands have with her guitar over the years. His bare skin, surprisingly well built - the way the light had caught him so perfectly - it all replayed, a loop in her mind. Her body felt strangely alive, a low thrum of nervous energy coiling in her belly. A flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to banish the unwelcome, yet undeniably captivating, thoughts. It was wrong, thinking about Tsukasa in such a way. He hadn’t even known she was there. It was an invasion of privacy - even if his room truly didn’t leave anything to imagination. He was Saki’s brother, and somebody she herself had known since childhood, it should feel so much more weirder to suddenly realize that he too had grown up just as she had. But it didn’t, strangely. Rather, her thoughts just kept spiralling. Her mind taking her to places she’d never even considered venturing towards before. It wasn’t that she was innocent, or sheltered - but she didn’t make much of a habit out of indulging in hormonal tyrannies. She lacked interest in the stereotypical romances that captured so many of her age, to the point where she often found herself questioning her ability to understand	Help Me Understand The scent of Saki’s lavender shampoo clung to Ichika’s hair, highlighting how out of place she was currently. Outside, the city hummed with the sound of the usual Shibuya chaos, but inside, only the soft click of the clock in the hall punctuated the stillness. Saki snored gently beside her, an innocent sound, oblivious to the restless energy thrumming beneath Ichika’s skin. Sleep felt like a distant shore, unreachable across a sea of swirling thoughts. She had arrived earlier that evening, the sky already darkened into the winter hues. Her guitar was slung over her back, a weekend bag bumping against her leg. Saki, a whirlwind of bright smiles, had practically dragged her inside. “Ichikaaaaaaaa! You’re finally here! I’ve been waiting all day!” Saki’s voice, light and melodic, echoed through the spacious living room. “Sorry for being late.” Ichika offered a small, apologetic smile, adjusting her bag.”If I could have arrived earlier, I would have.” “Don’t worry, no worries! Come on, let’s put your stuff upstairs. I’m just so, so happy that you’re here!” Saki’s enthusiasm was infectious, a warm current that always managed to melt Ichika’s quiet reserve. They ascended the polished wooden staircase, its banister smooth beneath Ichika’s fingertips. The Tenma house was as familiar as ever, having hardly changed through the years since she had visited countless times since childhood. While walking, a sudden movement from the opposite side of the landing, where Tsukasa’s room, devoid of a wall of privacy, caught Ichika’s eye. Tsukasa, Saki’s older brother, stood silhouetted against the soft glow of his desk lamp. His back was to them, a broad expanse of bare skin, flexing subtly as he reached for a clean t-shirt. The fabric he had just shed lay crumpled on his bed, a dark pool against the pale duvet. Ichika’s breath caught. She had known Tsukasa for years, a boisterous, self-proclaimed ‘star’ who often felt more like a distant, booming comet in Saki’s orbit than a close friend. He was just… Saki’s brother. A constant presence in her life, but one she had never paid much attention to. But now, illuminated by the lamp, his shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, the curve of his spine a strong line. Muscles, lean and defined, shifted with his movement - since when had he become so muscular? Tsukasa had always been… strong yes, but this was something else entirely. He turned, half-way, and for a fleeting second, his profile was stark against the light – the line of his jaw, the slight dampness of his hair from a recent shower. She couldn’t tear her gaze away, watching a droplet of water fall from his hair, travelling in a line down the groove of his back. Then, all too soon, the t-shirt slid over his head, obscuring the view. Ichika’s cheeks warmed. She averted her gaze quickly, feigning interest in a framed photo on Saki’s wall. Saki, oblivious, chattered on about her plans for the evening. But the image of Tsukasa, half-dressed, lingered behind Ichika’s eyelids. It was an accidental glimpse, a fleeting moment, yet it had etched itself onto her memory with surprising clarity. Now, hours later, the image persisted. The silence only seemed to magnify the frantic beat of her own heart. She tossed, turned, the soft mattress a sea of discontent. It felt like she was looking at a stranger - or rather, seeing something with new eyes for the first time. She must have been so used to the Tsukasa she grew up with that his larger than life personality, unchanging through the years, had masked the changes in his body. She’d seen some of the stunts that he did in his plays, of course. But, this was… she’d never considered that his body must have accommodated to all of the training he did, much like her own hands have with her guitar over the years. His bare skin, surprisingly well built - the way the light had caught him so perfectly - it all replayed, a loop in her mind. Her body felt strangely alive, a low thrum of nervous energy coiling in her belly. A flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to banish the unwelcome, yet undeniably captivating, thoughts. It was wrong, thinking about Tsukasa in such a way. He hadn’t even known she was there. It was an invasion of privacy - even if his room truly didn’t leave anything to imagination. He was Saki’s brother, and somebody she herself had known since childhood, it should feel so much more weirder to suddenly realize that he too had grown up just as she had. But it didn’t, strangely. Rather, her thoughts just kept spiralling. Her mind taking her to places she’d never even considered venturing towards before. It wasn’t that she was innocent, or sheltered - but she didn’t make much of a habit out of indulging in hormonal tyrannies. She lacked interest in the stereotypical romances that captured so many of her age, to the point where she often found herself questioning her ability to understand songs in which themes of love or lust were prominent topics. Which is why this was so… sudden. A bit frightening, if she was being honest. Maybe it was because she knew Tsukasa, rather than a random naked stranger on a phone screen in an explicit video. She wasn’t entirely sure - but one thing was for certain, that stolen glimpse of him just refused to leave her mind. Her blood pulsed insistently, drawing her attention inward, to the burgeoning heat between her thighs. It would be impossible to sleep this way. She needed a release, a way to quiet the clamouring sensations. Carefully, she slipped from Saki’s bed, her bare feet silent on the cool floorboards. The moonlight, a silver ribbon, streamed through the window, painting the hallway in shades of grey. She tiptoed past Saki’s sleeping form, her heart hammering a frantic beat against her ribs. The bathroom. It was the only place. The bathroom door creaked open with a sigh. She stepped inside, the air cool against her skin. The night sky filtered through the frosted glass, casting the room in a diffused, ethereal glow. The scent of soap and toothpaste lingered in the air. She reached for the light switch, then hesitated. No, the dimness felt safer, more private. She leaned against the cool porcelain of the sink, her fingers, trembling slightly, fumbling with the waistband of her pyjama shorts. They slid down, pooling around her ankles. Her cotton briefs followed, revealing the soft curve of her skin, the dark delta of hair between her legs. A shiver ran through her. Her hand drifted downwards, a hesitant butterfly, brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She let out a soft gasp, swallowed by the silent room. Her fingers explored, tracing the delicate folds, finding the moist warmth that had gathered there. She thought of nothing but Tsukasa, focusing on the source of this new, strong urge. The image of him flared behind her eyes. Her breath hitched. She pressed her thumb against her clit, a tentative, exploratory touch. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through her. Her hips began to rock, a subtle, involuntary sway. Her fingers worked, a gentle friction, increasing the pressure, the rhythm. A low moan, a breathy sound, escaped her throat. The heat intensified, spreading through her core, making her toes curl. Her mind emptied, focused only on the rising tide of sensation. Each stroke, each press, amplified the pleasure, drawing her closer to the precipice. But then the door creaked open. A sliver of light from the hallway spilled into the bathroom, silhouetting a tall figure. Ichika froze, her hand still clamped between her legs, her eyes wide with shock. Tsukasa stood there, his hair a tousled mess, his eyes wide and unfocused with sleep. He wore only a pair of loose-fitting shorts, his chest bare. He blinked once, twice, the tiredness slowly leaching from his expression, replaced by a dawning comprehension, then a flush that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. His mouth opened, then closed, a silent fish. It would be comedic if it wasn’t Ichika herself being the bigger clown. Ichika’s face burned. Humiliation, hot and searing, washed over her. She scrambled, trying to cover herself, but her shorts were still around her ankles, her hand still positioned intimately. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum. “Ichika? What… what are you…?” Tsukasa’s voice, usually so loud and confident, was a barely audible whisper, laced with a tremor. His eyes, currently looking at anywhere but her, were wide with shock. “Oh my God! I… I’m so sorry!” The words tumbled out, a panicked rush. Her cheeks were crimson. “I didn’t… I thought… the door…” Her gaze darted to the doorframe, where a small, unused lock mechanism was clearly visible, a testament to her oversight. Tsukasa shifted his weight, his feet shuffling against the tiles. His eyes, usually so bright and confident, now looked akin to a cat being struck by lightning. “I… I just wanted some water. I didn’t… I didn’t realise anyone was in here.” He stammered, his voice cracking. He gestured vaguely towards the sink behind her, his eyes accidentally drifting over her exposed body as he did so, making him shut them tight in self reprimation. Ichika felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. The shame was suffocating. “I… I know. I’m so stupid. I just… I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice was barely a whisper. It was ironic, because the source of this entire incident was right in front of her. His bare chest now up close in much clearer view. She could see his pectorals, his V line - everything. The heat between her legs, which had momentarily subsided in her shock, now flared anew, a humiliating reminder of her actions. “Couldn’t sleep?” Tsukasa repeated, his brow furrowed, as if trying to piece together a complex puzzle. “I tried, really! But I just kept thinking about… about earlier.” The words escaped before she could stop them, a desperate, mortified confession. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening even further. “Earlier? Did something happen!? Is everything okay between you and Saki?!” Tsukasa’s voice raised slightly in volume, concern seeping in. Ichika felt her face burn even hotter. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole. “No! No. Nothing like that.” Urgh. Gods. What was she even doing. At this point she may as well just tell him the whole thing to avoid him from getting the wrong idea. “When you were… changing.” She mumbled, barely audible, her gaze fixed on the floorboards, unable to look at him. “Upstairs. I saw you. From the other side.” A beat of stunned silence. The clock in the hall seemed to tick louder, mocking her. Tsukasa’s breath hitched. His chest rose and fell in a quick, shallow rhythm. “You… you saw me?” His voice was softer now, a mixture of embarrassment and something else that Ichika couldn’t guess. Ichika nodded, unable to speak. Her hand, still covering her mouth, trembled. “So… you… you were doing that… because of me?” His voice was a bare whisper now, laced with disbelief, a hint of something akin to awe. His eyes, dark in the dim light, finally met hers, holding them captive. Ichika swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry, constricted. She nodded again, a tiny, jerky movement. The confession hung in the air, thick and heavy, between them. “Oh. Wow.” He breathed out, the sound barely audible. He seemed to be processing, his mind working furiously. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts, with the raw, exposed truth. The air in the bathroom grew heavy, charged with a strange energy. Ichika felt her body refuse to quiet down, a renewed throb between her legs, a fresh wave of heat. The shame still lingered, but it was now intertwined with a confusing, intoxicating drink of anticipation. Tsukasa, standing before her, looked utterly flustered, yet his eyes held hers, full of questions. He took a hesitant step into the bathroom, pushing the door closed behind him, but not latching it. The room plunged back into moonlight and shadow. Tsukasa’s cheeks were still flushed, but the shock in his eyes had faded, replaced by curiosity. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, a nervous gesture. “I… I don’t really know what to say.” He said, his voice hushed. “Well, it makes me - um, I’m very… honoured? No, what I mean is, to make you feel this way… I’m really-“ He stumbled over his words, clumsy and awkward. “I mean… I just thought… you’re Saki’s friend. Always so quiet. I’ve never really viewed you in… that way” “I am Saki’s friend.” Ichika whispered, her voice trembling. “But… you’re… you’re not just Saki’s brother. That’s what I’ve realized tonight, and it’s scaring me because I’ve never really felt so… interested in something like this before. It’s frightening. I just didn’t know what to do.” His eyes widened slightly at her words. A pause, his mind working to comprehend what she had said, before a small, reassuring smile touched the corners of his lips, a nervous, uncertain curve. He took another step, closing the distance between them. He stood before her now, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from his bare chest. “No.” He agreed, “You’re right. I’m not just Saki’s brother, and it’s wrong for me to view you only as Saki’s friend. We’ve known each other too long for that.” He exhaled deeply. “For you to feel such a strong… urge because of me, it’s - well, to be recognised in such a way… it’s quite the compliment. But for you to be so scared about it - I don’t want you to feel that way. This kind of thing, is - it’s normal Ichika, more than you probably think.” Ichika found herself welling up with tears again. “But I’m worried. I’m scared that when it all goes away, I won’t be able to experience it again. I want to understand it, I want to be able to resonate with the emotions that so many songs try to portray that I’ve just never been able to comprehend. But you’re the first thing that’s ever made me feel this way!” Tsukasa waited patiently as Ichika let all of her feelings out, her arms wrapping around herself in a hug. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I know I’m asking a lot, I know I’m being insanely invasive right now. Honestly I don’t know why I’m even bothering. But. Tsukasa. Can you. Can we…” Ichika’s eyes met his. “Can you show me what it’s like to feel these things?” Tsukasa swallowed, hard. The sudden proposition clearly not what he was expecting to hear. But he stood there in silence, thinking quietly. Seconds passed, while Ichika started to wonder if anybody would notice if she jumped out of the window behind her. But then Tsukasa nodded to himself, before his gaze dropped to her exposed body, purposely this time, then slowly, deliberately, travelled back up to her face. “…If I can help you Ichika, it would be my pleasure”. He whispered, looking to her lips, then back up to her eyes, asking permission. Ichika’s breath hitched again. Her heart hammered, a frantic drum against her ribs. She couldn’t speak, could only meet his gaze, a silent invitation, a desperate plea. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently cupped her cheek. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the cool air of the bathroom. His thumb brushed softly against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. His eyes, dark and intense, searched hers for any sign of hesitation, any regret. He found none. Then, slowly, he leaned in. His lips, soft and hesitant at first, brushed against hers. It was a tentative exploration, a question. Ichika responded, her own lips parting slightly, inviting him deeper. His kiss grew bolder, more confident, a soft pressure that soon deepened into something hungry, urgent. His tongue, warm and seeking, swirled against hers, a delicious dance of exploration. She tasted mint and something else – something that had to be… Tsukasa’s own taste. A low moan escaped her throat, an involuntary sound. Her hands, which had been frozen at her sides, now rose, seeking purchase. One wrapped around his neck, tangling in the soft hair at his nape. The other pressed against his bare chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath her palm, the frantic beat of his heart mirroring her own. His hand left her cheek, sliding down her jaw, along her neck, then resting just above her breast. His fingers brushed against the soft curve, sending a fresh wave of heat through her. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough for their lips to still be almost touching, their breaths mingling in the quiet room. “We shouldn’t do this here.” He whispered, his voice hoarse, his eyes filled with desire. “I know.” Ichika whispered back, her voice equally breathless. “But…” “I want you to be comfortable.” He finished, his gaze dropping to her lips again, then to her eyes. “Do you?” Ichika didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” He kissed her again, deeper this time, a hungry, possessive melding of mouths. His hand moved, slowly, deliberately, cupping her breast through the thin cotton of her top. His thumb brushed against her nipple, making it harden instantly, a sharp, unfamiliar sensation. A moan left her, swallowed by his kiss. Eventually, he pulled away, his forehead resting against hers. “My room,” he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. “It’s - we’ll have to be quiet, but it’s better than here.” Ichika nodded, unable to form words. He stepped back, taking her hand while picking up her shorts, still on the ground. He led her out of the bathroom, through the quiet hallway, his steps soft and careful. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath their combined weight, a small protest in the hushed night. Tsukasa’s room was dimly lit by a single, low-wattage lamp on his desk. His bed was unmade, the covers roughly thrown back - understandable given he had been sleeping only a few minutes ago. He released her hand, turning to face her. His eyes, in the warmer light of his room, were even more captivating, dark pools reflecting the unspoken desire that pulsed between them. He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip, then sliding up her side, inside of her shirt, along her ribcage, until his thumbs brushed against the underside of her breasts. “You’re… beautiful, Ichika.” He whispered, his voice thick with emotion. Ichika felt a blush once again rise to her cheeks - but not of embarrassment this time. She reached out, her hands finding his bare chest again, feeling the warmth of his skin, the strong beat of his heart. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him – clean, musky, surprisingly masculine. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, pressing her body against his. She felt the hard length pressing against her, an unmistakable sign of his arousal. A nervous tremor went through her, quickly replaced by a surge of excitement. This was real. This was happening. She understood what he’d meant now, in a way. Knowing he felt this way because of her… it made her feel something. Like she was special. He kissed her again, a slow, languid exploration of her mouth, his tongue swirling, teasing, sucking gently. His hands, no longer hesitant, roamed her back, her waist, then dipped lower, cupping her ass, pulling her hips flush against his. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching into his. His fingers gently took care of the last of her clothing, until she laid there below him, completely naked, exposed in the dim light. It was vulnerable - yet, she felt safe. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her jaw, to her neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He sucked gently at the sensitive skin behind her ear, then moved lower, to the hollow of her throat. Ichika tilted her head back, offering him more access, her fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders. “Can I… can I touch you? Properly?” He whispered, his voice ragged, his lips brushing against her breast. Ichika could only nod, an enthusiastic invitation. He reached out, his fingers circling her now bare nipples, teasing them into hard, aching points. A soft gasp escaped her lips. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin around her nipple. He licked, then sucked gently, drawing the bud into his mouth, making her arch her back, causing a hushed sound to come from her. He alternated between her breasts, teasing each one, his mouth hot and wet, his tongue swirling, creating an exquisite torment. Ichika’s legs felt weak. Her knees trembling from these new, unbelievably strong sensations. She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging in, trying to anchor herself to the world. A tremor ran through her entire body. The pleasure was overwhelming, an addictive wave that consumed her. He lifted his head up, a string of saliva still connecting him to her reddended breast, his eyes dark with desire and his breathing ragged. He reached down, his fingers finding the moist warmth between her legs. He stroked gently, then parted her labia, his thumb finding her clit, pressing softly. “Oh!” Ichika gasped, a sharp, sudden intake of breath. She snapped a hand over her mouth, mortified. Her hips bucked involuntarily. The feeling was so intense, almost painful in its pleasure - it was completely different to her own ministrations earlier. It was like everything was so much more sensitive, her body reacting abnormally. He began to stroke her clit, slowly, gently, his thumb circling, pressing, teasing. His fingers explored her folds, finding her entrance, warm and wet. His eyes met hers again, his question silent but all too clear. She nodded, her mouth still covered, not trusting herself to keep as quiet as she needed to be. He urged a finger inside, her body clenching onto it - the feel of it, of it entering her, made her whimper. “It’s so warm...” He murmured, his voice almost a whisper, his eyes glued to the sight of his finger disappearing and reappearing inside of her. Ichika could only moan, her body arching into his touch, desperate for more. The friction, the wetness – it was all building, a delicious, unbearable tension. It wasn’t long before Tsukasa added another finger, curling, searching, applying pressure exactly in all the right spots and oh god she was seeing stars. Her head fell back against the pillow, her mouth going slack against her palm. It was indescribable. It was too much. He withdrew his fingers, then, with a slow, deliberate movement - and suddenly she understood the meaning of the word wanting. She felt so empty, the sudden lack of friction feeling like a bucket of iced water being thrown over her. But she needed only to wait. She watched, sitting up slightly, taking in the sight as Tsukasa removed his sole article of clothing, his own arousal springing free. It was strange - she’d never felt anything previously upon seeing one, and in all honestly she’d usually think to herself that they were gross when watching a video. But, for some reason, this one didn’t strike that impression onto her. It was rather large, but not exaggerated or dramatised. The colour was flushed, but in a way that weirdly made it look enticing. Even the hair was trimmed neatly - because of course that’s something that Tsukasa would do. It made her smile. He sighed, relief escaping him as he touched himself, allowing a few small strokes. The tiniest bead of pre cum escaped, and for just a split second Ichika found herself wondering what it would taste like. Tsukasa stood up, tip-toeing over to his dresser. He reached into a drawer, picking out a certain box, a necessary packet. He returned to her, preparing himself, his fingers shaking with anticipation and nervousness - the sight honestly rather adorable. Then he guided his cock to her entrance. She felt the blunt head press against her, hot and hard. An apprehensive flutter went through her, but the desire was stronger, overwhelming. “Are you ready?” He asked, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze searching hers. Ichika nodded, her eyes wide. She removed her hand, showing him her glistening lips. “Yes. Please.” He pushed, slowly, and oh god this was new. It felt so different, completely incomparable to fingers. The stretch was both uncomfortable and exhilarating, an inch at a time. A sharp intake left her as she felt him enter her, fill her. The initial discomfort was quickly replaced by a strong feeling of pressure, and it took her breath away. He paused, letting her adjust, letting her body acclimate to his size. “Ichika” he moaned, the sound one of pure lust, his face a vision of intense pleasure and concentration. “Oh god. It’s so…” Ichika wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. A small cry escaped her, it was overwhelming, almost too much and yet not nearly enough. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself, the only thing she could was hold on to him, tight, losing herself in his all consuming embrace. He gave her forehead a soft kiss, and began to move. It was slow, sensual - unbelievably intimate. His hips rolled, working a calm rhythm, delivering to her consistent waves of sensation with each thrust. The sound of their bodies meeting, the wetness, the quiet gasps and bitten back moans - they all echoed in the spacious room, making it seem all the more audacious. Ichika gasped, her hips rising to meet his every thrust. Her hands clawed at his back, nails digging into his skin. The pleasure was relentless, building, building, consuming her. She felt herself clenching around him, pulling him deeper, welcoming him, accepting him. “Oh, Tsukasa!” She cried out, a breathless moan. It wasn’t like the fake, exaggerated performances of certain actresses. It was brought out naturally, ripped from her throat. Tsukasa. Tsukasa - he was all she could think of, all she could feel. In this moment, right now, she’d never wanted anything more in her life. He responded with a deep groan, his thrusts growing harder, faster, more urgent. Hearing his own name must have done something to him, because he buried his face in her neck, sucking, biting gently, his breath hot against her skin. They moved together in harmony, absorbed in their desire, their lust, embodying the utter cacophony of sensation that threatened to drown them both. It was irrevocable, this shared moment between them, this monumental moment in both of their lives. But neither would have it any other way. “Ichika… I’m… oh god, Ichika!” He panted, his voice raw with exertion and pleasure. Ichika felt the same way, every nerve in her body tightened, threatening to snap. She was at the peak, looking down at the view before her, and she was ready to fall - because she knew that he would catch her in his arms. The climax hit her like a tidal wave, a sudden, explosive release that convulsed her entire body. Her muscles clenched, seizing around his cock, pulling him even deeper. A long, drawn-out moan escaped her lips, her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut. Her whole world turned white, electric hot - like lightning had struck every part of her. Tsukasa, unable to cope with the sudden increased tightness, tensed. He thrust one last, deep time, burying himself fully inside her, and then shuddered, a long, drawn-out release, his bliss muffled against the sweaty skin of her neck. They laid there, Tsukasa still buried deep inside her, their bodies slick and heady with the scent of sex, breathing erratically. Their hearts hammered in unison, a frantic chaos slowly beginning to subside. Gently, Tsukasa pulled out, with Ichika wincing with sensitivity. He soothed her, discarding the protection as he lathered her in ghost-like kisses, almost silent praises being whispered to her that she couldn’t quite hear, her mind a hundred thousand miles away. He rolled them onto their sides, pulling her close, his arms wrapped tightly around her, her head nestled against his chest. “Tsukasa...thank you.” The words were barely audible, but she knew he’d hear them. “You did so well, Ichika. You were perfect. Please… please don’t ever feel scared.” He replied sleepily, his fingers stroking her black locks. The warmth of his body, the lingering sensation of the apex of sensation they had just experienced - it was like a comforting blanket, its weight heavy and snug. Ichika felt the exhaustion win its fight over her, sweet and enticing. She closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the quiet hum of the night. She drifted off, enveloped in the aftermath of their shared intimacy. ——- A soft, melodic voice stirred Ichika from a deep, dreamless sleep. “Ichika? Ichika, are you awake?” Saki. Her voice, bright and cheerful, filtered through the haze. Ichika’s eyes fluttered open. Sunlight, its brightness insistent, filtered through the gap in the curtains. It took her a moment to realize where she was. She was in Tsukasa’s bed. Her body felt heavy, pleasantly sore, and utterly sated. Tsukasa lay beside her, still asleep, his arm draped possessively over her waist, his face buried in the pillow. His brows were slightly furrowed, mouth just ever so parted - it was unbelievably cute. Ah, wait. She was in Tsukasa’s bed. Panic flared, a sudden, cold jolt. Saki was calling for her. “Ichika? Where are you? Did you get up already?” Saki’s voice was closer now, wandering outside on the landing. Tsukasa stirred with a yawn. His eyes fluttered open, blinking against the pale light. He looked at Ichika, his eyes clouded with sleep, then filling with confusion, before they widened as he remembered where they were, what they had done. A flush crept up his neck, mirroring hers. “Saki’s awake,” Ichika whispered, her voice hoarse. “She’s looking for me.” Tsukasa’s eyes darted to the landing, then back to her, an emotion that could only be described as fear appearing on his face. He quickly withdrew his arm, scrambling to sit up, pulling the duvet up to his waist. “What do we do!?” He whispered, his voice laced with panic. “I… I don’t know.” Ichika whispered back, her mind racing. She felt a sudden urge to giggle, a nervous, breathless sound, despite the situation. The absurdity of it all - it was admittedly rather funny. But explaining what had happened to Saki was completely out of the question, not when they hadn’t even addressed it themselves. “Ichika? Are you in Onii-chan’s room? What are you doing in there?” Saki’s voice was closer now, a note of playful curiosity entering it. Tsukasa’s eyes widened further. He looked at Ichika, a desperate plea in his gaze. Ichika took a deep breath. She reached for her pyjama top, which was crumpled on the floor beside the bed, and pulled it on quickly, her movements clumsy in her haste. “I’m coming, Saki!” She called out, forcing a cheerful tone into her voice. She glanced at Tsukasa, silently wording ‘play along’. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet touching the cool floor. She grabbed her shorts, pulling them on quickly. Tsukasa, still half-hidden by the duvet, watched her. Ichika walked out onto the landing, immediately spotting Saki standing there, a bright smile on her face, her blonde hair messy in the morning light. “There you are! I woke up and you were gone! I thought you’d left to go home or something.” Saki’s smile wavered slightly, making Ichika feel an immense wave of guilt. “Oh, no, of course not,” Ichika said, forcing a casual laugh. “I just… I woke up really early, you know? And I noticed Tsukasa was already awake, so I just popped in to chat.” She gestured vaguely backwards into Tsukasa’s room. Saki pouted. “Onii-chan? He didn’t wake you up early, did he? I’m always telling him to stop making a racket at first thing in the morning.” Tsukasa cleared his throat, making his voice be heard without showing himself. “Yes, well, it would be improper to neglect my practice even for a single morning! It is crucial to get in every single second that I can in order to prepare for this role!” He managed to inject a semblance of his usual theatrical bluster into his voice, though it sounded a little strained. Saki’s lips twitched, trying to hold back laughter. She looked back at Ichika, shaking her head. “I’m really sorry about him. You wouldn’t believe what the neighbours say!” She gave Ichika an understanding expression, before turning round to return to her room, her cheerful voice already planning their breakfast. Ichika let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been storing. It felt horrible, lying to Saki’s face - but given the circumstances; there really wasn’t any other choice, for both their sakes. She returned to Tsukasa’s room, finding him where she’d left him. He was sat up in bed, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. She imagined having to lie to his sister hit him even harder than it did to her. Their eyes met, and Ichika gave him an apologetic look, sitting down on the side of the bed. “I’m so sorry that you had to do that.” She spoke, her voice quiet but understanding. Tsukasa swallowed. “No, no it’s alright. It’s - it had to be done. But, um, about last night…” he started, but Ichika silenced him with a hug, putting every single bit of her gratitude into it. “Thank you. Thank you so much Tsukasa. I… I never thought that I’d understand - well, you know what I mean. But I’ve learned so much, I’ve been able to experience it all for myself, and I’m honestly not sure I ever would have if it wasn’t for you. Thank you.” Tsukasa, having froze slightly from the sudden action, moved to return the hug, his hand patting Ichika’s head - albeit a bit awkwardly. “I’m just overjoyed that I could help, Ichika. You… were incredible. But, uh. If you. If you ever need me again…” he pulled away, his hands holding her cheeks, framing her face. “I’ll always be happy to help you.” Ichika’s heart started fluttering, beating hard against her chest. She found herself bashfully smiling, which he returned in kind. The beginning of something, whatever ‘this’ was, bloomed in the bright morning, sealed with a tender kiss.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75597006	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "Help Me Understand"}
We played hide and seek in waterfalls The path under the lighthouse is full of dirt, and rain will, an eighteen year old photography student at Blackwell academy is lying on the floor, she opens his eyes and looks around. “What… w-where am I? What's happening? Jane sits up and looks around. “There’s a storm? How did I get here.?" Will stands up and looks around, he sees the lighthouse that is on top of the hill and starts to walk up to it Will walks up the hill, his arm covering his face from the storm. When he gets up to the top of the cliff he sees the giant tornado about to hit Arcadia bay “Oh my god..” Will watches as a boat flies into the lighthouse, the lighthouse begins to crumble down “NO” The last thing he sees is the lighthouse start to fall on him He wakes back up in Blackwell photography class “W-what was that?? That was so surreal.. Was that a dream..? it felt so real tho..” will thinks to himself He looks around confused and slightly hears Mr Brenner talking “Alfred Hitchcock famously called film, "little pieces of time" Will says in his head still thinking “Okay... I'm in class..” “Everything’s cool.. I’m okay..” He continues to look around still hearing Mr Brenner talk “These pieces of time can frame us in our glory and our sorrow; from light to shadow; from color to chiaroscuro...” "Now, can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition in black and white?Anybody? Bueller? But Will still confused was just blocking out what Mr Brenner was saying "I didn't fall asleep, and... that sure didn't feel like a dream... Weird" will says still thinking to himself Will look’s at Nancy, who answered Mr Brenner’s question. "Because of her images of hopeless faces. You feel like, totally haunted by the eyes of those sad mothers and children." Will rolls his eyes. Mr Brenner replies "She saw humanity as tortured, right? And frankly, it's bullshit.” "seriously though, I could frame any one of you in a dark corner, and capture you in a Moment of desperation. And any one of you could do that to me. Isn't that too easy? Too obvious? What if Arbus chose to capture people at the height of their beauty or innocence? She had a brilliant eye, so she could have taken another approach.” Nancy puts her arm up. "I had to admit, l'm not a big fan of her work. I prefer...” “Robert Frank.” Will still slightly listening picks up his camera on his desk "Me too, Nancy. He captured the essence of post-war, beat America. And there was honestly about the economic conditions of the era, but a beauty in the struggle. You don’t know a beauty without a beat. While explains why-“ Will starts to tune everyone out again and looks at the photo on his desk “Look a this crap! How can I show this to Mr Brenner?” "I can hear the class laughing at me now.” Will takes a selfie with his camera and Mr Brenner looks over at him "Shh, I believe Will has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Will... has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation was not the first to use images for "selfie-expression." Sorry. I couldn't resist. The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around. Now, Will, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?” "You're asking me? Let me think... Um...” "I did know! ...But I kinda forgot.” “You either know this or not, Will. Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?” Nancy raises her hand "Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes" A process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror." Nancy looks at will. "Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.” Nancy smirks and then looks back at Brenner "Very good Nancy . The Daguerreian Process brought out fine detail in people's faces, making them extremely popular from the 1800's onward.” Will gets his phone out of his pocket, she looks at it. He reads a text from Joyce, his mother "Have a special 18th birthday. You're an adult now but you're still my little boy. Check your account. Don't blow it all at once.” Will looks at his chats with Chrissy. TEXT(Chrissy) “Hey Will you around?” TEXT(Will) Always. You okay? Chrissy is typing. TEXT(Chrissy) Do you want to get tea later today? Will types back. TEXT(Will) Absolutely, I'll be free after 4. Chrissy is typing. TEXT(Chrissy.) TTYL. Will looks at his messages from Jennifer, a seventeen year old student at Blackwell who is in love with Will. He hears the bell rings and tries to walk out while Mr Brenner is distracted with Nancy “I see you, Will Byers. Don't even think about leaving here until we talk about your entry.” Will sighs and turns around to approach Nancy and Brenner. "I'd never let one of photography's future stars	We played hide and seek in waterfalls The path under the lighthouse is full of dirt, and rain will, an eighteen year old photography student at Blackwell academy is lying on the floor, she opens his eyes and looks around. “What… w-where am I? What's happening? Jane sits up and looks around. “There’s a storm? How did I get here.?" Will stands up and looks around, he sees the lighthouse that is on top of the hill and starts to walk up to it Will walks up the hill, his arm covering his face from the storm. When he gets up to the top of the cliff he sees the giant tornado about to hit Arcadia bay “Oh my god..” Will watches as a boat flies into the lighthouse, the lighthouse begins to crumble down “NO” The last thing he sees is the lighthouse start to fall on him He wakes back up in Blackwell photography class “W-what was that?? That was so surreal.. Was that a dream..? it felt so real tho..” will thinks to himself He looks around confused and slightly hears Mr Brenner talking “Alfred Hitchcock famously called film, "little pieces of time" Will says in his head still thinking “Okay... I'm in class..” “Everything’s cool.. I’m okay..” He continues to look around still hearing Mr Brenner talk “These pieces of time can frame us in our glory and our sorrow; from light to shadow; from color to chiaroscuro...” "Now, can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition in black and white?Anybody? Bueller? But Will still confused was just blocking out what Mr Brenner was saying "I didn't fall asleep, and... that sure didn't feel like a dream... Weird" will says still thinking to himself Will look’s at Nancy, who answered Mr Brenner’s question. "Because of her images of hopeless faces. You feel like, totally haunted by the eyes of those sad mothers and children." Will rolls his eyes. Mr Brenner replies "She saw humanity as tortured, right? And frankly, it's bullshit.” "seriously though, I could frame any one of you in a dark corner, and capture you in a Moment of desperation. And any one of you could do that to me. Isn't that too easy? Too obvious? What if Arbus chose to capture people at the height of their beauty or innocence? She had a brilliant eye, so she could have taken another approach.” Nancy puts her arm up. "I had to admit, l'm not a big fan of her work. I prefer...” “Robert Frank.” Will still slightly listening picks up his camera on his desk "Me too, Nancy. He captured the essence of post-war, beat America. And there was honestly about the economic conditions of the era, but a beauty in the struggle. You don’t know a beauty without a beat. While explains why-“ Will starts to tune everyone out again and looks at the photo on his desk “Look a this crap! How can I show this to Mr Brenner?” "I can hear the class laughing at me now.” Will takes a selfie with his camera and Mr Brenner looks over at him "Shh, I believe Will has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Will... has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation was not the first to use images for "selfie-expression." Sorry. I couldn't resist. The point remains that the portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art, and photography, for as long as it's been around. Now, Will, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?” "You're asking me? Let me think... Um...” "I did know! ...But I kinda forgot.” “You either know this or not, Will. Is there anybody here who knows their stuff?” Nancy raises her hand "Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes" A process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror." Nancy looks at will. "Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face.” Nancy smirks and then looks back at Brenner "Very good Nancy . The Daguerreian Process brought out fine detail in people's faces, making them extremely popular from the 1800's onward.” Will gets his phone out of his pocket, she looks at it. He reads a text from Joyce, his mother "Have a special 18th birthday. You're an adult now but you're still my little boy. Check your account. Don't blow it all at once.” Will looks at his chats with Chrissy. TEXT(Chrissy) “Hey Will you around?” TEXT(Will) Always. You okay? Chrissy is typing. TEXT(Chrissy) Do you want to get tea later today? Will types back. TEXT(Will) Absolutely, I'll be free after 4. Chrissy is typing. TEXT(Chrissy.) TTYL. Will looks at his messages from Jennifer, a seventeen year old student at Blackwell who is in love with Will. He hears the bell rings and tries to walk out while Mr Brenner is distracted with Nancy “I see you, Will Byers. Don't even think about leaving here until we talk about your entry.” Will sighs and turns around to approach Nancy and Brenner. "I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in his picture.” "I didn't have any time... Way too much homework.” "Will, you're a better photographer than a liar... Now I know it's a drag to hear some old dude lecture you... but life won't wait for you to play catch-up. You're young, the world is yours, blah blah blah, right? But you do have a gift, you have the fever to take images, to frame the world only the way you envision it. Now, all you need is the courage to share your gift with others. That's what separates the artist, from the amateur.” Will leaves the art class. Will says thinking to himself "Welcome to the real world...” "I need a serious timeout in the bathroom. Splash water on my face and make sure I don't look like a total loser.” He overhears two of Nancy’s friends talking "Why would anybody want to carry around a dorky instamatic?” "Because will wants everybody to see how hip he is.” "As if. he plays it so shy.” "He’s so fucking shy he takes selfies with a giant camera.” Will puts on his headphones and the music starts playing. Will walks along to hallways He takes a look at the posters on the walls while walking. The posters of the missing girl catch his eye the most. -JANE HOPPER- -Age: 19- -Date missing/ mon April 22, 2013- “there’s so many posters of her everywhere I wonder what happened..” he continues to walk towards the bathroom and then enters the bathroom. Will reaches the bathroom and starts quietly talking to himself "Empty. Good. Nobody can see my meltdown. Except for me.” Will washes his face using one of the sinks, then takes out her polaroid photo. A blue butterfly flies in and lands on a bucket, behind a stall. Will follows after. "When a door closes, a window opens... Or, something like that. Okay dude, you don't get a photo op like this everyday...” Will approaches the butterfly and takes a photo of it. The butterfly takes off and lands on a sink. Steve enters the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Will hears the sound and turns around. “It's cool, Steve... Don't stress... You're okay, bro. Just count to three... Don't be scared... You own this school... If I wanted, I could blow it up... You're the boss...” A dude with short dyed blue hair enters “So what do you want?” Steve says “I hope you checked the perimeter,Now, let's talk bidness” Will hears the mystery person say “I got nothing for you.” “ Wrong. You got hella cash.” "That's my family, not me.” "Oh, boohoo, poor little rich kid. I know you been pumpin' drugs 'n' shit to kids around here... I bet your respectable family would help me out if I went to them. Man, I can see the headlines now” "Leave them out of this, bitch.” “I can tell everybody Steve Harrington is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself” Steve takes out his gun and points it at the blue haired kid. He backs up into the wall and Steve stands in front of him, one arm against the wall and the other pointing the gun at his stomach. "You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!” “Where'd you get that? What are you doing? Come on, put that thing down!” "Don't EVER tell me what to do. I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!” "You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs” "Nobody would ever even miss your "punk ass" would they?” "Get that gun away from me, psycho!” The blue haired kid pushes Nathan away from him and he pulls the trigger, shooting the kid in the stomach. Will comes out from behind the stall. NO! Will stretches out his right hand. The gun and blue haired boy fall on the ground in slow motion and everything becomes blurry. Moments later, the whole sequence is reversed and Will finds herself in the art class again. Will thinks to himself "Whoa! What the fuck...? How—how can that be? I was in the bathroom... He shot that poor boy... I held up my hand...and then I was back here.” "Alfred Hitchcock famously called film "little pieces of time.-“ "I already heard this lecture...” "These pieces of time can frame us in our glory and our sorrow; from light to shadow; from color to chiaroscuro... "Shit! Man, I cannot believe this... Okay, if I'm crazy, I might as well go all the way... Can I actually reverse time?” "Now can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human condition in black and white? Anybody? Bueller?” Will watches Nancy answer the question just like before .. “Maybe I can reverse again” Will rewinds time with his right hand and watches everything return to its place again "I did it... I actually did it! I'm a human Time Machine...” he watches Nancy answer the question again "When I took my selfie, Brenner asked me a question. If he does again, I'll know this is for real.” Will take’s a selfie again. "I believe Will has taken what you kids call a "selfie"... A dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And Will ...has a gift. Of course, as you all know, the photo portrait has been popular since the early 1800's. Your generation is not the first to use images for selfie-“ "So I can go back in time... What if that boy isn't dead yet? Can I save him? "I need to go to the bathroom quickly and check it out!” "Now Will, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?” "I’m sorry, I feel sick. May I be excused? I have to use the bathroom. "Nice try Will. But you're not gonna get away that easy. We can talk more after class.” "Oh, shit, Brenner wants to keep me after class. And I need time to save that boy..." “Is there anybody here who knows their stuff? "ouis Daguerre was a French painter who created "daguerreotypes" a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror. Now you're totally stuck in the Retro Zone. Sad face." Nancy answers "Very good, Nancy. The Daguerreian Process brought out fine detail in people's faces, making them extremely popular from the 1800's onward.” "What if I rewind again, and give him the right answer? Will rewinds. "Now Will, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?” “The Daguerreian Process. Invented by a French painter named...Louis Daguerre. Around 1830.” “Somebody has been reading, as well as posing. Nice work, Will. Nancy gives Will an annoyed look. Bell rings. "And, guys, don't forget the deadline to submit a photo in the "Everyday Heroes" Contest. I will fly out with the winner to San Francisco where you'll be feted by the art world. It's great exposure and it can kickstart a career in photography. So Stella and Alyssa, get it together. Taylor don't hide, I'm still waiting for your entry too. And yes Will, I see you pretending not to see me.” "Will, you are not crazy. You are not dreaming. It's time to be an everyday hero.” He walks up to Mr Brenner "Excuse me, Mr Brenner, can I talk to you for a moment?” "Yes, excuse you” Nancy says "No, Nancy, excuse us.” "I'd never let one of photography's future stars avoid handing in his picture.” "I’m on top of it. I think John Lennon once said that "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." "WILL, you are on fire today. All the right answers. Good. Make sure you finish working on it by today. I have faith in you.” Will leaves the art class. "I hope I have enough time to get to the bathroom...please...please... I can't tell anybody...they'll think I'm crazy!” Will enters the bathroom. "Okay, Will, retrace every step... I washed my face... I shredded my photo... Then the...butterfly flew in... And I took a photo...” Will take’s a photo of the butterfly. Steve and the mystery boy enter the bathroom. "Leave them out of this, bitch.” "I can tell everybody Steve Harrington is a punk ass who begs like a little girl and talks to himself” Steve pulls out his gun. "You don't know who the fuck I am or who you're messing around with!” "Where'd you get that? What are you doing? Come on, put that thing down!” Will thinks to himself "Wowser, it's happening again.” "Don't EVER tell me what to do. I'm so SICK of people trying to control me! "You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs—“ "Nobody would ever even miss your "punk ass", would they?” "Get that gun away from me, psycho!" Steve kills the boy and drops his gun on the ground. He then starts to shake him and walk around the bathroom nervously." Will thinks "Holy shit, I can't let this happen... If I can reverse time again, I can help him.” "Oh... Shit! No, no, no, no...” Will rewinds. Will looks at the fire alarm. Will thinks "I need a hammer to break it open!” "Don't EVER tell me what to do. I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!” "You are going to get in hella more trouble for this than drugs—“ "Nobody would ever even miss your "punk ass", would they?” Will moves a maintenance cart, grabs a hammer from the floor and breaks the fire alarm glass with it. He then starts the fire alarm. Steve stops pointing his gun at the boy and looks behind him. "No way...” The boy knees Steve in the stomach or groin and pushes him to the floor. "Don't EVER touch me again, freak! The boy exits the bathroom. Steve picks up his gun and notices the pieces of Will’s photo on the floor.” "Another shitty day...” Steve exits the bathroom. Will is still in shock "That did not happen! This cannot be real! I just saw a boy get shot and then saved him! What the fuck is going on? Do. Not. Freak. Out.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602266/chapters/197702636	{"authors": ["H3arts_f0r_p3r1d0t"], "language": "English", "title": "We played hide and seek in waterfalls"}
yeah, i’m a bad girl Sophia loved Manon’s piercings. Every single one of them. Her girlfriend wore them with such ease, like she was born a badass. Hoops glinting from her ears, the nose rings, the septum, and of course—the little studs on her nipples. Sophia adored them all… okay, maybe she adored the nipple ones a bit too much. Sometimes she caught herself staring whenever they were naked and tangled up, like the tiny metal there wasn’t just jewelry but some kind of hypnotic button specifically designed to distract her. One late night, the two of them were curled up in bed as usual. Finally together after a long day of barely seeing each other because of work. Their bodies were tangled in their usual mess of limbs and blankets. Manon was half-focused on her phone, lazily scrolling through Instagram reels, while Sophia busied herself with her favorite pastime, sucking on one of Manon’s pierced nipples like a greedy baby, her free hand kneading the other curve. Her fingers toyed with the stud there, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, pinching just enough to earn a soft gasp from Manon’s lips. Manon barely reacted at this point; she was used to it. She knew it was her girlfriend’s odd but reliable way of de-stressing… and, conveniently, of helping Manon relax too. If anything, she just smiled softly, scrolling with one hand while absentmindedly combing the other through Sophia’s hair. Then, through the sound of quiet slurps and soft breaths, Sophia mumbled against her skin. “Hey, baby… does getting pierced on other parts of the body hurt the same way as the ear piercing?” Manon blinked, thumb hovering mid-scroll. She glanced down at the top of Sophia’s head. “Huh?” Sophia lifted her gaze, lips still pressed to her breast. “Like, did it hurt when you got this?” She gave a light squeeze for emphasis. Manon chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. “It did sting, baby. But honestly? Not as bad as you’d think. Guess I’ve got a high pain tolerance.” Sophia hummed thoughtfully, pretending to take note, before latching back onto her nipple with a soft pop. Now Manon was intrigued. She raised a brow, suspicion coloring her voice. “Why are you asking me that, hmm?” Sophia finally looked up, her lips glistening and her grin sheepish, almost guilty. “Just curious. You’ve got a lot of it, and they look so fucking hot on you.” That did something. Manon bit her lip hard, feeling the heat sparks low in her belly. It wasn’t just the compliment, it was the way Sophia swore when she said it, voice husky and worshipful. “Come here, sweet talker,” she murmured, tugging Sophia up toward her face. “I think my tits have had enough attention for tonight.” Sophia giggled and climbed up for a kiss, but her mind was already racing with an idea she knew she wouldn’t shake off. ——— The next morning, after making sure Manon had already left the house, Sophia dialed Megan’s number. Megan had been one of their closest friends since college days, always the supportive one… though forever grumpy about early morning calls. “Why are you calling me this early?” Megan groaned on the other end, sounding half-asleep. “Come with me, Mei. I'm getting a piercing,” Sophia said, as if she were just asking her to grab some coffee. There was a beat of silence before Megan burst out laughing. “You? A piercing? Why the hell don’t you just take your girlfriend? She literally knows every piercing shop in the city.” “Because I want it to be a surprise, duh.” Sophia rolled her eyes even though the other couldn’t see her. “It’s our anniversary tomorrow. I want to do something different for her.” Megan sighed but she agreed, secretly amused. She adored her friends too much to refuse. And so she picked Sophia up an hour later. ——— Before Sophia could even get into the car, Megan had one condition. They weren’t going anywhere unless Sophia paid for her breakfast. A quick drive-thru to get the grumpy girl some burgers and fries. Sophia groaned in annoyance but gave in, muttering something about getting her driver’s license as soon as possible. The younger only grinned, happily munching as she steered onto the road. As they drove, Megan tapped the steering wheel. “So… where exactly are you planning to get pierced?” Sophia’s grin spread wide. “On my tits.” Megan nearly slammed on the brakes, almost choking on her fries as she whipped her head toward Sophia in horror. “You’re kidding me.” “Nope.” “Are you out of your fucking mind? That’s gonna hurt like hell!” Sophia shrugged innocently. “Manon said it wasn’t that bad. She handled it just fine.” “That’s because it’s Manon,” Megan shot back. “She could probably take a bullet and keep walking. You, on the other hand? Don’t think I forgot how you cried when you got your wisdom tooth pulled.” Sophia crossed her arms, indignant. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault the dentist forgot to give me anesthesia!” “Uh-huh. Sure.” Megan rolled her eyes, taking a small bite of her burger before speaking again. “So, let	yeah, i’m a bad girl Sophia loved Manon’s piercings. Every single one of them. Her girlfriend wore them with such ease, like she was born a badass. Hoops glinting from her ears, the nose rings, the septum, and of course—the little studs on her nipples. Sophia adored them all… okay, maybe she adored the nipple ones a bit too much. Sometimes she caught herself staring whenever they were naked and tangled up, like the tiny metal there wasn’t just jewelry but some kind of hypnotic button specifically designed to distract her. One late night, the two of them were curled up in bed as usual. Finally together after a long day of barely seeing each other because of work. Their bodies were tangled in their usual mess of limbs and blankets. Manon was half-focused on her phone, lazily scrolling through Instagram reels, while Sophia busied herself with her favorite pastime, sucking on one of Manon’s pierced nipples like a greedy baby, her free hand kneading the other curve. Her fingers toyed with the stud there, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, pinching just enough to earn a soft gasp from Manon’s lips. Manon barely reacted at this point; she was used to it. She knew it was her girlfriend’s odd but reliable way of de-stressing… and, conveniently, of helping Manon relax too. If anything, she just smiled softly, scrolling with one hand while absentmindedly combing the other through Sophia’s hair. Then, through the sound of quiet slurps and soft breaths, Sophia mumbled against her skin. “Hey, baby… does getting pierced on other parts of the body hurt the same way as the ear piercing?” Manon blinked, thumb hovering mid-scroll. She glanced down at the top of Sophia’s head. “Huh?” Sophia lifted her gaze, lips still pressed to her breast. “Like, did it hurt when you got this?” She gave a light squeeze for emphasis. Manon chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. “It did sting, baby. But honestly? Not as bad as you’d think. Guess I’ve got a high pain tolerance.” Sophia hummed thoughtfully, pretending to take note, before latching back onto her nipple with a soft pop. Now Manon was intrigued. She raised a brow, suspicion coloring her voice. “Why are you asking me that, hmm?” Sophia finally looked up, her lips glistening and her grin sheepish, almost guilty. “Just curious. You’ve got a lot of it, and they look so fucking hot on you.” That did something. Manon bit her lip hard, feeling the heat sparks low in her belly. It wasn’t just the compliment, it was the way Sophia swore when she said it, voice husky and worshipful. “Come here, sweet talker,” she murmured, tugging Sophia up toward her face. “I think my tits have had enough attention for tonight.” Sophia giggled and climbed up for a kiss, but her mind was already racing with an idea she knew she wouldn’t shake off. ——— The next morning, after making sure Manon had already left the house, Sophia dialed Megan’s number. Megan had been one of their closest friends since college days, always the supportive one… though forever grumpy about early morning calls. “Why are you calling me this early?” Megan groaned on the other end, sounding half-asleep. “Come with me, Mei. I'm getting a piercing,” Sophia said, as if she were just asking her to grab some coffee. There was a beat of silence before Megan burst out laughing. “You? A piercing? Why the hell don’t you just take your girlfriend? She literally knows every piercing shop in the city.” “Because I want it to be a surprise, duh.” Sophia rolled her eyes even though the other couldn’t see her. “It’s our anniversary tomorrow. I want to do something different for her.” Megan sighed but she agreed, secretly amused. She adored her friends too much to refuse. And so she picked Sophia up an hour later. ——— Before Sophia could even get into the car, Megan had one condition. They weren’t going anywhere unless Sophia paid for her breakfast. A quick drive-thru to get the grumpy girl some burgers and fries. Sophia groaned in annoyance but gave in, muttering something about getting her driver’s license as soon as possible. The younger only grinned, happily munching as she steered onto the road. As they drove, Megan tapped the steering wheel. “So… where exactly are you planning to get pierced?” Sophia’s grin spread wide. “On my tits.” Megan nearly slammed on the brakes, almost choking on her fries as she whipped her head toward Sophia in horror. “You’re kidding me.” “Nope.” “Are you out of your fucking mind? That’s gonna hurt like hell!” Sophia shrugged innocently. “Manon said it wasn’t that bad. She handled it just fine.” “That’s because it’s Manon,” Megan shot back. “She could probably take a bullet and keep walking. You, on the other hand? Don’t think I forgot how you cried when you got your wisdom tooth pulled.” Sophia crossed her arms, indignant. “That was one time! And it wasn’t my fault the dentist forgot to give me anesthesia!” “Uh-huh. Sure.” Megan rolled her eyes, taking a small bite of her burger before speaking again. “So, let me get this straight. You want to suffer through nipple piercings just so you can say, Look, babe, I match you now?” Sophia glared at her. “Shut the fuck up, Megan.” ——— The thing is… Sophia didn’t even make it past the front desk. The moment she heard the buzz of the sterilizer tools and saw someone walk out with gauze taped under their shirt, her face drained of all colors. Megan, of course, whipped out her phone, happily recording the Filipina's slow-motion meltdown as she swayed on her feet, muttering something about needing air. “Jesus Christ, Soph,” Megan wheezed between laughs, nearly dropping her phone. “You look like you’re about to faint just standing here.” “I’m fine!” Sophia insisted, wobbling toward the exit instead of the entrance. But of course, she didn’t make it that far.Determined as ever, Sophia was ready to suffer in the name of love, or at least, just to flex and make her girlfriend swoon over her. In the end, though, she compromised. She settled for a double helix piercing on her ear, painful enough to make her wince but still manageable. Better than nothing, she figured. Megan was still cackling as they drove back. “Anniversary gift, huh? Manon’s gonna laugh her ass off when she hears about this.” “She won’t hear about it,” Sophia snapped, flipping her off. “Not from you.” They pulled up to her house, Megan still grinning as Sophia sulked in the passenger seat. “Take that shitty grin off your face, Megan.” “Oh, sorry, I can’t help it—” Megan wheezed, breaking into laughter again. Sophia climbed out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary, middle finger still raised. “Hey!” Megan rolled her window down and glared. “Don’t do that to my baby!” she scolded, patting her dashboard protectively. Sophia just scrunched her nose and muttered something about Megan being single because she was obviously straight up in love with her car. Megan gasped, halfway to snapping back, when the front door swung open, revealing Manon who's leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, watching them with amusement. She wore her usual cozy white cropped tank top and printed pajama pants, which made Sophia stare a little longer, already swooning. “What’s happening here?” she asked, her eyes flicking to Megan before settling on her girlfriend, who was already caught in the act of staring. “Oh, nothing!” Megan piped up cheerfully with a grin, “Just dropping off your brave sweet girl over here.” She winked exaggeratedly, earning another glare from Sophia. “About time,” Manon said, snaking her arms around Sophia’s waist from behind. She rested her chin on her girlfriend's shoulder and pressed soft kisses against her neck. Sophia giggled, all her annoyance at Megan fading as she leaned back into her girlfriend’s hold. “Missed you, baby.” Megan groaned at the sight. “Ugh. Gross. Fine, I’ll leave you lesbians to it. You owe me one, Soph!” She rolled her window up and immediately drove off. Sophia and Manon stood there for a moment, laughing softly at Megan's dramatic exit. But it escalated quickly when Sophia turned in Manon's arms, her hands sliding down to cup the older's ass through the thin fabric of her pajamas, squeezing the firm cheeks with a playful grip. Manon bit back a surprised moan, her body pressing closer until their hips aligned instinctively. “You missed me, baby?” Sophia teased, eyes glinting. “Damn right,” Manon murmured, biting her lower lip as her hand fumbled for the doorknob behind her. “Make it up to me?” “Thought you’d never ask.” Sophia scooped her up bridal-style with a grunt. Manon wasn’t heavy, but the sudden lift made them both laugh. Their mouths met in a messy kiss, tongues tangling between shared chuckles as Sophia carried her inside. She kicked the door shut with her heel, shoes scattering in the entryway, one of Manon’s flip-flops skidding across the hardwood like it had a mind of its own. They made their way into the living room, kisses growing deeper and more urgent, their hands roaming with familiar ease. Sophia set Manon down on the couch cushions and climbed over her, straddling her hips. The make out turned hungry. Sophia’s fingers tangled in Manon’s braids, pulling just enough to tilt her head back for her neck, while Manon’s nails traced lightly down Sophia’s back beneath her shirt. Their hips ground together in slow, teasing rolls, heat building through their clothes. Manon’s breath hitched when Sophia nipped at her collarbone. Then her eyes caught something — a subtle glint among the strands of Sophia’s hair on her right ear. She paused, breaking the kiss with a soft gasp, her hands stilling on Sophia’s waist. “…Wait,” she said, voice hushed. “Is that a helix?” Sophia froze mid-kiss against the older’s neck. Lifting her head slowly, she met Manon’s gaze with a sheepish grin. “Yeah. I’m a bad girl,” she said with a grin, tilting her head a little. “Guess I wanted to match my hot girlfriend somehow.” “Fifi…” Manon sat up fully now, fingers brushing her girlfriend's hair back so she could see the fresh studs. “Are you for real?” The nickname slipped out in that soft, affectionate tone that always made Sophia’s heart skip. Sophia chuckled, low and warm, her hands now resting on Manon’s thighs as her thumbs rubbed slow circles on her skin. “For real, Manz. Consider this as my anniversary gift for you.” Manon’s expression softened, her eyes warming with affection as she pressed a tender kiss to Sophia’s forehead, then her nose, then her lips—a slow, lingering peck. But then her gaze shifted, hungrier now, a smirk tugging at her mouth as she leaned back to take it in again. “Fuck, it looks good on you.” Sophia shivered at the proximity, a familiar heat curling in her stomach, her core clenching in anticipation. “You like it? I was gonna go bigger, but… I chickened out last minute.” She laughed at herself, fingers flexing nervously on her girlfriend's thighs. Manon pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, a wicked glint flashing across her gaze. “Bigger how? I'm listening, baby.” Her hands slid under Sophia’s shirt, pushing it up slowly to reveal the soft skin of her stomach, then higher, until her fingers brushed the underside of her bra. She teased deliberately, her touch light, making the younger’s sensitive points harden against the fabric. Sophia groaned, half laughing, half turned on, as Manon circled her thumbs over the stiff peaks through the thin material. “On the nipples. Like yours. I wanted to surprise you, but settled for this instead. Better than nothing, right?” Manon burst out laughing, her body shaking against Sophia’s until their breasts pressed together. “You? Chicken out on nipple piercings? That’s the cutest thing I’ve heard all week.” She bit the younger’s lower lip playfully, then kissed it wet and insistent. “Though, for the record, you’re already doing a good job turning me on without the piercings. But this… this is something else. It's hot.” Sophia’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping as the older tugged her shirt off and tossed it to the floor. The bra followed, and Manon’s mouth closed around her nipple, sucking hard. Teeth grazed lightly, just enough to make her gasp. Sophia's hand fisted in the older’s braids, holding her there as a moan bubbled up from her throat. “Manz… fuck, that feels so good.” Manon hummed against the skin, the vibration adding another layer of sensation, before switching to the other curve, lavishing it with the same attention. Wet sucks, tongue lapping broadly, then flicking the tip. Her free hand slid between their bodies, palm pressing firmly against Sophia’s crotch through her pants, rubbing slow circles that made her hips jerk up instinctively. The dampness was already seeping through, and Manon smiled against her chest, feeling the heat. “Imagine if you’d gone through with it,” Manon murmured, pulling back just enough to blow cool breath over the wet nipple, watching it tighten. “I’d be sucking on your pierced tits right now, tugging the bar with my teeth while you ride my thigh, baby.” Her fingers pressed harder, her middle finger tracing the seam of Sophia’s pants, teasing the outline of her folds. Sophia whimpered, her body arching into the touch, and then smirked through her haze. “You’re such a tease. Next time, you’re holding my hand through it.” With a burst of strength, she flipped them, pinning Manon beneath her on the couch. She kissed down her neck, nipping at her pulse point, while her hands worked at the strings of her girlfriend's pajamas. Manon arched up, helping shimmy out of the pajamas and her panties in one go, kicking them off to the side where they landed in a heap near Sophia's discarded shirt. Her own piercings glinted in the light, a delicate bar through her clit hood that Sophia's eyes locked onto hungrily, her mouth watering at the sight. That one, by the way, was her special favorite piercing on her girlfriend. “Next time? Bold words coming from a girl who nearly fainted at an ear poke.” Manon reached down, guiding Sophia's hand to her wetness, two fingers slipping inside her with ease, feeling her inner walls clenching around them. Sophia pumped her fingers slowly at first, curling them against that spot that made Manon's breath catch, her thumb brushing over the piercing with light pressure, rolling it gently to draw out a gasp. The wet sounds of her movements filled the room, mingling with Manon's soft pants and the occasional creak of their couch. “Hey, I survived the ear thing. Well..barely. Whatever.” She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Now, spread your legs wider, baby. Anniversary or not, I'm eating this pussy tonight.” She kissed lower, tongue tracing the edge of Manon's navel, then dipping into the shallow dip to circle her belly button piercing playfully before sliding down. Manon laughed breathlessly, turning into a moan as Sophia settled between her thighs. She spread the older’s lips with her fingers, exposing the slick pink folds, then licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her slit, tongue pressing on the piercing. Manon bucked, her hands gripping the arm of the couch, her knuckles almost whitening. “Shit, Fifi... right there, just like that.” Sophia obliged, sucking her clit gently into her mouth, flicking the bar with quick, precise strokes of her tongue while her fingers thrust deeper, pumping them steadily. The older’s thighs trembled around her head, her breaths becoming ragged, hips rolling up to meet each lick and plunge. The tension coiled tighter in Manon's core, her moans growing louder, more desperate. “Fuck, baby, don't stop, I'm so close… so close!” Sophia glanced up, catching her girlfriend's eyes—dark and hazy, lips parted, a flush creeping down her neck to her collarbone. The sight alone nearly undid her. But just as Manon's body tensed on the edge, her back arching off the couch, fingers tangling hard in Sophia's hair, the front door buzzer rang—sharp and insistent, slicing through the haze like a cold splash of water. Manon froze, eyes snapping open wide, chest heaving. “Wait—what the fuck was that?” she panted, her voice a mix of confusion and lingering need, one hand still fisted in the younger’s hair. Sophia groaned against her clit, the sound muffled and frustrated. She pulled back reluctantly, lips shiny with Manon’s wetness, a string of saliva connecting her mouth to the glistening folds for a split second before it broke. “Ignore it, baby” she said, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. “Whoever that is can wait.” Manon’s pleasure came first. Always. Without missing a beat, she dove back in, tongue flicking faster now, determined to push Manon over that brink no matter what. The buzzer rang again. Louder this time. Longer. Insistent, like the person on the other side had no patience for their private world. Manon let out a half-laugh, half-moan, her body still humming from the interruption. “Fifi! Oh my god! Someone’s literally at the door!” She tried to sit up a little, but her girlfriend's hands on her thighs kept her pinned, open and exposed. “Don’t care,” Sophia muttered into her core, the words vibrating against sensitive skin. Her tongue circled the clit in tight, teasing loops, fingers thrusting deeper, crooking to massage that inner wall. “You’re about to come. That’s more important than some random asshole buzzing at the door.” She nipped lightly at the inner thigh, earning a yelp that dissolved into a giggle. Manon’s thighs clamped tighter around the younger’s head, torn between the building hysteria of the situation and the orgasm clawing relentlessly through her veins. The buzzer went off a third time. Persistent as a mosquito. BZZZT! BZZZT! “You’re insane,”Manon gasped, her voice breaking into a laugh that turned into a strangled cry as Sophia sucked harder, fingers pumping with newfound focus. Pleasure crashed over her like a wave she couldn’t fight, hips bucking wildly, toes curling into the couch cushions. Her body shook, pussy clenching around the younger’s fingers in rhythmic pulses, a gush of wetness coating Sophia’s hand as she rode out the climax. Waves of it rolled through her, leaving her flushed, trembling, and boneless, a dazed grin tugging at her lips. Only then did Sophia lift her head, tongue dragging over her lips as a slow, satisfied smirk curved them. She withdrew her fingers slowly, bringing them to her mouth to suck them clean, eyes locked on Manon’s the whole time. “There,” she said, her voice hoarse with satisfaction. “Now the door.” Standing up, she adjusted her pants, grabbed the shirt that had ended up lying near the dining table, and slipped it on before sauntering over like she hadn’t just devoured her girlfriend on the living room couch. Manon watched her go, still catching her breath, a post-orgasmic glow making her skin shimmer. “Babe, fix yourself first!” she called out weakly, propping herself on her elbows. Her legs were still splayed, core glistening and exposed, but she made no move to cover up. Sophia didn’t bother. She swung the door open, and there stood the pizza guy…? No, it wasn’t a pizza guy at all, but a girl with curly dark brown hair and sharp eyes, maybe in her early twenties. She wore a faded company polo and balanced a cardboard box on one hand, looking more like a model than a delivery girl. Sophia couldn’t really see her whole face because of the mask, but honestly, she couldn’t care less. The girl took one look at Sophia—hair tousled wildly, face flushed deep red, lips swollen and slick—and raised an eyebrow, the girl's expression shifting from bored to mildly amused. “Took you long enough,” she deadpanned, holding out the box. The scent of pepperoni and cheese wafted in, “That’ll be 20 dollars, please.” Sophia fumbled for her wallet, still catching her breath. The delivery girl smirked faintly, her eyes flicking past Sophia into the apartment. Just enough to catch a glimpse of a woman's bare legs and the disheveled scene. She didn’t comment, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Enjoy your meal... I guess.” She handed over the pizza box and the change before turning on her heel, shaking her head with a low chuckle as she walked down the front path. Sophia raised her eyebrows while shutting the door with a soft click. That delivery girl was weird, she thought as she dropped the box onto the coffee table without so much as a glance. The steam rising from the pizza curled invitingly into the air, but Sophia barely spared it a glance. Her attention had already drifted back to her girlfriend, eyes darkening with a very different kind of hunger. “Now, where were we?” Manon tried to sit up, still breathless, her dark curls clinging to her sweat-dampened skin. She reached for the nearby blanket in a weak attempt to stop her girlfriend’s obvious intent to start another round but Sophia was already moving, pouncing with the grace of a predator. “Babe! We literally have dinner sitting right there,” Manon protested through a giggle, her hands coming up to Sophia’s shoulders as she was pushed back down. The pizza box sat forgotten, its warmth seeping into the wood. Sophia cut her off with a kiss, hungry and wet, tasting Manon herself. Her tongue swept in deep, claiming every inch as her hands roamed, sliding up Manon’s sides, thumbs brushing those pierced nipples again, tugging lightly on the studs until Manon arched into her. “Dinner can wait,” the younger murmured against her lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Dessert’s better anyway.” Manon laughed into the kiss, but it faded into a moan as Sophia’s hand slipped down again, fingers tracing the still-sensitive lips of her pussy. Of course, she was wet again already, body responding to Sophia’s touch like it was made for it. “You’re insatiable,” Manon whispered, but her legs parted wider, obviously inviting more. Let's just say they fucked all night long. ——— They collapsed in a sweaty tangle of limbs, hearts pounding in sync. Manon’s fingers traced lazy patterns on Sophia’s back, a soft chuckle escaping her. “Pizza’s probably cold now. Happy anniversary, I guess?” Sophia lifted her head, grinning through the haze. “Best anniversary gift ever.” She winked, letting her words linger in the air. “Nah… I think your piercings take the crown,” Manon murmured, voice low, eyes flicking to the glint of metal. “They make you absolutely… irresistible.” “Am I not always irresistible?” Sophia teased, arching a brow. “Of course you are,” Manon said with a soft laugh, planting a quick kiss on her lips. “But now, dinner first. I know you. I’ll need the energy for what comes after.” “You know me too well, baby,” Sophia purred. “And yes, I’m still going to worship you all night.” She pressed a lingering kiss to Manon’s nose, then her lips. While Sophia initiated reheating the now-cold pizza, Manon lounged on the couch, watching her girlfriend serve her with a fond smile. Her phone suddenly buzzed. She reached for it and saw a message from her work friend. dani: girl, i was part-timing as a pizza delivery tonight and guess u got fucked good huh Manon stared at her phone, eyes widening as a snort escaped her. Daniela? She was the pizza girl earlier? She typed back quickly. you sneaky bitch! how much did you see? Daniela's reply buzzed almost instantly. dani: enough to know u two r animals -_- maybe next time u both try to not traumatize employees who just want their job done Manon chuckled, shaking her head. “Babe?” she called out, voice laced with amusement. “Didn’t you recognize the delivery girl earlier?” Sophia poked her head around the corner, one hand on her hip, the other holding a beer from the fridge. “Huh? Why? I couldn’t even see her face, she was wearing a mask. But she was acting weird though, giving me this look like something was up.” “Oh, baby, it was Daniela!” Daniela was one of their friends, along with Megan, a known model who randomly works part-time jobs just because she was bored. She also happened to be Manon’s best friend. Sophia froze mid-sip, then burst out laughing. “Wait—our Daniela? As in Daniela, your best friend since diapers Daniela?” Manon nodded, already giggling. “Yes! She texted me! Apparently, we ‘traumatized’ her.” Sophia groaned, “Oh my god. We’re never gonna hear the end of this.” Manon grinned, leaning back. “Well, at least she now knows how passionate we are.” “Right. Passionate,” Sophia snorted, setting the beer down to grab the reheated pizza before heading back to the couch. “She’s gonna tell Megan, and by tomorrow, the whole group chat will know.” “Then let’s just own it,” Manon said with a smirk. “Happy anniversary, baby. We’ve officially gone viral.” Sophia rolled her eyes but laughed anyway, settling beside her on the couch and setting the pizza box on the table. “Only you would turn this into a flex.” Manon kissed her cheek, still smiling. “And you love me for it.” “Yeah, yeah,” Sophia said softly, snuggling closer. “But next time, maybe we’ll tip the delivery girl extra, to compensate for the trauma or whatever.” Manon laughed quietly, wrapping an arm around her girlfriend. “Noted. Though honestly, you know Daniela wouldn’t mind joining next time.” Sophia froze mid-blink, then pulled back slightly. “You’re kidding… right?” Manon grinned, wriggling her eyebrows, “Depends. Would you mind?” Sophia groaned, trying to fight back a smile. “You’re ridiculous, baby.” Manon chuckled. “Maybe. But admit it—you thought about it for half a second.” Sophia rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she started laughing. “Shut up, baby.” Manon laughed too, pulling the younger closer until they were both giggling into each other’s shoulders, stealing playful kisses that quickly deepened—because, honestly, they could never quite keep their hands off each other. And just like that, the pizza went cold. Again.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591331	{"authors": ["eevonyxx"], "language": "English", "title": "yeah, i’m a bad girl"}
Cock Sock One Shot Emily Prentiss, like always, was working late. She told herself it was just because she had so much work to do, but she–and everyone else–Knew it ran deeper than that. Ever since Hotch left, and she made the decision to not only come back to the BAU, but to take the role as unit chief, She felt an old, yet still scarily familiar feeling creeping to the forefront of her mind. She wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even herself, but she felt like an outsider again. With that feeling came the compulsion to make up for whatever she thought was lacking. The only problem with that was she didn't know exactly what that was. She had always had a tendency to overcompensate, personally and professionally, that's just how she was raised. To please, to give her all for anyone and anything–yet she couldn't help but feel as if she didn't deserve that in return. The team dynamics had changed since she was last a member. People came, people went, people stayed. So, here she was. Trying to prove herself all over again, to her friends, to her only real family. Deep down, she knew she didn't need to, The team had never stopped considering Emily Family, she knew that, of course she did. Even all the way in London her friends had kept her up to date on their lives, especially Penelope. But still, Emily couldn't shake the gnawing thought that she had abandoned her team again. To Emily, that was warrant enough for them to shut her out–hate her even. But they didn't. Jennifer didn't. Emily would be lying if she said she didn't think about the younger woman, about how she really felt about Emily leaving. Not to mention on her wedding night. It went unsaid, needing change wasn't the only reason Emily had left for Interpol. She was ashamed to admit that she had screened the first few calls from JJ after she had found out of her departure, and even after she gained the nerve to speak to her again, the conversations were few and far in between. JJ, being the woman she is, did her best to keep in touch even with her busy schedule, but for some reason that only made Emily’s heartache intensify. To hear that voice–and to be 3700 miles away, knowing that the blonde now knew what life was like without her, and with him. Times like these, she was supposedly working late, but she knew she was really using it as a way to prolong the twinge of dissatisfaction from coming home to a dark house, cold wine and an even colder bed. To prolong not remembering she would fall asleep holding at the very most Sergio, and knowing she would wake alone. She wants to complete the work she's telling herself she stayed so late for, but it seems she can't even finish her second report, her mind racing despite her slightly desperate attempts at preventing it. She finds herself slouched at her desk, hands in hair as she loses herself in the whirlwind of her mind. Work pushed out of the scope of her thoughts. she tried—tries, her best to keep JJ off her mind. Despite the complicated dynamics, even the thought of the blonde slightly calms her. She wants to be close with her again. She can't yet bring herself to bridge the gap. She sees how much JJ cares, how hard she tries. Now that she is back, after she had grown accustomed to the lack of recognized emotions, it was a migraine yet a curiosity at everything she used to feel around jj, coming back within the second. Although, it felt different, more of a sick thump rather than a light flutter as it had been before. she takes a small breath, trying to re-group when she hears the familiar click of heels down the hall. it was almost midnight, most of the building had been emptied hours ago. Yet she had a suspicion on who it was. it was confirmed when JJ knocked on the door, peaking her head in. “Emily? its way too late for you to still be here.” The younger woman chides softly, stepping into the dimly lit space of Emily's office, neat and impeccable like everything else in Emily's control. (for the most part). “I'm sorry, but I could say the same for you. I just have a little extra work lately.” “unimportant, you need to rest. You’re here all the time, it's concerning.” JJ sighs, her own fatigue slipping past her carefully masked air of composure. “I'm the boss now, remember? It's different now. i have more responsibilities—“ “Come on, be honest with me. you know im here for you. Anything 'em, I'm scared…I'm scared you’re pulling away.” silence, Emily's heart aches. There's that sick thump. “I'm not trying to, you know that. ive just been under a lot of stress..pressure.” Emily said gently, motioning for the blonde to sit in the chair across her desk, but instead she comes around to where Emily is sat and leans against the lip of the desk—with that same soft grace she had back when she first walked into the older woman's life. emily is quiet for a beat, unable to keep herself from subtly taking in the woman next to her. the way the soft, warm lighting compliments her fair skin, even softer hair,	Cock Sock One Shot Emily Prentiss, like always, was working late. She told herself it was just because she had so much work to do, but she–and everyone else–Knew it ran deeper than that. Ever since Hotch left, and she made the decision to not only come back to the BAU, but to take the role as unit chief, She felt an old, yet still scarily familiar feeling creeping to the forefront of her mind. She wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even herself, but she felt like an outsider again. With that feeling came the compulsion to make up for whatever she thought was lacking. The only problem with that was she didn't know exactly what that was. She had always had a tendency to overcompensate, personally and professionally, that's just how she was raised. To please, to give her all for anyone and anything–yet she couldn't help but feel as if she didn't deserve that in return. The team dynamics had changed since she was last a member. People came, people went, people stayed. So, here she was. Trying to prove herself all over again, to her friends, to her only real family. Deep down, she knew she didn't need to, The team had never stopped considering Emily Family, she knew that, of course she did. Even all the way in London her friends had kept her up to date on their lives, especially Penelope. But still, Emily couldn't shake the gnawing thought that she had abandoned her team again. To Emily, that was warrant enough for them to shut her out–hate her even. But they didn't. Jennifer didn't. Emily would be lying if she said she didn't think about the younger woman, about how she really felt about Emily leaving. Not to mention on her wedding night. It went unsaid, needing change wasn't the only reason Emily had left for Interpol. She was ashamed to admit that she had screened the first few calls from JJ after she had found out of her departure, and even after she gained the nerve to speak to her again, the conversations were few and far in between. JJ, being the woman she is, did her best to keep in touch even with her busy schedule, but for some reason that only made Emily’s heartache intensify. To hear that voice–and to be 3700 miles away, knowing that the blonde now knew what life was like without her, and with him. Times like these, she was supposedly working late, but she knew she was really using it as a way to prolong the twinge of dissatisfaction from coming home to a dark house, cold wine and an even colder bed. To prolong not remembering she would fall asleep holding at the very most Sergio, and knowing she would wake alone. She wants to complete the work she's telling herself she stayed so late for, but it seems she can't even finish her second report, her mind racing despite her slightly desperate attempts at preventing it. She finds herself slouched at her desk, hands in hair as she loses herself in the whirlwind of her mind. Work pushed out of the scope of her thoughts. she tried—tries, her best to keep JJ off her mind. Despite the complicated dynamics, even the thought of the blonde slightly calms her. She wants to be close with her again. She can't yet bring herself to bridge the gap. She sees how much JJ cares, how hard she tries. Now that she is back, after she had grown accustomed to the lack of recognized emotions, it was a migraine yet a curiosity at everything she used to feel around jj, coming back within the second. Although, it felt different, more of a sick thump rather than a light flutter as it had been before. she takes a small breath, trying to re-group when she hears the familiar click of heels down the hall. it was almost midnight, most of the building had been emptied hours ago. Yet she had a suspicion on who it was. it was confirmed when JJ knocked on the door, peaking her head in. “Emily? its way too late for you to still be here.” The younger woman chides softly, stepping into the dimly lit space of Emily's office, neat and impeccable like everything else in Emily's control. (for the most part). “I'm sorry, but I could say the same for you. I just have a little extra work lately.” “unimportant, you need to rest. You’re here all the time, it's concerning.” JJ sighs, her own fatigue slipping past her carefully masked air of composure. “I'm the boss now, remember? It's different now. i have more responsibilities—“ “Come on, be honest with me. you know im here for you. Anything 'em, I'm scared…I'm scared you’re pulling away.” silence, Emily's heart aches. There's that sick thump. “I'm not trying to, you know that. ive just been under a lot of stress..pressure.” Emily said gently, motioning for the blonde to sit in the chair across her desk, but instead she comes around to where Emily is sat and leans against the lip of the desk—with that same soft grace she had back when she first walked into the older woman's life. emily is quiet for a beat, unable to keep herself from subtly taking in the woman next to her. the way the soft, warm lighting compliments her fair skin, even softer hair, slightly frazzled from the day’s events but still so elegant. falling loose around her slender shoulders, yet still so strong. At first glance you would think this was a soft, gentle woman. and although she is, she also carried a strength unkin to most, still young, and so disciplined, highlighted by her toned arms, revealed by her short sleeved button up, a soft almost whiteblue—bringing out her eyes. Her legs were hidden by her form fitting yet professional dark black pencil skirt and a pair of black heels. simple For a day in the office. Emily took in the soft plush of her lips, her subtle dusky blue eye shadow and light mascara, the soft look in the eyes she wouldn’t—and couldn’t get out of her head for the last decade. “Hey, I'm here. I always have been, just…talk to me.” the younger woman comforts, her tone gentle—not unlike a warm hug. “Jennifer, i, i just feel so out of place. i feel like i don't really deserve this.” Emily admits weakly after a brief silence. “What? Emily..of course you deserve this. Hotch chose you for a reason. We all want you here. I want you here.” JJ said firmly, yet so caring, genuine, her hand finding the older woman's shoulder, reassuring her. Emily tensed at first, but she wasn't tense for long. It was as if she had been unknowingly waiting for someone—for Jennifer, to tell her this. she wants to cry—for some reason, maybe the lack of recent emotional connection or support, or maybe she just missed having a friend such as JJ. She decided it's both, and so much more, and she takes a deep breath, trying to compose herself. JJ, being such a woman, noticed immediately, not wasting a second to kneel at Emily's side to meet her at eye level. Emily looked away, out of shame. She hated to been seen at such a state—so vulnerable and open, even with JJ, because to a woman like emilly, vulnerability was a weapon. JJ hums softly, taking Emily's jaw in her hand and gently guiding her face to meet hers. A gentle look—one that said ‘its okay, let it out’ and so, she did. she let herself embrace the hand cupping her jaw as she closed her eyes, a few hot tears spilling over. “im sorry, jay, im sorry—“ emily chokes, quiet, timid almost “Shh, it's fine. you’re okay. come here..” and with that, even at the awkward angle, jj pulls Emily into an oddly comfortable embrace. Emily's face was burrowed in the crook of JJs neck, tears wetting the collar of her shirt—of course, Jennifer didn’t care, she just gently stroked Emily's hair and whispered softer words in her ear. For once, Emily let herself be held—comforted. For the first time in so long she felt like she was the protected, not the protector. Eventually, Emily is calm, quiet and still hidden in the crook of the younger woman's neck. It seems almost as if their hearts are beating in sync. JJs rhythmic breaths reduce Emily's racing mind to a blank pile of mush—all her stress, frustration—momentarily forgotten. “you should head home, get some sleep. you’re tense, i can tell.” “I just need to finish a few files. If anyone needs to go, it's you. Henry is waiting on you. so is will—“ “Dont. dont mention him right now” Silence, the energy switch so quick even Emily's silver tongue was dulled. The way JJ spoke, suddenly so serious, with a light dusk of heat hidden in the breathy way she spoke “If you need to finish the files, go on. but i cant in good conscience let you keep being strung so tight” the blonde chides softly, a light playfulness entering her tone as she stands, brushing the dark hair out of Emily's face. Emily forces down whatever feelings arise at the slight sultry addition to the blonde's already intoxicating tone. She can't do much more than nod, wondering what JJ was doing. Slowly, the blonde moves Emily's raven hair from her shoulders, running her warm hands softly over the base of her neck. “Just relax, focus on the work.” JJ hums, Emily sighs, sitting up and resuming her work on the previously disregarded file. JJs soft hands work at the knots in Emily's neck, gently kneading the tight muscles as Emily begins to work, even though her mind is wandering to a different place. This goes on for a while, the occasional sigh escaping Emily's lips when JJ hits a particularly sore spot. Surprisingly, Emily finishes a few files before she can no longer ignore the rising heat in her body. She falters, and so does JJ, although only for a moment before she does something bold—risky. her hands slip from the casual area of her shoulders, and lightly caress the skin of Emily's collar bone area, softly, a question. A question of which Emily doesn't know the right answer. ethically—morrally, it was wrong. She was the boss, JJs was married, and had a kid. but for some reason all rational thoughts are thrown out when she feels jj lean down, brushing the hair away from her ear. “Em, its okay. if you dont want to, it's okay. but its not a question if i want this, because i do. just tell me what you want..” JJ whispered in the older woman's ear, her warm breath brushing the shell—sending a slight shock throughout Emily. “Are you sure? This is…new. A lot, I didn't, didn't even know you—" Emily is unable to finish her sentence as JJ kisses the sweet spot under her ear, gently nipping the lobe. “I'm saying yes. I know what I want, do you…?” Emily's answer comes all too fast “i want you.” she husks, turning her head to meet JJs face, genuine. It was as if something snapped in jj, her eyes dark with the enlarged size of her pupils, and she straightened, gliding to the office door—the lock clicking makes Emily straighten, the full reality of the current situation dawning on her “Tell me, Emily, what you want. what you need.” JJ hums, her words low and drawn out as she practically struts back over to where The older woman was sitting. Emily was beginning to fluster, even if she wasn’t showing it. She was already feeling a rising heat below, and she didn’t know how to feel about it. JJ was aware of Emily's anatomy—it was only natural that it would come up in conversation eventually—especially at girls nights. JJ had seemed curious initially, asking shameless questions until she picked up on the smaller signs. Emily never was embarrassed or ashamed by it, but now, with the blood rushing in her body, she felt a little insecure, unsure even. JJ turns Emily's chair as she stands over her. The slight bulge in her slacks is clear even in the dim lighting. Letting such a clear sign of arousal for her married best friend—subordinate—be seen, that was a little new. “I want whatever you want. Anything.” she whispered, tilting her head to meet Jennifer's, her eyes on the other woman's lips instead of her eyes. JJ smiles, surprisingly softly for the mood. “I want you to be specific, use your words” she whispered, her breath mixing with Emily's as she spoke. “I want to kiss you.” Emily finally managed, her tone soft and hesitant. But JJ is seemingly much more confident as she doesn't waste another second in meeting Emily's lips with her own. The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, but firm. Emily sighs into her lips, relaxing into it quickly as her lips move With JJs After JJ is sure Emily has settled into the rhythm, JJ slowly deepens the kiss, moving over Emily's lap to straddle her in the seat. Emily can't help the raw, unfiltered groan that comes from the back of her throat. JJ swallows the sound, egged on by her reactions as she gently nips Emily's bottom lip, her tongue darting out to soothe the area– and also—to ask for more, something deeper. Emily doesn't hesitate to part her lips, inviting the warmth of the other woman's tongue into her mouth. JJs hips roll down on Emily's lap, and Emily doesn't quite know how to react to that, she doesn't even know what to do with her hands at the moment–for what might've been the first time ever. Emily was far from a whore, but she definitely got around enough to know how a woman works. She knows how to learn their tells and what they want just simply from paying attention, but with JJ she felt as if she didn't even know her lefts and rights. JJ hums into the kiss, sensing Emily's nerves. Her hands find Emily's as she slows the kiss, only to pull away slightly to look emily in the eyes. She guides the older woman's hands to her waist, giving her such a look Emily felt her heart stutter. The bulge in her pants hardening impossibly further. “You can touch me, babe…” The familiar nickname suddenly had a whole new meaning–and with that a whole new feeling, Emily's usual confidence finally found her as she gently caressed JJs hips through her shirt, only to slip her hands under the fabric and smooth her hands over JJs firm abs, the skin soft and warm. Her touches are soft, gentle as they just make eye contact, JJs swollen bottom lip caught gently between her teeth. After a few more moments jj leans back in, pressing her body firmer down on Emily's lap as she kisses her again, harder, needier. Emily mewls, her hands trailing higher as she kisses her back with the same intense fervor, and the black haired woman couldn't help but gasp when JJs hands slip between them to cup Emily through her slacks. “Please, I need you.” Emily chokes out, once again hiding her face in JJs neck but for a different reason this time. She gently kisses, sucks— just light enough to not leave a mark. JJ hums, her grip on Emily's crotch tightens and Emily whimpers, biting down on JJs throat. “Do you want me? All of me?’ “You know I do, Jennifer.” Emily pants softly, her voice a lot softer than she thought it would be. The spark in JJs eyes bursts into a flame as she deftly undoes the buckle of Emily's belt, moving to kiss and bite at the exposed skin of her throat, the black haired woman tilting her head back out of instinct as she whines, The warmth of JJs hands seeping into her very essence as the younger woman caressed her. “Please, jennifer.” That's all emily can manege, and luckily that's more than enough for JJ as she slips off Emily's lap and fully undoes her slacks, gently pulling the already throbbing erection out of her Boxers. To emilys suprise–although she didn't know what to expect in the first place–JJ begins to bunch up her pencil skirt, past her calves, then her thighs until it was fully hiked up to her waist. Emily couldn't help but stare at the fair skin of her legs, the definition of her muscles , her simple bikini-style panties, black. They don't stay on for much longer before JJ tugs them down over her hips and lets them fall onto the floor, confident as she watches Emily closely. Emily's eyes are on the soft curls of hair on her pubic mound, the way she could smell her sex slightly in the air, Emily sighs, unable to stop her hands from landing on the blonde’s hips as she kisses low under her belly button “God, jay–you’re so…you are perfect..” Emily hums gently as her hands smooth down her legs, pulling her closer. JJs takes this as her sign to hover herself over Emily's lap, eager and not in the mood to wait any longer as she palms Emily's cock and lines it up with her already slick entrance. Emily’s breath catches, and she groans weakly. And then, JJ slowly sinks down fully, the stretch causing her to mewl a little too loudly for their current situation. Emily can feel how wet JJ already is, her Core contracting and pulsing around her cock. For a minute, JJ doesn't even move, taking a moment to just feel the fullness of Emily inside her, and the blonde partly slumps forward, her face now buried in Emily's neck as she continues to stay still. Emily wanted–needed something more, but she was content to just wait, already a little surprised this was happening. Her mind was fogged. Clouded by her deep arousal, and JJ hums into her neck as she reaches between them to undo the first few buttons of her shirt. She sits back, her hips rolling, causing them both to hum, Emily's hands move from her hips to gently push open JJs shirt, revealing her simple—matching black bra. Emily immediately has one or two not so gentle urges, but Emily is calm, in control, gently kissing the swell of her breasts instead of biting down like she so desperately wanted to. This causes the still relatively stationary Woman in her lap to roll her hips harder, her hands coming up to brace herself on Emily's shoulders. Emily continues to softly nip the warm skin of Jennifer's breasts, trying to entice her to keep moving, but she was just sitting here, pulsing on her… “Emily, you can't..you have to hold it..” Suddenly her thoughts are cut off by jjs muffled whimper, head tilted back and finger in her mouth. “of course, get..get what you need, i can—“ and then JJ kisses her, messy, but not exactly sloppy, more aggressive as JJ begins to slowly roll her hips. After the last few minutes of minimal movement Emily can't help but moan into the kiss, her hands cupping supple breasts still clad in the simple black bra. JJs pace increased as she felt that familiar, low pressure building in the pit of her stomach…heat searing into what felt like her soul. She panted, Emily rolling her nipples between the fabric of the bra JJ began to rock her hips faster, trying to stay quiet by choosing to sink her teeth into Emily's shoulder, now pressing flush against Emily. She felt so desperate, as if she had been imagining this for more than awhile. But so had Emily, even if she wouldn’t admit it. She had thought about taking her home, loving her—being with her. holding her, for once having someone. and now here she was, blonde in her lap in the middle of the night—not to mention at work. but the way she could feel Jennifer's core tightening around her, she felt high. She was so close, but she knew she could and would hold on for however long JJ wanted JJs hips begin to stutter, they rock in a haphazard rhythm, her moans getting less controlled—so emily helps her, her hands finding the soft skin of JJs hips and guiding her motion, swallowing her lips in a kiss to quiet her slightly, all while she still manages her breasts. JJ can feel herself on the edge, and the additional stimulation. the way Emily was breathing her in, how she touched her. With a strangled, muffled mewl, the younger woman comes apart on Emily’s lap, reduced to a babbling, twitching mess as Emily guides her hips to move through her orgasm. Emily cant help but whisper how good JJ is doing, moving to gently caress her bare back under her undone shirt. After a while, Emily is so ready, she's panting herself. JJ, after calming, understands Emily, so slowly, she lifts herself up off of her, Emily’s cock slipping out along with JJs own arousal. slowly, she slips from her lap to her knees between Emily's legs, those dark brown doe eyes staring her down with such intensity it was foreign for JJ. “you deserve to come, let me…” JJ rasps, looking slightly hazy, a thin layer of sweat casting a soft glow to her skin, hair even messier. Emily couldn’t help but wet her lips, entranced with the sight of the woman between her legs. Her undone shirt, slightly falling off, pencil skirt still hiked on her hips, wrinkled and messy. and the look, the look on her face was something Emily wouldn’t forget. The low gloss of her eyes—pupils blown wide, her kiss-bitten lips and the soft curl to the inner corner of her eyebrows. the way she chews on her bottom lip impatiently “Okay, if..only if you really want to.” before Emily could prepare, JJs soft, warm hands wrapped around her still slick cock, pulling it towards her as she pumped her hand over the head, rubbing gently while she made eye contact, wanting to see how Emily's face looked. slowly, she brings it to her lips, and gently runs her tongue along the tip, collecting the pre cum. she continues to stroke her length, while looking up into Emily's eyes, she let a string of spit drip from her lips onto her cock. she gently works her hand, applying a firm pressure and a slow stroke, Emily's cock almost painfully hard, it was clear she was holding off as long as she could. JJ can't hold off anymore, and she kissed the tip gently, letting another few strings of spit drip down her length. finally, The blonde takes emily's cock into her mouth, slowly working further down her length, her eyes prickling slightly as she adjusted Emily basically melts, a strangled, muffled sound scratching from the back of her throat. Gently, Emily's hands tangled in blonde roots, guiding her movements gently. after a few moments, she picks up the pace, wanting her to take more, quicker. JJ takes it, relaxing her throat and focusing on her breath as she let emily fuck her mouth. harder, deeper, rocking her hips deeper into jjs throat as tears stung JJs eyes and drool slathered Emily's cock. JJ felt so useful, and surprisingly aroused, so she took it, even when she felt as if she would gag. Emily's hips buck one last time before she burrowed herself deep in JJs throat, releasing in her mouth with a pathetic mewl. JJ pulls off just enough not to choke as she swallows the warmth of Emily's seed, sucking her already overstimulated cock clean. Her cock slips from JJs spit slick lips with a wet pop, and Emily combs her fingers through JJs hair. “you, you’re amazing…jay. you dont know..how much i needed this..” “ive wanted this for so long.” she pants softly, looking up at her with soft, pleased eyes. “We need to clean up—and, and go home.” emily whispered as she guides jj to sit back in her lap “But, I can just…hold you, for a bit. Is that okay?” JJ smiles, because she's not thinking of work, or her husband, or her other issues, she just wants Emily's embrace. so, she saddled Emily again, burrowed her face in her neck, and let The older woman stroke her back they finally had each other, even if only for a few more minutes	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591336	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "Cock Sock One Shot"}
21 days: Gingerbre(a)d Man “Hi, Charlie!” Michael's cheerful and loud voice greeted Charlie, who had been sleeping before answering his phone's insistent ringing. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and bit back a groan, not wanting the other man to get the wrong idea. He loved his sister's partner, but 8am was far too early after how late Charlie was up the night prior. “And how is my favorite Spring named Charlie?” “Terrible. Sun's too bright. Might have had a tad too much fun last night and now I'm going to die," Charlie croaked, running his hand down his face, trying to rub the sleep out. “To what do I owe this lovely early morning call?” “Oh, no! I'm sorry, Charlie-Barlie. I didn't mean to wake you.” Of course, Michael's genuinely kind tone immediately disarmed Charlie's annoyance. He couldn't be mad at the eccentric puppy of a man. “Are you free this morning? Tori and I need a favor for the party today.” “Do you mean where mum and auntie will yet again question why I'm single?” Charlie asked dryly, extending his arms above his head until he felt a satisfying pop. “My availability entirely depends on what this favor is.” “Tori and I had some custom gingerbread people ordered for everyone at the Pre-Christmas Eve party and we need someone to pick them up. We're too busy getting everything else ready and won't have time later. So, pretty please pick them up for us? The bakery said they'll be ready at ten.” Charlie let his head fall back onto his pillow with a petulant groan. For a brief moment he let himself consider the request, but he knew he didn't have the heart to tell his sister no, especially through someone as cheery as Michael. “You're lucky I love you guys. I guess I'll have to suffer through the nauseating Christmas joy.” “I think it'll do you good, you Scrooge.” “You try several shots of vodka at one in the morning and tell me how your holiday spirit is holding up,” Charlie sighed. “You're such a lightweight that one ale is enough to make you horizontal.” "Definitely! That's why I avoid alcohol and stick to weed. You should try it sometime! It can help with chronic pain and anxiety…” As Michael trailed on, Charlie rolled his eyes at the lack of effect his sass was having on Michael. The man was truly made of sunny energy and a pure innocence that both amazed and drained Charlie. 🍪🎄🥐 Charlie, not wanting to feel the slightest bit cold, bundled up in a jumper, a fluffy winter jacket, a beanie, scarf and thick gloves. Bracing himself for the biting cold, he opened the door to his apartment building and strode out onto the pavement, taking in the light flurry of snow and holiday decorations adorning most buildings. In the distance, he heard carollers making their way through the neighborhood, likely trying to spread the holiday cheer despite the harsh cold. With Christmas itself being 2 days away, Charlie couldn't wait for the holiday to be over. Cheery bitches, Charlie mentally grouched. No amount of good tidings will feed the homeless or make marginalised people less persecuted. Regardless of his foul mood, he found himself humming along to Winter Wonderland as he made his way toward the tube. Arriving at the provided address, Charlie took in the gray, modern building. With a large glass window and front door, Charlie could see inside to the cozy, warm-colored interior. Soft oranges and pinks combined in a gradient to make the bakery feel like a sunset, a sharp contrast to the white flurry outside. There was only a handful of tables and booths each, most of the space being taken up by shelves lined with a variety of packaged baked goods. Even through the doors, Charlie could smell the bread and sugary sweets. According to the googling Charlie had done prior to leaving his flat, Nelson's Bakery was a higher-end hotspot, particularly popular with social media influencers; the nearly out the door lines inside appeared to support this fact. Conveniently, it was also located only a fifteen minute walk from Tori's place. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he slipped inside the bakery, a bell above the door announcing his arrival. Taking his place in the right-hand line, Charlie removed his hat and gloves, exhaling a satisfied sigh at the warm, lovely-smelling air. While he waited, his eyes perused the bakery shelves, idly wondering if he should order something extra to go. He didn't normally have much of a sweet tooth, but he found it hard to resist when confronted with all the deliciousness. A coffee or latte would be wonderful right about now. Maybe add a shot of espresso. Some whipped cream or cold foam… By the time Charlie arrived at the counter, he'd decided a coffee was a necessity. Stepping up to the register while glancing at the overhead menus, he opened up his mouth to greet the worker, but was cut off by the tall, lanky man behind the counter. "Sorry mate! Break time for me." The man threw a fake smile his way before slipping his apron off and sauntering through the door behind the counter.	21 days: Gingerbre(a)d Man “Hi, Charlie!” Michael's cheerful and loud voice greeted Charlie, who had been sleeping before answering his phone's insistent ringing. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and bit back a groan, not wanting the other man to get the wrong idea. He loved his sister's partner, but 8am was far too early after how late Charlie was up the night prior. “And how is my favorite Spring named Charlie?” “Terrible. Sun's too bright. Might have had a tad too much fun last night and now I'm going to die," Charlie croaked, running his hand down his face, trying to rub the sleep out. “To what do I owe this lovely early morning call?” “Oh, no! I'm sorry, Charlie-Barlie. I didn't mean to wake you.” Of course, Michael's genuinely kind tone immediately disarmed Charlie's annoyance. He couldn't be mad at the eccentric puppy of a man. “Are you free this morning? Tori and I need a favor for the party today.” “Do you mean where mum and auntie will yet again question why I'm single?” Charlie asked dryly, extending his arms above his head until he felt a satisfying pop. “My availability entirely depends on what this favor is.” “Tori and I had some custom gingerbread people ordered for everyone at the Pre-Christmas Eve party and we need someone to pick them up. We're too busy getting everything else ready and won't have time later. So, pretty please pick them up for us? The bakery said they'll be ready at ten.” Charlie let his head fall back onto his pillow with a petulant groan. For a brief moment he let himself consider the request, but he knew he didn't have the heart to tell his sister no, especially through someone as cheery as Michael. “You're lucky I love you guys. I guess I'll have to suffer through the nauseating Christmas joy.” “I think it'll do you good, you Scrooge.” “You try several shots of vodka at one in the morning and tell me how your holiday spirit is holding up,” Charlie sighed. “You're such a lightweight that one ale is enough to make you horizontal.” "Definitely! That's why I avoid alcohol and stick to weed. You should try it sometime! It can help with chronic pain and anxiety…” As Michael trailed on, Charlie rolled his eyes at the lack of effect his sass was having on Michael. The man was truly made of sunny energy and a pure innocence that both amazed and drained Charlie. 🍪🎄🥐 Charlie, not wanting to feel the slightest bit cold, bundled up in a jumper, a fluffy winter jacket, a beanie, scarf and thick gloves. Bracing himself for the biting cold, he opened the door to his apartment building and strode out onto the pavement, taking in the light flurry of snow and holiday decorations adorning most buildings. In the distance, he heard carollers making their way through the neighborhood, likely trying to spread the holiday cheer despite the harsh cold. With Christmas itself being 2 days away, Charlie couldn't wait for the holiday to be over. Cheery bitches, Charlie mentally grouched. No amount of good tidings will feed the homeless or make marginalised people less persecuted. Regardless of his foul mood, he found himself humming along to Winter Wonderland as he made his way toward the tube. Arriving at the provided address, Charlie took in the gray, modern building. With a large glass window and front door, Charlie could see inside to the cozy, warm-colored interior. Soft oranges and pinks combined in a gradient to make the bakery feel like a sunset, a sharp contrast to the white flurry outside. There was only a handful of tables and booths each, most of the space being taken up by shelves lined with a variety of packaged baked goods. Even through the doors, Charlie could smell the bread and sugary sweets. According to the googling Charlie had done prior to leaving his flat, Nelson's Bakery was a higher-end hotspot, particularly popular with social media influencers; the nearly out the door lines inside appeared to support this fact. Conveniently, it was also located only a fifteen minute walk from Tori's place. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he slipped inside the bakery, a bell above the door announcing his arrival. Taking his place in the right-hand line, Charlie removed his hat and gloves, exhaling a satisfied sigh at the warm, lovely-smelling air. While he waited, his eyes perused the bakery shelves, idly wondering if he should order something extra to go. He didn't normally have much of a sweet tooth, but he found it hard to resist when confronted with all the deliciousness. A coffee or latte would be wonderful right about now. Maybe add a shot of espresso. Some whipped cream or cold foam… By the time Charlie arrived at the counter, he'd decided a coffee was a necessity. Stepping up to the register while glancing at the overhead menus, he opened up his mouth to greet the worker, but was cut off by the tall, lanky man behind the counter. "Sorry mate! Break time for me." The man threw a fake smile his way before slipping his apron off and sauntering through the door behind the counter. “Taking my break, Nick! You're up! Better hurry before the customer leaves!” Standing at the now empty register, he heard muffled voices bickering through the door. He side-eyed the adjacent register, where the petit and curvy blond cashier rolled her eyes. She smiled at Charlie reassuringly. “Someone will be out in just a minute. Sorry about David. He's just…that way.” Charlie assured her it was quite alright before quietly scanning the beverage menu and shifting from foot to foot. Deluxe Raspberry Cookie Shake. Double Chocolate Fudge Sunday. Nelson's Number 1 Tea Blend. Caramel Cake Coffee. Some of the drinks were more on the dessert side and Charlie didn't feel like developing diabetes from a drink today. Thankfully, the bakery served coffee without enough sugar to comatose an elephant, so Charlie would hopefully have a much needed burst of energy very soon. He turned to his left and took a closer look at the warmly painted west facing wall. A mural of a beautiful silhouetted skyline ran across the wall. The buildings were all different shapes and sizes, a windmill even noticable on the far left. It wasn't until he saw the Eiffel Tower, standing tall in the center, that he realised it was France. The kitchen door swung open, bringing with it the delicious smell of baked bread and a catalyst for change. Charlie turned toward the kitchen door and that's when his world became consumed with fair skin; floppy, auburn hair and a pair of warm, honey-brown eyes. If this were a movie, Charlie was certain the score would swell and he would have cartoon butterflies dancing around his head. Being real life, all that happened was his body seizing up in gay panic. …oh fuck. Oh, fuck me. Gods. Buddha. Our lord and savior, Arceus. “Bonjour! I'm so sorry about that! David is supposed to wait until someone shows up to switch with him. Please, allow me to assist you now! I'm the owner. Nick Nelson.” The large man extended his hand over the counter to Charlie with an embarrassed smile, his flushed cheeks round and full. When their hands clasped one another's, Nick's face reddened further. “N-nice to meet you. I hope David didn't leave you out here too long, the wanker.” HELP. MAYDAY. RED ALERT. HOT. HE'S SO FINE. FUCK. THINK, BRAIN! SAY SOMETHING BEFORE HE ASSUMES YOU'RE CRAZY! “It's not a problem! I worked a few years in the service industry, so I remember what the pressure is like. He's probably having a rough day and needs a break.” Charlie shrugged the shoulder not engaged in the handshake, ignoring the heat in his cheeks and attempting to appear blasé and totally chill. “I'm Charlie, by the way. Very nice to meet you, as well.” “Hello, Charlie,” Nick sighed, eyes hooded and lips parted ever so slightly. After a moment, he recovered, schooling his face to something less hypnotised. “Please allow me to correct my shitty employee's mistake. Can I take your order?” “You most definitely can,” Charlie smiled, trying not to stare too hard at Nick's barely contained bulky chest and shoulders. That navy shirt with the bakery croissant logo truly did Nick justice. While Charlie didn't make a habit of blatantly ogling men to their face, he had a sneaking suspicion Nick didn't mind. By a strength that would rival Greek gods, Charlie dragged his eyes away from the visible chest hair at the top of Nick's shirt to glance at the menu one last time to confirm his order choice. “May I have a medium hazelnut coffee with oat milk and a caramel drizzle over some whipped cream? No sugar, please.” “Coming right up! Sounds like a delicious choice!” Nick tapped his fingers on the counter while inputting Charlie's order into a small tablet. “Will that be all?” Charlie informed Nick of Tori's order and rattled off the number. “Oh, yes! The Springs and Holdens! The order should be done in a few minutes,” Nick beamed, a twinkle of pride in his eye. “I love making those baked little people! Let's see… curly black hair, pretty blue eyes… I remember making one with those traits, but I was told he was a kid.” “Oh I assure you, I am very much not,” Charlie frowned. Surely Tori and Michael didn't lump him in with Ollie. “Who gave you the traits? Is it possible they weren't written down properly?” Nick's face fell before he ducked down and frantically searched beneath the counter. Before Charlie could say anything, Nick shot back up, eyes scanning a paper while he worried his lower lip with his teeth. “No, it doesn't look like it. I took the call myself and the woman I spoke to specifically said she had one kid brother and that's it. I'm so sorry, maybe there was a mix up.” “First David and now this! I assure you our establishment isn't like this. Can I make it up to you somehow?” Nick flashed Charlie the biggest pair of puppy eyes, immediately melting away any irritation that might have sprung up. “Oh. It's ok,” Charlie trailed off, not wanting to give away his disappointment too much. Nick seemed genuinely upset about the mistake enough as it was. Sure, it was just a cookie, but he had been looking forward to it. “It's just one cookie. I'll have plenty of other–” “Nope! I have to insist on getting you your cookie,” Nick interrupted kindly. He looked over to Imogen, who'd been noticeably half-watching their entire exchange. “Can you hold down the fort for a bit while I correct the mistake?” “I wouldn't want you to go to all the trouble. Really.” Charlie's insistence was met with Nick's polite stubbornness that it really wouldn't take too long, especially for a single cookie. Nick slipped back through the kitchen door, leaving Charlie standing at the register once more. Charlie turned toward Imogen just as a customer received their order and left. “It's just, it's all been a bit of a headache and I don't want to put anyone out.” “Not to worry, babes; the cookies really won't take long. Decorating them takes longer than the baking. Feel free to grab a booth and I'll call you when your coffee is ready.” Before she turned back to her next customer, she smirked at Charlie. “By the way, he doesn't have any plans tonight. Do with that information what you will.” Smiling to himself, he slid into a booth and texted the group chat with Elle, Isaac and Tao, gushing about Hot Baker Nick and how Charlie wanted him to pin him down with those massive biceps. He was halfway through checking some work emails when he felt a presence hover over him. He looked up and saw Nick shifting his weight from one foot to the other, biting his lip and darting his eyes around nervously. Nick looked over his shoulder at Imogen, who gave him a supportive smile and thumbs up from her spot behind the register. Either something has gone terribly wrong in the kitchen, or Nick is about to shyly ask him out. Please be the latter. Please. “Hello, again,” Charlie greeted before sipping his coffee with a satisfied hum. “Is everything ok with the sweets? With the baking, I mean.” “The sweets? Yeah, everything's good.” Nick furrowed his brow in a way that Charlie found adorable. “Erm, well…I was wondering if you would like - I had this idea, but I don't know if you'd like it, but seeing as…what I mean to say is…” “Nick?” Charlie reached out and took his hand slowly, leaving ample time for Nick to pull away. “I would love to go out with you sometime.” Nick blinked at him in silence, his mouth gawping like he was a fish out of water. Though, Charlie could make out a hint of a smile threatening to overtake the surprise. “Oh - oh! On a date? With me? Really?” “Erm…yes? You don't do this often, do you?” Charlie smiled at the handsome baker, making it clear he was only teasing. “W-well, no. I don't really,” Nick confessed, scuffing the bottom of his shoe on the brick floor, a tick Charlie knew he was guilty of himself. “But erm…I actually came out here to ask if you wanted to come to the kitchen and help me decorate your cookie?” “Oh. I see,” Charlie choked out, wanting a hole in the ground to open up and swallow him whole; anything to end his suffering. “I'm sorry! That was so presumptuous of me! I'm just going to go jump off the nearest cliff now. Have a good day!” “No, no! Don't do that,” Nick pouted, holding on to Charlie's hand with a squeeze. His shyness now replaced with playfulness “If you do, we won't be able to go on our date.” “You'd…want to go?” Charlie couldn't keep the insecurity out of his voice, much as he may want to appear unphased by his blunder. “I made such a twat out of myself.” “I would love to go on a date! I would also love it if you helped me decorate your gingerbread man for your party tonight.” Nick's eyes twinkled as he smiled warmly at Charlie, melting Charlie's doubts. Who was Charlie to say no to such a festive and possibly romantic act with someone like Nick? With fuzzy insides, Charlie followed Nick, their hands laced together. As surreptitiously as he could manage, Charlie risked a look at Nick's arse and felt a rush of heat flood him. Oh gods, I could bounce quarters off that thing. Hm…I wonder how soundproof the kitchen is… 🧑🏻‍🍳🍑🍆🏃🏻‍♂️	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591361	{"authors": ["Rugbi"], "language": "English", "title": "21 days: Gingerbre(a)d Man"}
stars by the pocketful. The night was cold, and so was the lightkeeper's home. It was cold ever since he was left alone, again, in the tiny space he had occupied for the last decades. Barren cold slipped inside from every little crack on the walls, left on the surface of his well-tented makeshift home by the hard nature of Nod-Krai. It was a sturdy home, had his back for so many years that Flins had forgotten to count. A howling storm outside, a wolf yowling a few yards away, his garden dark and wet with the consistent rain carrying no muddy footsteps over to Flins's ears. He had been listening, all ears and somewhat eager for something out there. But no matter how hard he inclined his ear to the silent graveyard land, he couldn't hear any hint of life among the dead flowers and cloudy roads leading up to him. He's not coming tonight, then. He would know, Flins would recognize the sound of heavy boots stepping over the lawn loudly several miles away. He could smell the scent of dandelion and cecilia in the unforgiving wind, tangled in the golden locks of hair, patting them somewhat harshly and carrying the whiff to him. None of that tonight. It would be first. Did the calendar he carefully kept in his brain slip off? Or was he mistaken about them? It was, admittedly, hard to keep count on days when no morning greeted him with night withdrawing itself to a silent corner. No morning to wake up to, no sun to set behind clouds. No scent, no sound, and no one knocking on his door in the middle of the night. He would act like he had just woken up to the sound, an annoyed expression masking his eagerness just to lay his eyes on the brute of a man who barged into his life just like he did with his home. He wouldn't ever mention over his dead body how he didn't do so much as blink his eyes that night ever since his nape started tingling just like it would when in the presence of a mate. Flins didn't have a mate, though. He only had this blond alpha who came over whenever he pleased and these stupid, stupid feelings he had for him. It didn't matter, he was content with what he got and didn't ask for anything more. He couldn't, not when he knew so well how different he was from the insistent force of a man named Varka. Grandmaster of Knights from the faraway land that is called Monstandt. He was to stay in here, in the ruthless land of Nod-Krai, to tend to graves, a lantern in his hand, patrolling as a lightkeeper. Watching and protecting, keeping his promises to his fallen comrades, honoring them in his long, long life. He repeated these words to himself every day, only for them to lose the meaning he once found in them. Among so many things he didn't want to admit, the hardest one to swallow was his curiosity about somewhere far. He never once indulged in them, never once thought about leaving here. But he found himself more and more tired as days passed and hours ticked slowly, as torture would be. Flins knew he was ankle-deep in trouble ever since he stopped complaining over the wet patches of mud on his porch, left there after a midnight visit from him. Just content to see him be here one more time, thinking of Flins one more time, taking time to come to see him. There was so much to think about, he simply would forget about the dirt Varka would leave there. It wasn't much of a problem, he could make him clean that later, too. That moment, that one moment when Flins laid his eyes on the alpha again, he would be simply too busy trying not to lure the man into bed with him to pay attention to anything else. It wasn't always like that. Flins had composure, he held his ground tight, walls up high in the sky, only for them to crumble, tumbling down both loudly and silently.What he found outside of these walls surprised him to a good extent. It was warm. He felt warm all over, both his body and mind melting from too much sunshine and warmth over a shared meal or a shameless joke. But that sunshine knew how to be cruel, too. It was common sense, of course, that snow would feel sharper on him now that his skin flushed with sun once. "You waiting for someone?" Flins flinched so hard he almost dropped his lantern. There would be only one person at this hour in his home, but it was impossible, even though he knew that voice better than anybody else, Flins would have known him getting closer just like other times. He turned his head to look at the intruder, and without a doubt, it was him. There, Varka was. How? Was he that much lost in his thoughts to not recognize his mate(not really), coming over? He stood where he was, not moving an inch, something was amiss. "Don't you know doors are for knocking?" "I thought you might be sleeping." The alpha made a move to come closer, but stopped in his tracks to take a look at his feet. Then started to take off his boots with heavy movements, "Its kinda late even for you." "How did you even get inside?" The man chuckled before answering, "You don't really lock your door, like ever,	stars by the pocketful. The night was cold, and so was the lightkeeper's home. It was cold ever since he was left alone, again, in the tiny space he had occupied for the last decades. Barren cold slipped inside from every little crack on the walls, left on the surface of his well-tented makeshift home by the hard nature of Nod-Krai. It was a sturdy home, had his back for so many years that Flins had forgotten to count. A howling storm outside, a wolf yowling a few yards away, his garden dark and wet with the consistent rain carrying no muddy footsteps over to Flins's ears. He had been listening, all ears and somewhat eager for something out there. But no matter how hard he inclined his ear to the silent graveyard land, he couldn't hear any hint of life among the dead flowers and cloudy roads leading up to him. He's not coming tonight, then. He would know, Flins would recognize the sound of heavy boots stepping over the lawn loudly several miles away. He could smell the scent of dandelion and cecilia in the unforgiving wind, tangled in the golden locks of hair, patting them somewhat harshly and carrying the whiff to him. None of that tonight. It would be first. Did the calendar he carefully kept in his brain slip off? Or was he mistaken about them? It was, admittedly, hard to keep count on days when no morning greeted him with night withdrawing itself to a silent corner. No morning to wake up to, no sun to set behind clouds. No scent, no sound, and no one knocking on his door in the middle of the night. He would act like he had just woken up to the sound, an annoyed expression masking his eagerness just to lay his eyes on the brute of a man who barged into his life just like he did with his home. He wouldn't ever mention over his dead body how he didn't do so much as blink his eyes that night ever since his nape started tingling just like it would when in the presence of a mate. Flins didn't have a mate, though. He only had this blond alpha who came over whenever he pleased and these stupid, stupid feelings he had for him. It didn't matter, he was content with what he got and didn't ask for anything more. He couldn't, not when he knew so well how different he was from the insistent force of a man named Varka. Grandmaster of Knights from the faraway land that is called Monstandt. He was to stay in here, in the ruthless land of Nod-Krai, to tend to graves, a lantern in his hand, patrolling as a lightkeeper. Watching and protecting, keeping his promises to his fallen comrades, honoring them in his long, long life. He repeated these words to himself every day, only for them to lose the meaning he once found in them. Among so many things he didn't want to admit, the hardest one to swallow was his curiosity about somewhere far. He never once indulged in them, never once thought about leaving here. But he found himself more and more tired as days passed and hours ticked slowly, as torture would be. Flins knew he was ankle-deep in trouble ever since he stopped complaining over the wet patches of mud on his porch, left there after a midnight visit from him. Just content to see him be here one more time, thinking of Flins one more time, taking time to come to see him. There was so much to think about, he simply would forget about the dirt Varka would leave there. It wasn't much of a problem, he could make him clean that later, too. That moment, that one moment when Flins laid his eyes on the alpha again, he would be simply too busy trying not to lure the man into bed with him to pay attention to anything else. It wasn't always like that. Flins had composure, he held his ground tight, walls up high in the sky, only for them to crumble, tumbling down both loudly and silently.What he found outside of these walls surprised him to a good extent. It was warm. He felt warm all over, both his body and mind melting from too much sunshine and warmth over a shared meal or a shameless joke. But that sunshine knew how to be cruel, too. It was common sense, of course, that snow would feel sharper on him now that his skin flushed with sun once. "You waiting for someone?" Flins flinched so hard he almost dropped his lantern. There would be only one person at this hour in his home, but it was impossible, even though he knew that voice better than anybody else, Flins would have known him getting closer just like other times. He turned his head to look at the intruder, and without a doubt, it was him. There, Varka was. How? Was he that much lost in his thoughts to not recognize his mate(not really), coming over? He stood where he was, not moving an inch, something was amiss. "Don't you know doors are for knocking?" "I thought you might be sleeping." The alpha made a move to come closer, but stopped in his tracks to take a look at his feet. Then started to take off his boots with heavy movements, "Its kinda late even for you." "How did you even get inside?" The man chuckled before answering, "You don't really lock your door, like ever, moonshine. I can get inside anytime I want. I just knock because I like to see you opening the door for me." He finally managed to take off his boots and put them next to the door, "You look all shy and stuff. 's adorable." "Stop talking." "Nuh-uh, I missed talking to you." He got closer to him. Flins was unsure how to feel about this. He assumed he would be all alone tonight. The fae dug his fingers into his thighs. It was okay. Varka was here. He would warm up soon. Just as Flins was standing up where he was sitting on the chair, Varka took off his coat and dropped it god knows where. There was no time to scold him about it since the moment he was standing straight, a warmth embraced him so nicely that flins couldn't help but let a little whimper escape from his lips, traveling all the way up from his fluttering belly. The alpha wrapped his arms around him, one hand on the small of his back, the other on Flins's nape, pulling him in. It was nice. It was everything he needed. Flins left out a shaky breath as he reciprocated the hug. Varka was like a bear, draping and towering over him.Flins wasn't a small man by any means. He was tall and had enough muscle to help him while fighting the wild hunt. He would tower over any common man when he was in town. But Varka was something else. he was so wild and big, in every aspect. They were nearly the same height, but it didn't feel like it whenever they were like this. Flins felt so small in his embrace. He liked it, he loved it. He wanted to be like this forever. The blonde man grumbled as he buried his nose in purple strands. "Missed you, too." The fea snuggled his face over the alpha's shoulder. He rubbed his cheek to scent him like usual, just to realize what was missing. "What happened to your scent?" He felt the laughter in his voice before he even spoke, "You are supposed to say I missed you too, Kyryll." He hugged him tighter, letting out a deep sigh. The hand on Flins's nape started to draw something vague, fingertips moving all too seductively for a man who had been alone for more than a month now. Well, he wasn't alone now, was he? "I took somethin' for it. The thing with herbs and patches an' stuff." Flins used one hand to bring down the alpha's collar for more access, bringing his nose to the junk of his neck, then took a deep breath. Nothing. No scent of dandelion or cecilia or even a wine varka indulges in quite often. "Why?" He murmured while trying to get a whiff of at least something. He smelled clean. Too clean for varka. All he could smell was soap and freshly done laundry. The man usually smelled like his own scent mixed with the oil he normally used for his greatsword. It wasn't unpleasant, Flins liked it. The man was a fighter, of course, he was sleeping outside most of the time when he was on a mission. Not since he came to nod-krai, though. Ever since the Grandmaster of Knights of Favonius came to Nod-Krai from the faraway land of Mondstadt, all he did was invade the lighthouse, the bed positioned close to the wall, and the bathroom with his own toothbrush. Flins's closet was never this full, all with clothes wouldn't even fit him properly. Always too loose on the shoulders and arms, because they were not his. Even the hairbrush he used to take care of his hair had golden strands on it from time to time. It was the most bizarre thing that ever happened to a fea who had been living among the graves long enough to know who lay beneath every single one of them, Flins came to realize. "It's nothin' you need to stress your pretty head for." The hand on the small of his back traveled up to brush over the long purple strands reaching over his hip. A long way from his neck to his hip, Varka brushed it with his thick fingers slowly. Lilac hairs swaying between his calloused fingers. "You smell nice." "I don't like it," Flins murmured to the apha's skin. "Hmm?" He didn't answer for a few seconds, wondering if it would be too much for him to say. But again, he wasn't really in a position to think about crossing any lines whatsoever while buried in the grandmaster's arms. "Not being able to smell you," he wanted to curl his fingers into a fist to overcome the sudden rush of embarrassment, but he didn't. Nonchalant in nature, he spoke like it was natural for him to disclose his feelings this easily. "I like your scent.” "I know." A small purr rumbled in the alpha's chest, his hand on Flins's hair didn't stop combing it. Did he, really? Was Flins that futile in his endeavor to sweep every emotion under the rug? "Don't take the thing with herbs and patches an' stuff." This was new. Flins didn't make any requests of him. He never tried to ask anything of him. He took whatever Varka gave him and learned to be content with it. And to be fair, Varka gave him everything. Except for one thing. "I won't." The answer left him content enough to release his own scent. Was it always this easy with him? It probably was. Otherwise Flins wouldn't be here, falling over his own foot while trying to grab him to stay one minute longer. Internally, screaming. But never showing. Flins pushed the bigger man from his chest to get a good look at him. Varka's arms didn't drop, though, he simply loosened his hold and let himself take a little step back to give Flins room. His hair was tussled by the wind, the front parts were wet and a darker shade of gold because of the storm and rain. He must have used a hood to protect his head. The wind really did sting like ice in this season. His face was clean. Flins touched his chin with his fingertips; his freshly shaven beard stung a little bit. Like a hedgehog would. He didn't see one in ages. "Where were you?" he was simply too put together. Even if the storm messed him up good, he still cleaned up nicely. "Nowhere. I was on the ship for a couple of days, coming here," He tried to hug Flins again, but the omega pushed him strongly on the chest, not letting him come closer. "Why you askin?" "I was simply curious what happened to the matted wolf howling outside my door every now and then." Varka laughed open and cheerful. "What's that supposed to mean?" He was giggling. It was the cutest thing Flins had seen the whole month. "Did your soldiers bathe you or what? The only thing I smell is clean. Where is your day-old stubble?" Varka hummed as he kissed the omega on his forehead, just a quick peck. "I thought you wouldn't want a dirty dog inside." He brought one hand to draw hairs on his forehead back to kiss him properly there this time. His cold lips touched the lightkeeper's skin, it was a pleasant feeling. Varka was usually the warm one between them. The storm must have been harsh on him for his lips to be this cold. Didn’t matter; they could share heat anytime. Flins knew a couple of tricks to warm up both of them. "I don't mind a dirty dog as long as he smells like me." smells like mine, went unsaid. "I can just wash him clean. I did that before." That was true. Before they even knew each other well, Varka was a knight in a foreign land. Even if learning all the gimmicks of different monsters and beasts was easy for a man like him, he still got his fair share of injuries and bruises for the first couple of months he was here. Flins would patch him up. Wash his injuries, dress them nicely, making sure he was alive and breathing, no matter the size of the damage on his human flesh. He thought nothing of it at that time. He tried to do whatever he could to help; in his eyes, Varka was a mere human, and it was his duty to protect. Now he knew. He knew what kind of man the alpha was. He knew his strength and power coming from within. Varka was an unmistakable force of nature. Powerful enough to make Abyss monsters kneel in front of him. Strong enough to burn this lone lightkeeper's heart and body with a single glance. Strongest of them all. Varka let out a giggle again. "I remember. Man, I would have shot my shot that time if I knew you were interested in me like that." "I wasn't interested in you like that," Flins said as he folded the hem of his own long-sleeve shirt, exposing his wrists to cold air. "I was simply helping a lost man out." He brought his wrist to Varka's neck and started to rub it on his skin. Scenting him. Flins found scenting quite enjoyable. Maybe even more than sex. Or maybe not. He wasn't sure. Varka sated him in both ways, anyway. "But I guess you were interested in me like that. Even when you were bleeding out to death." "I was interested the second I saw you, moonshine," He said proudly, like a damn fool in love. Was he in love? Flins didn't know. "I knew I was madly interested the second I saw you using that shiny spear of yours to put them intruders back in their places." "So you decided to be a fool and let yourself get stabbed with a poisoned knife?" He rubbed onto his scent gland a bit more, trying to open the way for the alpha's scent, mixing them together. It wasn't working well, and he wasn't satisfied with his work, but he still dropped his wrist after a few moments. "I was moonstruck," he shrugged. "You are so stupid." Flins was so fond of him that it was insane. "'m not." "Most people would think they saw a ghost. You are the only one coming back for a ghost's touch." "You are no ghost, but maybe that's a good thing. I'm a jealous man, you know. Can't have you wining and dining another man if you want me to stay sane." "You are never sane." Varka's smirk was familiar. He grabbed Flins from his waist with both hands, thumbs rubbing over his stomach, warming him little by little. You should mate me if you care so much, You should make sure I belong to no one else but you. Never said out loud. "We should kiss." Flins couldn't help but crack a smile at that. "I came from very far, you see. You should definitely wine and dine me before I bend you over the kitchen table and take you for myself." Maybe a few moons ago, Flins would have been shocked to hear such crude words, but it didn't move him anymore. He learned to like them, enjoy even. Still, the blush came fast like a gold rush to tip of his ears, painting them slightly pink. "I am the main course, then." A hungry look passed over Varka's eyes. hands tightening on his waist like he was trying to restrain himself. Flins was hungry, too. He was also a man, after all. "Always. I could eat you up three meals a day. Even more." He dropped his head and licked a straight line from Flins’s neck to the back of his ear. Shivers run through his spine, he could feel the wetness starting to pool between his thighs. "Shame we don't have your favorite wine to go with it." Varka smiled to his skin, biting and sucking the piece of meat he got between his perfect alpha teeth. Two sharp canines, long just right enough to bite into his mating gland. Not today, though, maybe one day. “My favorite wine is you, darling. I can get drunk with your scent alone. Don't you know?” A moan slipped past Flins’s lips. He loved it when Varka praised him. When he showed appreciation for him, he liked his scent, he liked his body, he even liked Flins’s voice. And every time he had his appreciation out in the open, Flins couldn't help but get butterflies all over like it's their first night together. "When will I be able to smell you again?" Varka kissed him on the column of his throat, then licked from there up to over his chin, stopping on the edge of his mouth. then whispered over his lips. “Not more than a couple of hours.” Lips touching against each other while he was talking, “I got’em with me just ‘case. Guess we won't be using any.” Flins didn't know what he meant by that, and he couldn't care less. He opened his mouth and poked his tongue out, licking over Varka’s full lips horizontally once. He heard a groan coming from the alpha, and then he was being hugged tightly again. Lips on lips, Varka kissed him hard on his mouth before backing up a little just to dive back in, capturing his lower lip between his, sucking it while humming an appreciative moan. It's been a month since their lips last touched each other. Flins couldn't help but reciprocate with the same enthusiasm as the alpha. Kissing him back, grabbing him all over, the fabric of his shirt crumbled up in his fist, eager and hungry for more. Flins knew his scent was going wild in the not-so-cold-anymore room. Every time they lost themselves in each other like this, he couldn't help but release a bunch of it. He liked the way his scent clung to the alpha for days to come after they were done. He liked the new scent clinging to his skin and craved more of it. Right now, though, he was getting pissed over the lack of alpha’s scent in his space. He wanted to drown in it, but couldn't even get a whiff. Why would he ever wear scent blockers, anyway? Flins dived his hands in the pretty golden locks to pull them harshly. He felt a little bit petty over something like this, but he was already deprived of it for a month; he needed his alpha’s pheromones. The fae tugged again, only for Varka to bring his hand to grab both of his wrists suddenly, a growl leaving the alpha’s throat as he locked his wrists together in one hand and pushed Flins back to the wall with the other. He didn't once stop kissing him. biting and licking his mouth. As Flins's back made contact with the wall, his breath was caught in his throat, and he pushed at his chest to get a little bit of air, but Varka didn't even flinch, pressing hard onto him. Flins was stuck between the wall and the alpha, he wasn't complaining at all, but it was starting to get a little bit stuffy. The alpha was relentless, coming onto him, pressing him deeper to the wall inch by inch, hands roaming everywhere. His desire was obvious in the way he was rubbing his clothed hard cock to Flins's belly. He was nearly drooling, a line of spit slipping from between their lips to Varka's chin. It was all frantic. A hand rolled down on his back to grab one of his ass cheeks, squeezing a few times, then rubbing over the soft flesh. "Varka, wait-" He pushed one more, and Varka stopped a little, giving room to flins. "Slow down-" "I can't," he claimed Flins's lips again. Less frantic but still the same amount of despair oozing from the alpha. "Fuck, Kyryll, sorry- 'm," He kissed and bit his way down to his neck. His hand was still on the omega's ass, playing with it, kneading it constantly, pressing his croch to the omega. Flins's breathing was heavy, chest rising up and down fast and hectic. What was going on? "Varka, are you- are you in rut?" A growl echoed around the room, coming back to Flins's ear all so deliciously. He was so wet. Wet like an omega in pre-heat. "Are you okay?" He could feel his slick slowly rolling down from his hole to his thighs and then to the seam of his pants. Varka didn't even undress him, he didn't even touch his bare skin, but Flins felt the desire the same anyway. "I'm not- not yet. fuck, sorry, I shouldn't be here- you probably don't want me here- sorry," "What are you talking about?" Flins whispered to his lips, breath caught on his throat, he was confused. And he felt a hint of teeth on his neck before Varka dropped his hands from his ass to the back of his thighs. If it were any other moment, Flins would think he was encouraging him to climb onto Varka's body as a cat would. But now, as he stood there with Varka burying his face in his neck, his heart was beating so fast to think about anything else other than how he wanted to drop down to his knees to take his alpha's cock into his mouth to please him. Varka was going into a rut. And the thought of it aroused Flins more than anything. Too bad he had to be sensible about it. "Its nothin," he buried his nose into the omega's neck deeper and started to gulp down the aroused scent Flins was letting out. "You smell so good." his words were slurred as he was truly drunk on it like he claimed just a minute ago. It was obvious how hard he was holding himself back in the way the grip on his thighs was getting tighter with every passing second. His nails dug into Flins's flesh over the fabric of his pants, and it felt amazing. His hands were huge; he was cupping nearly all of his upper thigh in one hand. "I think you are going into a rut." His heavy breathing hid nothing as he slouched down on Flins even more. He hesitated a few seconds before saying."...yeah." "We have time. Let's slow down for now and talk." Flins tried to free his wrists from the alpha's firm hold. Varka let go of his hands reluctantly. "I'll prepare something for you to eat." - After Flins lit the fireplace and made something warm for both of them to fill their empty stomachs with, they simply ate while watching the fire burn the wood pieces slowly, turning them to ashes. As they sat on that wooden table, Varka said nothing, and Flins listened to his breathing. Funny how a mere hour ago he didn't want to eat anything. Being with Varka made everything better. He felt better. Still, he had a few rather troublesome thoughts about the alpha. So, he was going into a rut. That was fine. Every alpha went through them, even himself, as an omega experienced countless heats from time to time. That wasn't the problem. Actually, there wasn't a problem to begin with. If they were mates, Flins would have made sure to take care of Varka, tending to him, giving in to his desires. But, up till now, Varka hadn't spent his ruts with him, ever. Flins wasn't sure if it was accidental or Varka simply didn't want to be with him when the time came. Maybe he spent them with somebody else, unlikely, but still, it was a concern for him from time to time. It just simply wasn't a discussion. until now. Fire burned silently, hues lighting the place bright, warming them up. Silence was easy, it was familiar. But silence with Varka meant something else. It made him uncomfortable in his own skin. "When are you going back?" "I have a couple more days here,” he replied almost immediately. “Then I'll have to get going, or else Jean will have my head.” He was looking straight into the fire, Flins's gaze hanging unreciprocated between them. “You remember her, right? The blonde woman I told you about. The one doing my job when I am away." jean. Flins knew her. Varka often talked about his hometown and people from there, his friends, as he says. He talked about this sweet girl who has been putting up with all his bullshit when he was away. Blonde girl. probably blue or green eyes, too. People from Varka's hometown tend to have those, Flins realized. Suddenly, he felt his own soulless eyes were too much of a dread to look at. He closed them and tried not to think about the sweet women Varka seemed to be friends with back at home. How many blonde women was Varka close with, just how close exactly, how many of them were omegas, Flins would never know. Did Varka also talk about him when he went back home? He would only assume and try not to feel sour when he decided he couldn't really be sure about it. Did he even have the right to feel this way? He didn't fucking know. Whatever has been going on between them simply didn't have a name. They were fucking, they were kissing, they were scenting. Whatever that is, they just did it because it felt right. It satisfied their hunger for each other. Their first time was hectic, clothes everywhere, Varka pressing Flins on every surface he could find, fucking him hard for hours. They didn't have time to talk about anything. Mornings were too busy with work, and nights were too busy with going crazy for each other with every touch. It felt like an electric shock every time they kissed, every time Varka pushed his hands between his legs to grab his thighs. It wasn't like anything Flins had come close to knowing in his long and lone life, and believe him when Flins said he is very familiar with anything related to electricity. At first, it wasn't important for Flins who Varka bedded when he wasn't busy fucking him into the mattress in the lighthouse. Later on, he was simply too busy presenting himself for the alpha to talk about other, rather dull matters in the little time they got to spend together. And when it became too important, Flins just couldn't help but be afraid of 'what ifs'. He didn't want to regret breaking whatever delicate string between them. He waited for something, waited for Varka to say something, risk something, but nothing. In the end, it was nothing on each of their sides. And eventually, after a while, Flins was way too happy every time Varka came knocking on his door to do something about it. He wanted to feel that way even for the little time he spent with him. So he shut his mouth, did his duty, went back to the lighthouse and waited for his alpha to come back to him. And right on the clock. He would be here no later than two full moons. That seemed to be enough. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe Flins was losing bits of his mind every passing day. "Sorry." Flins opened his eyes to look at the blonde man. What was he even sorry for? Sorry for not feeling the same way as Flins, or sorry for changing the lightkeeper's life god knows if better or worse? He was way too lost in his thoughts, and it was no good. "For what?" Varka let out a deep sigh. "I should have been more careful about the timing. I know we haven't really talked about it in much detail, but I wasn't sure if you... if you'd want to spend my rut together. With me." Fae folk had a little concern over who lay with whom, whether it was in a cycle or outside of one. At first, Flins respected humans over their choices when it came to second genders, but he never got to truly comprehend it in detail until he met Varka. Until he fell into bed with him over and over again. "How is it any different from having sex?" "It's, uh, it's more intense, I guess?" "You guess?" "I mean, I know it is. It's just-, my rut is just different. I am different. It's too much of a hassle even for me. I don't dare to think you would want to go through it willingly, especially since we are not-" he closed his mouth immediately, like he was scared of saying the wrong thing. "We are not?" Varka blinked slowly, "Since we are not bonded." A heavy silence filled the room. Flins didn’t know what to say. It could be the first time one of them acknowledged the lack of mating bites, let alone commenting on it. "So, uhm, I guess I kinda hoped you wouldn’t really mind my pre-rut pheromones. Hence the scent blockers." Flins was an ancient fae who lived far too much for his own good. He was a lone omega at the outskirts of his homeland he had once left. His kin were nowhere to be found, and the man he wanted as a mate had to leave him regularly for long periods of time to attend to his other duties. He knew he wasn’t in a good position to ask for something more from life when it was proven that it didn’t have any plans to make his desires come true eventually. But he wanted. He wanted so bad it hurt. Humans were different. Their relationships and couplings were different to some extent. But Flins knew spending cycles with another was sacred for many. More traditional ones saved themselves for their chosen mate. Flins wanted to be traditional with Varka. He wanted to share his cycle with him and only him. In return, he wanted Varka to only look at him, only seek him when he was lost in his head, when he became prisoner to the hormones invading his body. Was that too much to ask for? "How do you spend them usually?" "Uhh, I just lock myself into my room." "That's it?" "And jerk off imagining myself fucking you." "…" "Sorry, that's just. uhm, I usually just lock myself in my room and hope for the worst of it to pass." His cheeks were dusted pink as Varka dropped his head into his hands. "Are you shy?" Flins smiled a little. "Well, kinda?" He replied without raising his head, and it was absurd. "One time you fucked me in an alleyway, saying the way my gloves fit my hands was so erotic it made your dick harder than it had been in months, and you need to fuck me open before we can go back to the privacy of my home." Varka lifted his head in a rush, "Well, that's- I'm not shy in that regard. And I already said sorry for that time." "You did. After you came inside me. Twice." "You can't blame me. You didn't really look like you were against it." Flins raised one eyebrow, "So it's my fault?" "You know what you did. Fluttering your eyelashes at me like you want me to eat you up." And nobody could blame Flins as well. Varka was so handsome when he was doing his job. Ordering his soldiers around, leading people with absolute authority. It made Flins burn with want. Something urged him to please his alpha, present his neck to him. Bend himself over a wall in an alleyway so he can taste pleasure deep inside him again. And it wasn't even hard with Varka. They were equal in this desire, that much was clear. They never lasted long without losing themselves in the touches and warmth, skin over skin. "And I still think the same, by the way. I think your gloved hands look too pretty wrapped around me." "You are not shy at all." Flins shook his head as he smiled. "I guess I can manage a hormone crazy young wolf in my bed just fine." Varka stopped breathing for a second. "You'd want to?" "I don't know what gave you the impression of me not wanting that with you, but I can assure you that's not the case. After all this time, you must know me a fair share. Surely, you know I enjoy and welcome you in my bed every time you visit. I'm not arching my back just because I am an omega.” That was the most he admitted, words closer to a confession if he'd ever get to utter one. He felt smaller for a split second. Walls were tightening on them by the illusion of the intense and pleasant scent the alpha released oh-so-willingly. Flins still couldn't smell him. It was really an illusion. But he wanted to. Was there any way he could make his desires known to the alpha sitting in front of him without scaring him off? Would he break everything between them if Varka gets the hint of desire Flins hid in the blue flames lurking inside his veins? Fae folk were dangerous when they got to sink their teeth into your skin. Would Varka offer him his neck willingly to make this lighthouse his second home, with the dead sleeping beneath the ground in their yard? Maybe that was too much to ask for. Maybe Flins was just another passenger he got to meet on one of his expeditions. Varka is the wind. What if his soul was made out of wind, too? Could it stay in one place without being carried away by the currents? He didn't wanna think anymore. Flins got up, the chair making an unpleasant sound as it got dragged on the wooden floor. Eyes are locked at his target, he walked until he got closer to Varka. Stopping in front of him, fingers cupping his chin to lift his head. “So, what do you say?” The fae didn’t know what he was trying to do. Was he trying to seduce the man so he would stay and not spend his rut somewhere else? The omega trusted him when he said he spent them all alone, imagining Flins, thinking about him when he was the most vulnerable. The face he fantasised when he was too far gone in his instincts was Flins himself. And it sent a shiver down his spine to show his lust trying to claw his way out of his skin and scent glands. And Varka had a look in his eyes that would send a weaker omega running away for his life. “I can't promise I'll be gentle.” “When were you, even?” Flins gulped down the spit pooling under his tongue. “Besides, you know how I like it.” He locked his eyes with the alpha. “Have I ever said I was left unsatisfied?” “I would never leave you unsatisfied.” His voice was confident. And Flins loved him more because of it. “I know. You are so good to me,” The fae combed his fingers into Varka's golden hair. It was still wet from the storm a little bit. “You treat me so well. That's why I'm curious about you. I want to see what you can give me.” Varka looked like he was holding onto his patience lest it snap away from his fingers. Hunger would be a better word to describe it. And Flins felt it in his core. “I can give you everything.” Varka wrapped his arms around Flins's waist, chin digging into his belly, “I will give you everything you ask for.” “Such a good alpha.” Flins preened under his gaze. He loved those blue eyes so much. “Let's give you a bath. You will get sick with wet hair.” “You coming with me?” His gaze was hopeful, like it was an unlikely thing for Flins to do, and he didn't want to lose this chance. And it was so foolish because Flins would do whatever he asked of him. “Of course.” Even if Varka didn't want to tie his future with Flins, even if the fae was only a momentary thing in his short human life span, Flins still couldn't deny him, no matter what. "Let's go."	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75602251/chapters/197702621	{"authors": ["bumdal"], "language": "English", "title": "stars by the pocketful."}
Memories of Whiskey and Sweet "The first drink I ever had was only because Aiku forced the U-20 team into some shady karaoke bar, that none of us bothered to check or research about. Our sorrows made us blind and disheartened towards common sense apparently. We got drinks we didn't know was American brand whiskey, emptied five bottles and got extremely high." ... "Of course, in the moment, It didn't make me regret the idea even once but the hangover and headache after? Worst nine hours of my life...But you were there weren't you? You came all the way leaving your busy schedule just to pick up my pathetic ass and take me to your home, made sure I was okay...weren't you Sae?" Sendou slowly caressed the petals of the violet Hydrangeas in his hands, smiling at Sae. "Still grumpy and pouty spoiled brat? Like a sad little rock? And here I thought there flowers would help lighten your mood." Sendou cooed, but no response. "Fine then, have it your way." Sendou slowly placed his hands over the hard body and leaned his head over them. "You can't stay mad at me for long anyways Genius Extraordinaire." Sendou giggled. "I'm just that pretty." He placed the flowers between them. "I mean if I weren't, would that night still occur?" The sky above them darkened, a roar of thunder followed. "The weather...was just like this, wasn't it Sae?" ───────────────────────── Sendou slowly swayed out of the black car, giggling and smiling for no absolute reason. Sae, on the other hand fresh and sober, groaned in annoyance. Loud enough to slightly snap Sendou out of his haze. "Why the hell would you drink like a man on his death bed you fucking idiot?" Grumbling, Sae barely managed to tug the unwilling colleague towards his apartment. "Why w-wouldn I? It's -hick- my first and f-first shhhh- ould always be- sspea-cial- what wud ya know, you're juz a -hick- stoneee!" He babbled further, trying to push Sae away from him, suddenly the sky went gray, and it lit up in lightning, folllowed by it's gut wrenching crash. "EeAaH!" Sendou buried his face inside Sae out of fear, rain jow slowly pouring over them. Sae stood there stunned for a while before dragging Sendou inside the building into the lift, where he undressed the other till he was only in his boxers. "Ay! Creepy Stone hearted prick!" Sendou squeaked but Sae only held him tighter, covering him with his, somehow still dry, long coat. "You're gonna die because of your stupidity one day you fool." Sae huffed, slowly picking up Sendou over his shoulder and getting his apartment door open, where he threw the other on a nearby couch somewhere. "Ouch! That hurt-" Sendou sniffles in cold. "Tch. You're gonna fall horribly when you realise that wven my sweat is worth more than your skills could ever be. Imagine how that would hurt." Everything went quiet for a long time. Sae moved on to take a hot shower and warm up whatever was left of his now cold dinner. But he halts. He swore he heard sniffling. Not the cold kind. Slow at first, getting more frequent as time passed. Then with a blank stare he glanced at the shivering longcoat now wrapped in a throw over his couch. For a few minutes Sae forgot every motor skill he had, was Sendou...crying? Infront of him? "Monkey?" Sae said, voice cracking. He gently removed the throw off of Sendou, who was biting his lips to muffle his whimpers. "I-...I'm" Sae was left paralyzed for a while, before he got into his senses and turned up his thermostat, to warm the room up. Before he could get up to do anything, Sendou hugged Sae close, lips almost touching his. Before Sae took the intiative and kissed Sendou, tongue caressing the ribs on the roof of his mouth, his gums and each and every corner of Sendou's mouth. Before he knew it, he was already beside Sendou fucking into him with great rigor, cherishing each and every whimper, each and every request. Exhausted by Sae after a while, Sendou snuggled up close to him, hands clasped between his face and Sae's shoulder. Tears still on his face. "I'm sorry." Sae gulped, voice almost drownex over the patter of the rain. "I hate you." A tear trickled down Sendou's face over Sae's shoulder. ───────────────────────── "I really do." A drop of water fell from above over the stone beneath Sendou's hands. But it wasn't raining...at least not yet. "You're so selfish Sae Itoshi. Abandoning me in this fucked up heirarchy." Another droplet fell on Sendou's hands beneath his dace, onto Sae. Rain began pouring down the grassy scape, but Sendou didn't move. Even as the petals of the delicate Hydrangeas broke of due to the force of the water hitting them. The stone beneath him had turned wet, but he stayed there regardless. And Sae? Even as a wet Sendou sobbed over his shoulder, he didn't move. Not to pick up the flowers, not to wipe of his tears or even try to protect them from rain. After all, stones don't move, not to emotion; not to heart. Even when the stone had "Sae Itoshi" carved onto it. Graves, don't move for anyone.	Memories of Whiskey and Sweet "The first drink I ever had was only because Aiku forced the U-20 team into some shady karaoke bar, that none of us bothered to check or research about. Our sorrows made us blind and disheartened towards common sense apparently. We got drinks we didn't know was American brand whiskey, emptied five bottles and got extremely high." ... "Of course, in the moment, It didn't make me regret the idea even once but the hangover and headache after? Worst nine hours of my life...But you were there weren't you? You came all the way leaving your busy schedule just to pick up my pathetic ass and take me to your home, made sure I was okay...weren't you Sae?" Sendou slowly caressed the petals of the violet Hydrangeas in his hands, smiling at Sae. "Still grumpy and pouty spoiled brat? Like a sad little rock? And here I thought there flowers would help lighten your mood." Sendou cooed, but no response. "Fine then, have it your way." Sendou slowly placed his hands over the hard body and leaned his head over them. "You can't stay mad at me for long anyways Genius Extraordinaire." Sendou giggled. "I'm just that pretty." He placed the flowers between them. "I mean if I weren't, would that night still occur?" The sky above them darkened, a roar of thunder followed. "The weather...was just like this, wasn't it Sae?" ───────────────────────── Sendou slowly swayed out of the black car, giggling and smiling for no absolute reason. Sae, on the other hand fresh and sober, groaned in annoyance. Loud enough to slightly snap Sendou out of his haze. "Why the hell would you drink like a man on his death bed you fucking idiot?" Grumbling, Sae barely managed to tug the unwilling colleague towards his apartment. "Why w-wouldn I? It's -hick- my first and f-first shhhh- ould always be- sspea-cial- what wud ya know, you're juz a -hick- stoneee!" He babbled further, trying to push Sae away from him, suddenly the sky went gray, and it lit up in lightning, folllowed by it's gut wrenching crash. "EeAaH!" Sendou buried his face inside Sae out of fear, rain jow slowly pouring over them. Sae stood there stunned for a while before dragging Sendou inside the building into the lift, where he undressed the other till he was only in his boxers. "Ay! Creepy Stone hearted prick!" Sendou squeaked but Sae only held him tighter, covering him with his, somehow still dry, long coat. "You're gonna die because of your stupidity one day you fool." Sae huffed, slowly picking up Sendou over his shoulder and getting his apartment door open, where he threw the other on a nearby couch somewhere. "Ouch! That hurt-" Sendou sniffles in cold. "Tch. You're gonna fall horribly when you realise that wven my sweat is worth more than your skills could ever be. Imagine how that would hurt." Everything went quiet for a long time. Sae moved on to take a hot shower and warm up whatever was left of his now cold dinner. But he halts. He swore he heard sniffling. Not the cold kind. Slow at first, getting more frequent as time passed. Then with a blank stare he glanced at the shivering longcoat now wrapped in a throw over his couch. For a few minutes Sae forgot every motor skill he had, was Sendou...crying? Infront of him? "Monkey?" Sae said, voice cracking. He gently removed the throw off of Sendou, who was biting his lips to muffle his whimpers. "I-...I'm" Sae was left paralyzed for a while, before he got into his senses and turned up his thermostat, to warm the room up. Before he could get up to do anything, Sendou hugged Sae close, lips almost touching his. Before Sae took the intiative and kissed Sendou, tongue caressing the ribs on the roof of his mouth, his gums and each and every corner of Sendou's mouth. Before he knew it, he was already beside Sendou fucking into him with great rigor, cherishing each and every whimper, each and every request. Exhausted by Sae after a while, Sendou snuggled up close to him, hands clasped between his face and Sae's shoulder. Tears still on his face. "I'm sorry." Sae gulped, voice almost drownex over the patter of the rain. "I hate you." A tear trickled down Sendou's face over Sae's shoulder. ───────────────────────── "I really do." A drop of water fell from above over the stone beneath Sendou's hands. But it wasn't raining...at least not yet. "You're so selfish Sae Itoshi. Abandoning me in this fucked up heirarchy." Another droplet fell on Sendou's hands beneath his dace, onto Sae. Rain began pouring down the grassy scape, but Sendou didn't move. Even as the petals of the delicate Hydrangeas broke of due to the force of the water hitting them. The stone beneath him had turned wet, but he stayed there regardless. And Sae? Even as a wet Sendou sobbed over his shoulder, he didn't move. Not to pick up the flowers, not to wipe of his tears or even try to protect them from rain. After all, stones don't move, not to emotion; not to heart. Even when the stone had "Sae Itoshi" carved onto it. Graves, don't move for anyone.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75597001	{"authors": ["uim_30"], "language": "English", "title": "Memories of Whiskey and Sweet"}
Run With Me October 20th, 1984 It was late, again. Mike Wheeler knew he should be asleep, but he just couldn't get his mind to shut up. This wasn't a new phenomenon - for the better part of a year, he hadn't been able to sleep much at all - but for some reason, today, it was like he couldn't stop twitching. Like he knew something was coming, he just didn't know what. Of course, it being nearly a year since the events that would change the lives of not only Mike, but everyone in his immediate social circle, it was probably just something to do with that. All of his friends, in addition to his sister, were on edge as well. The anniversary was nothing to minimize. Even Hopper knew that, and he reminded everyone - not just Mike, not just his sister Nancy, but Mrs. Byers, and Will, and Jonathan, and Steve, and Dustin, and Lucas, too. Mike supposed that Hopper would know, having been in 'Nam and all that.But he doubted that Hopper had watched the most amazing person in the world sacrifice herself to save everyone. Mike knew that Hopper didn't have advice to help him live with that, because he said so. Any time he heard how "troubled" Mike had been lately, that was the empty platitude that Mike received. Mike reached out and picked at the tag of his pillow, absentmindedly rubbing the silky fabric between his fingers. His friends had been insisting on normalcy - even planning out their Halloween costumes, as if regular life wasn't spooky enough. He loved the ghostbusters as much as anyone, really, but dressing up in silly costumes pretending to be monster hunters when they actually had failed to do just that a year ago felt ridiculous. El was the ghostbuster, not them. And she was gone. She couldn't go trick or treating, or go to a party, or just watch a scary movie, because she was gone. Mike thought he had seen her, after - when the government was at his house, telling him she had been a Russian spy, lying through their teeth so he would help them find her. She looked like she had crawled through hell just to get to him. But then the goons saw her, and went after her, and Mike was left all alone again, with no sign of her since. Every day, he called her on his walkie, desperate to hear from her in some form. If she had gotten through the Upside Down, back to them all, surely she was still alive - she survived that awful place, she could survive goons going after her. Eventually, though, Mike had to admit to himself, that maybe he had hallucinated it. He had wanted to see her, so he did. They didn't find her, because she hadn't been there. Despite trying to convince himself of this, sometimes, a chill would go up Mike's arm while he tried to call El. Sometimes, he could almost feel her touching his hand, reaching out to him - from somewhere, but he didn't know where. Maybe he wanted to feel her, so much, that he hallucinated her - or tricked himself into doing so. Or maybe her ghost would be with him, always, haunting him. Mike suppressed a sob, clenching his teeth and gripping his pillow, hugging it like a lifeline. He was okay with that, in the end. Not like any other girl would have ever given him the time of day - and besides that, would any other girl have been right for him? The moment he saw El in the woods, it was like the pieces of his life settled into place. Like every thread tied to him had been blowing loose in the wind and suddenly, all at once, tied themselves onto her. If one had asked Mike, a year ago, if soulmates existed, he would have scoffed and doubted and pointed out the scientific impossibilities involved in the prospect. But now? Now he was not only positive they existed, but that he had found his, and then lost her. How was he supposed to focus on school, or on his family, or on his friends, when he lost her? When they had, what, less than a week together, and then, nothing. Forever. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he and El had just found each other, randomly, sheer chance, sheer luck. Mike just couldn't shake the feeling that she understood him better than anyone ever had or would - and he had felt, at least a year ago, like he understood her, too. Despite everything, he understood her. So why wasn't she back? Why hadn't she returned? She must be dead. If she hadn't returned, and hadn't reached out to him, what else could it be, other than dead? Or maybe she was trapped, again. God. If the government got her back... Mike would dream, regularly, about trying to find her. Going back to the Department of Energy, storming the gates, screaming for her at anyone who would listen. But he knew, as well as anyone could, how futile that would be. So, Mike just kept praying, hoping, wishing, dreaming - anything - for El to show herself, to at least tell him that she was okay. He could maybe deal with all of this if he just knew that she was okay. Or if she reallywasa ghost, and he would have her by his side until he finally joined her, wherever people went when they died. He would say he didn't believe	Run With Me October 20th, 1984 It was late, again. Mike Wheeler knew he should be asleep, but he just couldn't get his mind to shut up. This wasn't a new phenomenon - for the better part of a year, he hadn't been able to sleep much at all - but for some reason, today, it was like he couldn't stop twitching. Like he knew something was coming, he just didn't know what. Of course, it being nearly a year since the events that would change the lives of not only Mike, but everyone in his immediate social circle, it was probably just something to do with that. All of his friends, in addition to his sister, were on edge as well. The anniversary was nothing to minimize. Even Hopper knew that, and he reminded everyone - not just Mike, not just his sister Nancy, but Mrs. Byers, and Will, and Jonathan, and Steve, and Dustin, and Lucas, too. Mike supposed that Hopper would know, having been in 'Nam and all that.But he doubted that Hopper had watched the most amazing person in the world sacrifice herself to save everyone. Mike knew that Hopper didn't have advice to help him live with that, because he said so. Any time he heard how "troubled" Mike had been lately, that was the empty platitude that Mike received. Mike reached out and picked at the tag of his pillow, absentmindedly rubbing the silky fabric between his fingers. His friends had been insisting on normalcy - even planning out their Halloween costumes, as if regular life wasn't spooky enough. He loved the ghostbusters as much as anyone, really, but dressing up in silly costumes pretending to be monster hunters when they actually had failed to do just that a year ago felt ridiculous. El was the ghostbuster, not them. And she was gone. She couldn't go trick or treating, or go to a party, or just watch a scary movie, because she was gone. Mike thought he had seen her, after - when the government was at his house, telling him she had been a Russian spy, lying through their teeth so he would help them find her. She looked like she had crawled through hell just to get to him. But then the goons saw her, and went after her, and Mike was left all alone again, with no sign of her since. Every day, he called her on his walkie, desperate to hear from her in some form. If she had gotten through the Upside Down, back to them all, surely she was still alive - she survived that awful place, she could survive goons going after her. Eventually, though, Mike had to admit to himself, that maybe he had hallucinated it. He had wanted to see her, so he did. They didn't find her, because she hadn't been there. Despite trying to convince himself of this, sometimes, a chill would go up Mike's arm while he tried to call El. Sometimes, he could almost feel her touching his hand, reaching out to him - from somewhere, but he didn't know where. Maybe he wanted to feel her, so much, that he hallucinated her - or tricked himself into doing so. Or maybe her ghost would be with him, always, haunting him. Mike suppressed a sob, clenching his teeth and gripping his pillow, hugging it like a lifeline. He was okay with that, in the end. Not like any other girl would have ever given him the time of day - and besides that, would any other girl have been right for him? The moment he saw El in the woods, it was like the pieces of his life settled into place. Like every thread tied to him had been blowing loose in the wind and suddenly, all at once, tied themselves onto her. If one had asked Mike, a year ago, if soulmates existed, he would have scoffed and doubted and pointed out the scientific impossibilities involved in the prospect. But now? Now he was not only positive they existed, but that he had found his, and then lost her. How was he supposed to focus on school, or on his family, or on his friends, when he lost her? When they had, what, less than a week together, and then, nothing. Forever. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he and El had just found each other, randomly, sheer chance, sheer luck. Mike just couldn't shake the feeling that she understood him better than anyone ever had or would - and he had felt, at least a year ago, like he understood her, too. Despite everything, he understood her. So why wasn't she back? Why hadn't she returned? She must be dead. If she hadn't returned, and hadn't reached out to him, what else could it be, other than dead? Or maybe she was trapped, again. God. If the government got her back... Mike would dream, regularly, about trying to find her. Going back to the Department of Energy, storming the gates, screaming for her at anyone who would listen. But he knew, as well as anyone could, how futile that would be. So, Mike just kept praying, hoping, wishing, dreaming - anything - for El to show herself, to at least tell him that she was okay. He could maybe deal with all of this if he just knew that she was okay. Or if she reallywasa ghost, and he would have her by his side until he finally joined her, wherever people went when they died. He would say he didn't believe in ghosts, but after last year, he knew that nothing was ever really as it seemed. Mike shut his eyes as tightly as he could, willing himself to fall asleep, rather than continue to think about the last time he saw her, how much he missed her. In his dreams, he sometimes saw her. In his dreams, he could pretend things were different. That good people, people like El, could have happy fulfilling lives, and not have to sacrifice themselves to save everyone. As time continued to pass, and the shadows of the clouds floated in front of his window, Mike knew that he wouldn't be falling asleep tonight. He had made himself too upset, too distraught. Sometimes he managed to sleep, but not like this. At least it was Saturday. Saturday meant cartoons in the morning, dungeons and dragons in the afternoon, and homework in the evening. Saturday meant enough distractions that he wouldn't notice how tired he was. Perhaps he would even go for a bike ride, or work on the Halloween costumes with his friends. Maybe he could salvage this day, despite his current meltdown. Or, maybe, he'd spend the day in bed. Both seemed likely to him at the point when his window, which was supposed to be locked closed, began to creep up, making such a loud screech Mike jumped from his bed. Shouting in shock, he grabbed one of the heavier books from his nightstand in defense, ready to smack the intruder with it in lieu of other options. His hand, held up in defense, began lowering rapidly when he saw who was entering. It was El. "El?El?" Mike hissed, running forward and pulling her into the room. Her hair had grown out, short brown curls framing her face. She was dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls, and looked relatively clean and well fed. The look on her face was probably identical to Mike's, Mike reasoned, as he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Mike," she whispered, tears flowing down her face as he threw his arms as tightly around her as he could. He refused to let go. He refused. He never, ever, ever would again. "El, how are you - where were you - what - when - how -" Mike stammered, unable to stop himself as he continued to hold her as tightly as he could. "It's... a long story," El whispered, also refusing to move back from the hug, allowing them to talk to each other as quietly as they could next to each other's ears, "But... I can't stay here. Not anymore." "Not... anymore? El, I'm so confused, I need to know more... I'm sorry, I just -" "Mike," El interrupted, gripping his back tightly as she whispered rapidly into his ear, "I ran away. And I can't stay. I must go." "Okay," Mike said, swallowing thickly, "Okay, okay, um, um -" "I just, needed to say, goodbye," El mumbled, pulling back from the hug at last, tears still flowing rapidly down her face. Mike's eyes widened in shock and he shook his head as rapidly as he could. "No - no - I'm not losing you again - no -" "Mike, I need to run, you can't -" "I can, and I will," Mike responded defiantly, immediately pulling away - despite his deep desire to never do so - and grabbing his backpack from the floor. El watched anxiously as Mike threw a variety of clothing items into his bag, a few photographs, and a blanket. When he was satisfied he could not fit anything more, he put down the bag and grabbed his extra backpack from his closet, turning back to El. "I'm going to go get some clothes for you, and some money, and food," Mike whispered, "Stay here. I'll be as quiet as I can, but if there's two of us -" "Mike, no," El sobbed, but Mike shook his head as rapidly as he could. "I'm coming with you. Please, El," Mike begged, "Please. We can make it if we have each other, if we stick together." El looked at him for a long moment, both of them crying, as he reached out and held her hands tightly. Finally, though, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. "You... really want... to come with me?" "I really, really,really do," Mike murmured, "It's... also a long story, but... this last year has been... awful. Just awful. We'll talk all about it, when we can, I promise. But trust me, El - please, trust me - I want this. I want to come with you. I'll follow you anywhere." "Anywhere?" El whispered. "Anywhere," Mike repeated. El nodded, biting her lip, and Mike gave her another quick hug. He then crept out of the room, going through the laundry and then the hall closet, grabbing some of Nancy's older clothes. El was taller now, and probably could fit into them alright, and Nancy had plenty of clothes - most of the hall ones she barely wore anymore, anyway. Mike then crept into the kitchen, pulling anything non perishable and portable, and throwing them into the bag with the clothes. Finally, as quietly as he could, Mike crept into his father's office, finding his wallet on the table. Luckily, the inside of it was filled with several large bills, and he pocketed all of them. This would be enough to get them on a bus, and they could figure it out from there. Mike crept back to his room, sighing with relief when he saw El. El beamed back at him, taking the bag from his hands. Mike then pulled two sweatshirts from his closet - it was only going to keep getting colder - and handed her one. "Through the window?" Mike asked. El nodded, and they both crawled through it, carefully climbing down the nearby tree until they reached the ground. Luckily for them both, Mike's bike was outside the house, not locked up in the garage that surely would have woken up his parents had they had to open it. "Are you sure?" El asked as Mike pulled out the bike, getting on it and looking at her expectantly. "I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life," Mike responded, reaching out to hold her hand, "If you're sure, I'm sure." El smiled weakly at him, "I'm sure." She climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping her arms tightly around Mike's waist. Mike took a moment, while they were still, to turn and face her. "El?" Mike asked. "Mike?" El responded, looking at him in confusion. "Can... can I... can I kiss you?" Mike asked softly. El smiled for the second time that night, but much bigger than before, her grin spreading from ear to ear. "Yes," El murmured, "Please." Mike smiled - really, honestly, actually smiled - for the first time in nearly a year, and leaned in to kiss her. It was awkward, with her behind him on the bike - but just a wonderful, sparkling,magical as their first kiss. Possibly even more. They pressed their foreheads together, for just one moment. Mike turned, and took a deep breath, looking one last time at his childhood home. Then he steeled himself, nodded, and peddled off into the infinite dark night.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591366?view_full_work=true	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "Run With Me"}
04/12/2025 On a winter afternoon, the sunlight on campus was as pale as diluted milk, leaving only the shadows of three boys on the playground—JJ, Javier, and Daniel, who had recently transferred. Javier smiled as always, a bright and warm smile, but JJ could see that his gaze occasionally drifted to Daniel, who was trying to fit in. JJ felt a pang of jealousy, yet also felt he was overreacting—because Javier was his boyfriend, the one he had secretly protected for three years. But Daniel was completely unaware. When Daniel first transferred, he was quiet and a little shy, unsure of who to talk to. Javier, always eager to help, was the first to approach him and ask, "Would you like to have lunch together?" This seemingly ordinary invitation made Daniel genuinely happy; it was the first time in his life he had been accepted so quickly in a new environment. He didn't know that Javier was already taken, nor did he know that JJ was the one silently standing beside him. From that day on, Daniel turned to Javier for everything. For biology reports, he'd ask Javier; for basketball, he'd ask Javier; even when drinking milk tea, he'd always sit next to Javier. Javier didn't think anything of it, but JJ felt a growing pang of sadness. That day after school, JJ finally couldn't help but ask, "Are you and Daniel... really close?" Javier, still unbuttoning his backpack, didn't notice JJ's concern and smiled, replying, "He just arrived, I'm helping him out. Otherwise, he doesn't have any friends." JJ's heart tightened slightly. He wasn't angry, just afraid. Afraid that someone else would take Javier away; afraid that Javier wouldn't know how much he cared; afraid that if he spoke up, he'd be seen as petty. So JJ forced a "Yeah, I understand," his voice as soft as a snowflake about to melt in winter. Javier didn't understand. A week later, the three of them did community service together. Daniel was busy moving things when he accidentally cut his hand on a pallet. "Hey! Are you okay?" Javier immediately grabbed Daniel's hand to check the wound. JJ witnessed that scene. The light fell on Javier's face, revealing his furrowed brow and pained expression. That expression had once belonged only to JJ. JJ felt a sharp pang in his chest. That night, JJ didn't reply to Javier's messages, and Javier had no idea what he had done wrong, simply assuming JJ was too busy. Daniel, lying on the bed clutching his bandaged hand, smiled faintly—it was the first time someone had worried about him so much. The next day, Daniel found Javier: "Thank you for helping me yesterday. I… I think I've become a little too dependent on you." Javier was taken aback: "Huh? Dependent?" Daniel whispered, "Because you've been so good to me… I thought you liked me." Javier was startled: "Oh—no, no, no! I have someone I like!" "Who?" Daniel asked. Javier smiled foolishly, his eyes fixed on only one name: "JJ." Daniel froze, suddenly realizing he had always been in someone else's shoes. He wasn't the one being liked; he was just the fool who didn't know the truth. That evening, Javier rushed to find JJ. When he found him, JJ was sitting on the stairs, looking like he was about to be blown away by the winter wind. "Are you angry with me?" Javier asked. JJ didn't answer. Javier went over and hugged him tightly. "I'm sorry, I didn't take your feelings into account. I was so oblivious. You're all I have, JJ. I've always loved you, only you." JJ's eyes reddened. "I'm not angry with you… I'm just afraid of losing you." Javier gently touched his forehead to Javier's. "You won't lose me. Even if everyone in the world comes to me, I'll only come to you." JJ finally smiled, like a lamp lit up in winter. Later, the three of them still hung out together, but Daniel learned to keep his distance. He stopped trying to steal Javier's attention, instead often teasing them, "You two are too clingy, aren't you? Are you trying to blind me with your love?" JJ would blush, and Javier would laugh and pat him, "Why don't you find someone to cling to too?" Daniel shrugged, "Sigh, I'll wait until someone treats me better than Javier." The three of them would smile warmly in the afternoon sun. However, love always has its limits. JJ finally couldn't help but tell Javier, "I'm tired." Not tired from anger, but the kind of tiredness that comes from loving someone to the point of feeling insignificant. Javier was stunned: "You...you want to break up with me?" JJ's eyes were terribly red, but he held back the tears: "There are some things I can't hold onto anymore." JJ turned and left, a distance Javier could never reach back, no matter how hard he tried. That day, Javier experienced the panic of loss for the first time. Daniel cautiously asked Javier if he was alright, but Javier uttered the worst possible question: "If... I were with you, would JJ be jealous? Would he want to come back?" Daniel understood Javier's thoughts, but still agreed, becoming Javier's "substitute." Soon, the whole	04/12/2025 On a winter afternoon, the sunlight on campus was as pale as diluted milk, leaving only the shadows of three boys on the playground—JJ, Javier, and Daniel, who had recently transferred. Javier smiled as always, a bright and warm smile, but JJ could see that his gaze occasionally drifted to Daniel, who was trying to fit in. JJ felt a pang of jealousy, yet also felt he was overreacting—because Javier was his boyfriend, the one he had secretly protected for three years. But Daniel was completely unaware. When Daniel first transferred, he was quiet and a little shy, unsure of who to talk to. Javier, always eager to help, was the first to approach him and ask, "Would you like to have lunch together?" This seemingly ordinary invitation made Daniel genuinely happy; it was the first time in his life he had been accepted so quickly in a new environment. He didn't know that Javier was already taken, nor did he know that JJ was the one silently standing beside him. From that day on, Daniel turned to Javier for everything. For biology reports, he'd ask Javier; for basketball, he'd ask Javier; even when drinking milk tea, he'd always sit next to Javier. Javier didn't think anything of it, but JJ felt a growing pang of sadness. That day after school, JJ finally couldn't help but ask, "Are you and Daniel... really close?" Javier, still unbuttoning his backpack, didn't notice JJ's concern and smiled, replying, "He just arrived, I'm helping him out. Otherwise, he doesn't have any friends." JJ's heart tightened slightly. He wasn't angry, just afraid. Afraid that someone else would take Javier away; afraid that Javier wouldn't know how much he cared; afraid that if he spoke up, he'd be seen as petty. So JJ forced a "Yeah, I understand," his voice as soft as a snowflake about to melt in winter. Javier didn't understand. A week later, the three of them did community service together. Daniel was busy moving things when he accidentally cut his hand on a pallet. "Hey! Are you okay?" Javier immediately grabbed Daniel's hand to check the wound. JJ witnessed that scene. The light fell on Javier's face, revealing his furrowed brow and pained expression. That expression had once belonged only to JJ. JJ felt a sharp pang in his chest. That night, JJ didn't reply to Javier's messages, and Javier had no idea what he had done wrong, simply assuming JJ was too busy. Daniel, lying on the bed clutching his bandaged hand, smiled faintly—it was the first time someone had worried about him so much. The next day, Daniel found Javier: "Thank you for helping me yesterday. I… I think I've become a little too dependent on you." Javier was taken aback: "Huh? Dependent?" Daniel whispered, "Because you've been so good to me… I thought you liked me." Javier was startled: "Oh—no, no, no! I have someone I like!" "Who?" Daniel asked. Javier smiled foolishly, his eyes fixed on only one name: "JJ." Daniel froze, suddenly realizing he had always been in someone else's shoes. He wasn't the one being liked; he was just the fool who didn't know the truth. That evening, Javier rushed to find JJ. When he found him, JJ was sitting on the stairs, looking like he was about to be blown away by the winter wind. "Are you angry with me?" Javier asked. JJ didn't answer. Javier went over and hugged him tightly. "I'm sorry, I didn't take your feelings into account. I was so oblivious. You're all I have, JJ. I've always loved you, only you." JJ's eyes reddened. "I'm not angry with you… I'm just afraid of losing you." Javier gently touched his forehead to Javier's. "You won't lose me. Even if everyone in the world comes to me, I'll only come to you." JJ finally smiled, like a lamp lit up in winter. Later, the three of them still hung out together, but Daniel learned to keep his distance. He stopped trying to steal Javier's attention, instead often teasing them, "You two are too clingy, aren't you? Are you trying to blind me with your love?" JJ would blush, and Javier would laugh and pat him, "Why don't you find someone to cling to too?" Daniel shrugged, "Sigh, I'll wait until someone treats me better than Javier." The three of them would smile warmly in the afternoon sun. However, love always has its limits. JJ finally couldn't help but tell Javier, "I'm tired." Not tired from anger, but the kind of tiredness that comes from loving someone to the point of feeling insignificant. Javier was stunned: "You...you want to break up with me?" JJ's eyes were terribly red, but he held back the tears: "There are some things I can't hold onto anymore." JJ turned and left, a distance Javier could never reach back, no matter how hard he tried. That day, Javier experienced the panic of loss for the first time. Daniel cautiously asked Javier if he was alright, but Javier uttered the worst possible question: "If... I were with you, would JJ be jealous? Would he want to come back?" Daniel understood Javier's thoughts, but still agreed, becoming Javier's "substitute." Soon, the whole school knew Javier and Daniel were together. When Javier found out, he just smiled slightly—a smile as if his heart had been worn down. He was heartbroken and wouldn't look back. One day after class, Javier mustered his courage and approached Javier: "Javier... can we... try one more time?" Just then, Daniel rushed over, grabbed Javier's hand, and kissed him. Javier was startled and tried to push him away, but in a moment, Javier's back was already out of sight, turning and walking away. Javier tried to chase after him, but Daniel lost his balance and fell, grabbing Javier and preventing him from catching up. In that instant, Javier decided: to leave this city completely, to leave this past behind. JJ arrives in a new country, facing an unfamiliar environment alone. Lost in the library, he meets Evan: "Do you need help? I can translate." Evan's gentleness and stability make JJ feel at ease; for the first time, someone is genuinely kind to him without him having to guess or chase. Their friendship slowly transforms into love, and JJ begins to believe in love again. After marriage, JJ and Evan enjoy a stable and happy life. Evan gets up early to make breakfast and accompanies JJ to the movies in the evenings; their life is simple yet warm. JJ was once afraid to love again, but Evan's love never wavered or hesitated. With Evan, he can feel safe, vulnerable, and loved. And one night in Hong Kong, Javier sits in a shop JJ used to love, looking at the empty seats and old photos, feeling only regret: "JJ… I can never catch up to him again." He understands that love is not about holding on, but about letting go. Three years later, Javier overheard JJ's marriage: "JJ got married. Her husband's name is Evan. They seem very happy." Javier's heart was pierced again. He nodded gently, sat on the empty basketball court, and whispered, "Thank you for being in my life. Even if we didn't end up together." In the night in her new country, JJ leaned on Evan's shoulder, watching the sunset, her heart filled with warmth and peace. Meanwhile, in the night in Hong Kong, Javier alone guarded that irretrievable memory. JJ was reborn in a new country, building a warm and happy family with Evan; Javier healed his wounds in solitude, forever carrying the love and regret for JJ in his heart; Daniel, though unintentionally involved, caused Javier and JJ to be completely separated, filled with guilt and helplessness. Love, sometimes, comes too late; once missed, it can never be retrieved.	ao3_english	2025-12-04T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591371	{"authors": ["Remy120315"], "language": "English", "title": "04/12/2025"}
Blurred Fate "Spider!" That was the last thing Quaritch was able to call after his son, before he had to watch him dive into the waves with a heavy heart. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut and his vision blurry, so he could only see so much of Spider until he was gone. 'He is not your son' General Ardmores words rang in his ears, adding to the burning sensation in his chest. Quaritch leaned heavily on his ikran with a pained croak, defeated, interlinking his kuru before sluggishly dragging himself up the saddle. His Ikran felt the rattling of his breath, his weak state and his mind that was too delirious to even properly tell her where to go. After a few seconds of trying to sit on her back properly, he managed to get up into the sky, but it was jolty and he was barely holding onto the saddle to steady himself. He coughed up more water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the salty taste mixing with the one of his blood. With every cough, the ache behind his ribs grew stronger. He looked around himself, trying to locate where he was and which direction he needed to go. Right now, he was over what seemed like a forest. Not that he would know, everything was blurry and out of focus. He shook his head in frustration. He had to get back to Hell's Gate, that much was clear. Well, the clearest thing his head could muster at the moment. Though, through everything and nothing that was swirling around in his head, Quaritch didn't notice how high he was flying, the air getting thinner and thinner the further he went, his lungs feeling like they were getting surpressed by his tactical vest. He gasped for air, his ears pinned to his head in panic. He tried to pull at his vest, as if it would help him if he removed it, but his arms felt heavy like lead. "Sweet girl, we gotta- we.." he wheezed, his head suddenly as dense as a dumbell. The last thing he heard before his vision went frizzy and he passed out was his Ikran shrieking, almost as if trying to keep him awake, but it was no use. He went slack on the back of his ikran, his arms falling to his sides, getting caught on his braid and ripping it away, causing the tsaheylu to break off. The sudden yank on his ikrans kuru made her scream and thrash around in the sky, completely loosing her balance and sense of orientation. The poor thing panicked as her wings weren't able to grasp onto a strong gust of wind to steady herself again. The ground underneath both of them came closer by the second, a sea of lush green tree canopies hopefully feathering their fall... ★ You stalked quietly through the forest, your eyes trained on every flower you came across. Varang had asked you to collect some plants since the clans medicine was starting to run out and she only trusted you with indentifying the right flowers and mushrooms. So far, you hadn't been too lucky, though. Your woven pouch wasn't even half full, just a few koaktutral stems you had managed to find, but not even enough for a spoon full of the antibiotic salve. You knelt to pry another root from the ground, not much, but at least something. You growled annoyed. How long had you been out here again? You had been gathering plants since the first light and you almost didn't find anything yet! Varang would probably put your head on a spike if you came back empty handed. Most plants you came across so far had been either poisonous or completely rotten to the point you couldn't even safe the leaves for paint pigments. Out of boredom, you cut through a few ferns in your way and let your fingers wander over some grass that had grown too tall. You took a deep breath, the air still smelling faintly of soot from the catastrophy that had happened years ago, but life crept back anyway, greenery stubbornly pushing through the ash. You were glad that this part of the forest, which was still mankwan territory, started to grow back. But that also meant useful flowers were sparse and hard to find. You still remembered how it had been like, when everything was a lushious shade of green, smelling of fresh dew and sweet fruits. When your parents would take you on a walk through the forest, your father teaching you how to tell the plants apart that you could use to calm an upset tummy. All that before you had to watch them get eaten alive by the scorching lava washing through your village, pulling everything and everyone into the flames. You sighed softly, shaking your head to get the gruesome pictures out if your head. After another thirty minutes, you grew tired of searching further. You halted and looked down at your bag, scoffing at its meager contents. You were just about to turn around when you spotted something purple out of the corner of your eyes. You turned around and couldn't believe it- three large dapophet plants just blooming behind the bark of a fallen tree. Their top leaves were long and thick and looked perfectly untouched, one of the biggest dapophet leaves you had ever seen! This was your lucky day! With a	Blurred Fate "Spider!" That was the last thing Quaritch was able to call after his son, before he had to watch him dive into the waves with a heavy heart. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut and his vision blurry, so he could only see so much of Spider until he was gone. 'He is not your son' General Ardmores words rang in his ears, adding to the burning sensation in his chest. Quaritch leaned heavily on his ikran with a pained croak, defeated, interlinking his kuru before sluggishly dragging himself up the saddle. His Ikran felt the rattling of his breath, his weak state and his mind that was too delirious to even properly tell her where to go. After a few seconds of trying to sit on her back properly, he managed to get up into the sky, but it was jolty and he was barely holding onto the saddle to steady himself. He coughed up more water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the salty taste mixing with the one of his blood. With every cough, the ache behind his ribs grew stronger. He looked around himself, trying to locate where he was and which direction he needed to go. Right now, he was over what seemed like a forest. Not that he would know, everything was blurry and out of focus. He shook his head in frustration. He had to get back to Hell's Gate, that much was clear. Well, the clearest thing his head could muster at the moment. Though, through everything and nothing that was swirling around in his head, Quaritch didn't notice how high he was flying, the air getting thinner and thinner the further he went, his lungs feeling like they were getting surpressed by his tactical vest. He gasped for air, his ears pinned to his head in panic. He tried to pull at his vest, as if it would help him if he removed it, but his arms felt heavy like lead. "Sweet girl, we gotta- we.." he wheezed, his head suddenly as dense as a dumbell. The last thing he heard before his vision went frizzy and he passed out was his Ikran shrieking, almost as if trying to keep him awake, but it was no use. He went slack on the back of his ikran, his arms falling to his sides, getting caught on his braid and ripping it away, causing the tsaheylu to break off. The sudden yank on his ikrans kuru made her scream and thrash around in the sky, completely loosing her balance and sense of orientation. The poor thing panicked as her wings weren't able to grasp onto a strong gust of wind to steady herself again. The ground underneath both of them came closer by the second, a sea of lush green tree canopies hopefully feathering their fall... ★ You stalked quietly through the forest, your eyes trained on every flower you came across. Varang had asked you to collect some plants since the clans medicine was starting to run out and she only trusted you with indentifying the right flowers and mushrooms. So far, you hadn't been too lucky, though. Your woven pouch wasn't even half full, just a few koaktutral stems you had managed to find, but not even enough for a spoon full of the antibiotic salve. You knelt to pry another root from the ground, not much, but at least something. You growled annoyed. How long had you been out here again? You had been gathering plants since the first light and you almost didn't find anything yet! Varang would probably put your head on a spike if you came back empty handed. Most plants you came across so far had been either poisonous or completely rotten to the point you couldn't even safe the leaves for paint pigments. Out of boredom, you cut through a few ferns in your way and let your fingers wander over some grass that had grown too tall. You took a deep breath, the air still smelling faintly of soot from the catastrophy that had happened years ago, but life crept back anyway, greenery stubbornly pushing through the ash. You were glad that this part of the forest, which was still mankwan territory, started to grow back. But that also meant useful flowers were sparse and hard to find. You still remembered how it had been like, when everything was a lushious shade of green, smelling of fresh dew and sweet fruits. When your parents would take you on a walk through the forest, your father teaching you how to tell the plants apart that you could use to calm an upset tummy. All that before you had to watch them get eaten alive by the scorching lava washing through your village, pulling everything and everyone into the flames. You sighed softly, shaking your head to get the gruesome pictures out if your head. After another thirty minutes, you grew tired of searching further. You halted and looked down at your bag, scoffing at its meager contents. You were just about to turn around when you spotted something purple out of the corner of your eyes. You turned around and couldn't believe it- three large dapophet plants just blooming behind the bark of a fallen tree. Their top leaves were long and thick and looked perfectly untouched, one of the biggest dapophet leaves you had ever seen! This was your lucky day! With a skip in your step, you went over to collect the goods. Carefully, you cut away a few of the leaves on the top of the plant without opening them, so the juice inside wouldn’t go to waste. You sat on the mossy floor of the forest, happily humming to yourself. Then you took your bottle made out of a hollowed out direhorse bone that was secured on the satch around your hips, cut open the leaves and watched the sap drip slowly into your bottle. Once your bottle was full, you packed the empty leaves into you woven bag. When dried, they were perfect for keeping firepits burning for a long time. You wrapped the other leaves you had harvested from the three plants into a soft cloth so they wouldn’t accidentally burst in your bag while transporting. After you were done packing everything away carefully, you straightened back up and investigated the area around the flowers in hopes you'd find something else to put in your satch. And to your surpise and awe, you actually found one single scorpion thistle hidden away between some bushes and branches near the dapophets. You squealed like a little girl as you crouched down next to the rare flower, admiring its beautiful vibrant colours and touching its petals softly. This was your mothers favourite flower and in this moment, you wished she were here to collect it with you. You were about to cut the stem for its sap when your heart nearly jumped out of your chest, your tail straightening in terror. Something crashed through the canopy like thunder not too far away from you. Whatever it was, it shrieked, sounding like an ikran. That wasn't possible. An ikran? Here? They were never found in the forest, especially not alone. Unless... You winced, your ears pinning to your head as you paced left to right, agitated. You knew better than to go and look after whatever it was that just fell from the sky, or who. And for a moment you contemplaited wether to just turn around and leave, so you wouldn’t get into trouble, especially because the only thing you had to defend yourself was a simple stone knife, but... This was stupid. So stupid. Curiousity got the better of you and you slowly crouched in the moss, careful not to make any sound as you stalked towards the scene you heard the ikran shriek from, your knife always by your side. As you were nestled between tall planes of grass, you saw a distressed ikran cooing to and nudging something on the ground. You stood up taller to see what it was. Something blue laid on the forest floor, unmoving. Na'vi, you thought quickly, one of the omatikaya if his vibrant deep blue skin was anything to go by. This was the last bit of forest that was still part of mankwan territory, so what was he doing here? After a few moments, he remained deathly still. Shit, what were you supposed to do? You could still flee, ignore what you saw and just never tell anyone. But...he already seemed kinda dead, it wouldn’t hurt to just take a look, right? Maybe see if he carried anything useful with him, he wouldn’t need it anyway if he in fact didn't survive the fall. Slowly, as to not startle the ikran, you walked closer, crouching lowly. When you neared, the ikran gave a scream and puffed out her chest. You held up your empty hands, showing the animal that you weren't here to hurt her or her rider. After you made sure the ikran wasn't about to behead you, you dropped to your knees next to the man, expecting a loincloth, locks adorned with feathers and beaded necklaces, but instead you were met with camouflage pants, a tactical vest and a weapon belt. And as if that wasn't already bad, he had five fingers. A sky demon, maybe even one of those dreamwalkers you had heard about. And he was in fact still alive, just passed out, you noticed his chest rise and fall. You gasped, looking him over for any signs that he might wake up. You were sure he'd kill you instantly and you had nothing to defend yourself besides your puny little knife. You quickly went to scavange his weapons, heart pounding in your chest, but as you were about to fish his gun out of the holster around his hips, you touched something wet. Your brows furrowed and then it suddenly stung in your nose- the fresh scent of blood. Pealing back his tank, there was a gaping wound in his side, probably caused by his fall, not counting the numerous cuts on his arms and face and his bruised eye. Blood seeped into the dirt in a spreading, sickening pool. "Txan!" you exclaimed. This was bad. What were you supposed to do? Finish the job? Rob an injured person? You couldn't just leave, could you? You could and you definitely should while you still had a chance. But if you left him like this, he'd die here, nothing to argue about that. Why would you even care, it would be better that way! One less of these demons taking and destroying your planet. But somehow, when you looked at his rested face, his ears twitching softly, your heart seemed to force you to stay. Something pulled you in. You couldn't move a muscle and time was running out. You looked around you, as if anyone was there to help you decide, before you hissed at yourself in frustration "What am I doing?" you asked yourself as your hands seemed to move on their own. You tried to remove his vest in one piece, but you had to cut it open in the end, as well as his tank since the garments got in the way. The wound was ugly, you couldn't stitch it, but you hopefully could stop the bleeding. You took the wrapped up dapophet leaves out of your pouch, unwrapped them before carelessly snapping them in half to let the cloth soak up their sap. In this moment, it felt like the cloth took forever to be saturated in the juice. The second you deemed it enough, you went to tightly bind it around his waist, though you quickly realised this didn't apply enough pressure, so you rummaged in your bag while your hands were shaking with nerves and the cries of his distressed ikran did only so little to keep you calm. You found another bag thag you had packed in case you'd find so many roots and flowers you needed a second pouch to carry it all. You ripped the fabric apart with your bare hands and wrapped it around the gash, pulling it as tight as you could with all your might. Why were you doing all this? Why did it feel like the worst case scenario if he didn't make it? You didn’t know, something just seemed to tell you he was important. You examined his body for more severe injuries, luckily you didn't find any. His bones didn't seem to be broken, only his ribs were probably cracked, a deep purple bruise forming under his chest and you found small bleeding cuts that littered his arms. You treated the biggest cuts you saw with the dapophet sap, disinfecting the area and speading up the healing process. Then you carefully straddled his waist, not putting much of your weight on it, and inspected his face. His eye was swollen shut, the other had a cut underneath. You reached back to your bottle of sap, rubbing the sticky juice between your fingertips before applying it to his face as well. Quaritchs eyes began to open, just a sliver, his vision frizzy at the edges, cloudy and blurry. He could make out a figure above him, blue, and feel something cold on his skin. He desperately tried to see clearer, to understand what you were muttering under your breath, but it was like your voice was echoing from underwater, so far away and quiet. He felt your weight on him, almost comforting, if it wasn’t for the burning sensation that spread from his side over his abdomen. He strained his ears to hear you, his hand trying to claw at his waist as if he could remove what was causing him pain, but his arm dropped limp shortly after. You caught the slight movement of his fingers and heard him groan in pain and stopped touching him with a gasp, retreating a bit further down his body, afraid he'd snap up in a second. You searched his eyes, a piercing yellow colour, his eyebrows furrowed while he tried desperately to get a grip on himself and see who was helping him. But he was too delirious, fading in and out of conciousness, the bloodloss and pain making it hard for him to grasp onto his sanity. You stared at his face, the way his dark blue stripes curved over his cheekbones, the deep snarl in his nose and how his ears were fluttering. It was impossible to look away, you couldn't describe the feeling in your chest as you watched him with curiousity and...pity. Only when he managed to turn his head and look directly up at you did you jump off him. You quickly gathered your belongings and packed your bag to leave no trace of your existence. The last thing he saw was how your blurry figure slipped back into the trees in a hurry, looking back at him just a second as if to assure yourself he would make it on his own. Then you were gone- and darkness consumed him again like he was hit in the head by a baseball bat. This was a mistake.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75597011/chapters/197686826	{"authors": ["WhereStoriesComeFrom"], "language": "English", "title": "Blurred Fate"}
you followed me into the pit Winter. Oh how Mike dreads winter. And he doesn’t even have a fancy reason like other people do. Some people get spots on their face from the harsh weather, some hate only having a few hours of sunlight. But for, Mike, he just really hated snow. It’s quite odd, considering everyone loves playing in the snow, building snowmen, tripping each other. But this specific teenager despises it, especially because everyone was pretending to be closer to each other. Because Christmas is supposed to be about being closer to your family, but Mike never shared the sentiment. And snow was something everyone loved. Mike could just be a little different than most people, especially since he was considered a freak for hanging out with Eddie Munson last year. It’s just stupid, how people just assume things about people because it’s easier than seeing the brighter side. He dreads winter because it was cold, uncomfortable, and it hurts his eyes stepping outside to the unnecessarily bright snow, thank Mother nature. Will loves winter, he finds it sweet, despite the cold. Because he can always throw a jacket on and call it a day. He loves it because people cuddle up for warmth, they share hot drinks and chuckle about the latest gossip. He likes it because he found it funny how Mike gets pissed off when it snows. Maybe even endearing. The truth is, he had come to terms with the fact that he will love everything about Mike, even his dramatic eye rolls when things don’t go his way. He also loves fighting in the snow, throwing himself on his back on a thick layer of white snowflakes. He likes seeing Mike ‘s cheeks flush whenever they step out, when his eyes get watery, the way he licks his lips when they get too chapped. Will knows Mike prefers spring, because he thrives the most when the flowers blossom, the sun is getting warmer, the forests get greener. “Not again.” Mike groans, side eyeing the mirror, he can’t believe it’s snowing again for the millionth time. Holly jumps from her seat — taking Mike’s groan as a cue to admire the snowflakes waltzing gracefully to the ground. She smiles widely and huddles up next to Mike, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Will you play with me today?” Mike almost says no, but he cut off by Will innocently grabbing a glass to fill with water, his presence making him stop in his tracks. The truth is, they haven’t been speaking much lately. At least nothing deeper than small talk. They were on good terms though. At least that’s what Mike thinks, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to think otherwise. “Will, hey!” Mike smiles, lifting his hand slightly to wave at him. The other boy just nods, barely smiling. Holly suddenly switches targets, tugging on Will’s sleeve, tilting her head innocently. “Will! You wanna build a snowman?” She asked because she knows Will could never say no to her. “Of course.” Will looks at her, and then at Mike — then quickly looks away. The brunette walks towards them, a hint of playfulness dancing on his lips. “You’ll need some gloves for that.” He lays Holly’s back, urging her to go upstairs to change. Then he looks at his best friend, biting the inside of his cheek, he thought that now he could make some sort of conversation to ease some of the tension they’re having lately. But when he opens his mouth — he lets his lips seal again, unable to say anything short of pathetic. “So, um. Have you been — reading anything lately…?” This is some sort of progress, at least they aren’t talking about some bullshit like they usually do when they meet in the shared rooms. “Oh, uh — no, not really. No.” Will wanted to ask why, but he just muttered a ‘hm’, silently praying Holly found her gloves. The stairs make a creaking sound as delicate footsteps rush down three stairs, followed by another set of heavier ones. It must be Nancy, judging by the click of the shoes. The two girls walked into the kitchen, and clearly, the younger is way more eager than Nancy, because her cheeks stained a rosy shade of pink, probably cause by the excessive smiling. “Mom said we can play in the snow!” “Yeah. Which means, I’m playing with you in the snow. Let’s not bother, Will, okay?” The eldest smiled towards Holly, fixing her galling hat. “Aw, but Will makes nice snowmen. Unlike Mike.” “Right back at you.” Mike squints his eyes at the blonde girl, clicking his tongue. “That’s because I don’t try. You do and you still suck.” He sticks a tongue out next, but he had no ill intent. She rolled her eyes and grabbed Nancy’s hand, eternally grateful her big sister makes time for her despite being busy most of the time. Which leaves Mike and Will alone in the kitchen again. This time, more awkward than before. And neither of them knew why. Actually, Will knew why. Because he was trying his absolute best to keep a comfortable distance from Mike, despite living in the same house. Because he knows he’ll read Mike being nice as him wanting to — nevermind. “Did you eat yet?” Mike	you followed me into the pit Winter. Oh how Mike dreads winter. And he doesn’t even have a fancy reason like other people do. Some people get spots on their face from the harsh weather, some hate only having a few hours of sunlight. But for, Mike, he just really hated snow. It’s quite odd, considering everyone loves playing in the snow, building snowmen, tripping each other. But this specific teenager despises it, especially because everyone was pretending to be closer to each other. Because Christmas is supposed to be about being closer to your family, but Mike never shared the sentiment. And snow was something everyone loved. Mike could just be a little different than most people, especially since he was considered a freak for hanging out with Eddie Munson last year. It’s just stupid, how people just assume things about people because it’s easier than seeing the brighter side. He dreads winter because it was cold, uncomfortable, and it hurts his eyes stepping outside to the unnecessarily bright snow, thank Mother nature. Will loves winter, he finds it sweet, despite the cold. Because he can always throw a jacket on and call it a day. He loves it because people cuddle up for warmth, they share hot drinks and chuckle about the latest gossip. He likes it because he found it funny how Mike gets pissed off when it snows. Maybe even endearing. The truth is, he had come to terms with the fact that he will love everything about Mike, even his dramatic eye rolls when things don’t go his way. He also loves fighting in the snow, throwing himself on his back on a thick layer of white snowflakes. He likes seeing Mike ‘s cheeks flush whenever they step out, when his eyes get watery, the way he licks his lips when they get too chapped. Will knows Mike prefers spring, because he thrives the most when the flowers blossom, the sun is getting warmer, the forests get greener. “Not again.” Mike groans, side eyeing the mirror, he can’t believe it’s snowing again for the millionth time. Holly jumps from her seat — taking Mike’s groan as a cue to admire the snowflakes waltzing gracefully to the ground. She smiles widely and huddles up next to Mike, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Will you play with me today?” Mike almost says no, but he cut off by Will innocently grabbing a glass to fill with water, his presence making him stop in his tracks. The truth is, they haven’t been speaking much lately. At least nothing deeper than small talk. They were on good terms though. At least that’s what Mike thinks, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to think otherwise. “Will, hey!” Mike smiles, lifting his hand slightly to wave at him. The other boy just nods, barely smiling. Holly suddenly switches targets, tugging on Will’s sleeve, tilting her head innocently. “Will! You wanna build a snowman?” She asked because she knows Will could never say no to her. “Of course.” Will looks at her, and then at Mike — then quickly looks away. The brunette walks towards them, a hint of playfulness dancing on his lips. “You’ll need some gloves for that.” He lays Holly’s back, urging her to go upstairs to change. Then he looks at his best friend, biting the inside of his cheek, he thought that now he could make some sort of conversation to ease some of the tension they’re having lately. But when he opens his mouth — he lets his lips seal again, unable to say anything short of pathetic. “So, um. Have you been — reading anything lately…?” This is some sort of progress, at least they aren’t talking about some bullshit like they usually do when they meet in the shared rooms. “Oh, uh — no, not really. No.” Will wanted to ask why, but he just muttered a ‘hm’, silently praying Holly found her gloves. The stairs make a creaking sound as delicate footsteps rush down three stairs, followed by another set of heavier ones. It must be Nancy, judging by the click of the shoes. The two girls walked into the kitchen, and clearly, the younger is way more eager than Nancy, because her cheeks stained a rosy shade of pink, probably cause by the excessive smiling. “Mom said we can play in the snow!” “Yeah. Which means, I’m playing with you in the snow. Let’s not bother, Will, okay?” The eldest smiled towards Holly, fixing her galling hat. “Aw, but Will makes nice snowmen. Unlike Mike.” “Right back at you.” Mike squints his eyes at the blonde girl, clicking his tongue. “That’s because I don’t try. You do and you still suck.” He sticks a tongue out next, but he had no ill intent. She rolled her eyes and grabbed Nancy’s hand, eternally grateful her big sister makes time for her despite being busy most of the time. Which leaves Mike and Will alone in the kitchen again. This time, more awkward than before. And neither of them knew why. Actually, Will knew why. Because he was trying his absolute best to keep a comfortable distance from Mike, despite living in the same house. Because he knows he’ll read Mike being nice as him wanting to — nevermind. “Did you eat yet?” Mike asks, almost as if he sensed Well was overthinking, which he didn’t. He’s so oblivious it hurts. “No.” Then the taller boy looks down at Will, staring at his figure for a second too long. Will is wearing a shirt that’s a bit too big on him, probably belonging to Jonathan. He looks back up — at Will’s eyes, but he looks away, his hands on his neck. “Uh, then you should. Totally, eat. Yeah.” He lifts his hands up, pointing to the fridge. His eyes dropping on Will’s figure again, but he stops himself. “Wouldn’t want you starve, not in my house. Never.” Will just gives him a short, but targeted look. Telling him to shut up without telling him to shut up. “Thanks.” “Yeah. I’ll.. uh, go? See you.” He smiles, but he barely hides his face before a grimace creeps up on his face. What is wrong with him? Why was he acting like this? Will is his best friend. Why is he acting like he’s a stranger living in his house? He can’t help but rub his face in annoyance. Every time he tries to talk to Will it ends up the same way. Mike walking away awkwardly because the expression on Will ‘s face was nothing short of wry. Mike is starting to question if he had done something wrong the past few months they’ve been living together. Maybe it’s because Will isn’t used to his house. That doesn’t make sense, we literally grew up together. He opens the door to his bedroom, biting his eyes into the dark blue walls, admiring the posters, although it wasn’t exactly admiring, just familiarity. He looks at his nightstand and grabs a frame that’s been turned down for a while. He wonders when it tipped over, was it him? Clumsily flinging his arms in his sleep? Or was it because they had a fight and he forgot to put it its place. Either way, the younger version of them looks back at them, and he tips his head to the side. It’s normal, to not be fine anymore, right? It’ll pass. He puts it back down, this time facing it towards his bed, so he can stare at it before going to sleep. But he knows it’ll just make him more guilty. He pulls on his hood, now covering his curls partially, he looks at the mirror, staring at the man in front of him. Did I change? Or did he? One thing is for sure, it’s painful to not know how to save a friendship you’ve had for years. Especially when you’ve went through so much together. He shivers slightly, realising his window is ajar, he approaches it to close it and glances intrinsically. A smirk crosses his face when he sees Will getting tackled by Holly. Which is funny, because realistically there’s no way she could do that. He doesn’t even know if he could do it. Too bad he will never find out, because he’s too stubborn to put his dislike aside for some quality time. Nancy runs towards them, pretending to save Will, but lets herself get tackled as well. Mike tilts his head, chuckling when he sees Will begging for his life, covered in snow, his hair humid from the party session. Then sees him stand and pick up Holly, throwing her gently into the snow. How he loves seeing Will so careless, getting along so well with his sisters, to the point he wonders if he was their lost brother, he was just so — beautiful. “Shit.” Mike murmurs and closes the window for good, closing his eyes when he realises what he’s thinking about. He blinks once, twice, to adjust to the difference of lighting from outside. He sits on the bed, letting his body fall on the blankets, then his breath hitches. He feels something for Will. He doesn’t know what it is yet. He turns to face the wall, grabbing the comic that’s sticked to it. He must’ve been to lazy to put it on the nightstand. He has to take his mind off things. — A knock. He doesn’t know how long he’s been reading, but judging by the darkness outside he must’ve been in wonderland. “Come in!” Mike yells, flipping through the pages with a bored expression. Daydreaming was better sometimes, he must admit. The door opens — no way. Mike doesn’t know if he should exhale or inhale, which causes him to choke on his breath, he turns his head once, he looks away, he looks back again, his eyes wandering down, he looks away again. “Hi, Will..” He looks back at him, this time keeping his gaze on Will’s chest. Will is in front of him. He only has a sweater on, his hair is damp. He has a slight flush on his cheeks and he’s smiling awkwardly. “Do you… have some spare pants?” “Totally.” He stands quicker than he should, already looking through his drawer, he pulls out a pair of grey sweats, making sure they’re clean and looks at Will nervously again. “Here.” He extends his arm and Will does so too, his sweater rides up, showing skin and Will in fact does have shorts. Mike sighs, they’re still too short, his eyes go down — “—you.” Will says, tilting his head. “Mike?” “What? Oh, yeah. Totally, no worries.” He smiles unnaturally and closes his drawer loudly, causing the photo frame to fall down. But he didn’t move, he watched Will move towards the hallway, his eyes lingering. “Night.” “Goodnight.” “Wait.” “Yeah?” Will tilts his head, tipping his head. His jawline sharp, and his eyes — Mike swears they are shining. “Uh, nevermind- Night!” Mike closes the door in an instant, huffing out when he realises how stupid he sounded just now. But he can’t help it, especially when he looks down and sees his legs trembling. Now he can’t deny it. He definitely feels something for Will. But he doesn’t know what. One thing is certain, the lower half of his body betrays him. So he just ignores it, it can’t be because of Will. He throws himself on the bed again, he turns on his side, he’s hot, his body shaking for no reason. He looks at the ceiling, turing on his back. Eleven, her sweet smile, her comical sentences, her soft voice. Innocent eyes, full lips. Short brown hair, hazel eyes… Will. Cute walk, awkward. Deep voice, his new haircut, hair falling on his long eyelashes. He groans deeply, he can’t do this anymore. He turns again, softening the pillow beside him. He wishes Will was next to him. Why was Will acting so distant lately? Why did Will walk half naked in his room just now? Does he know?	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591381?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["TARTALITERATURE"], "language": "English", "title": "you followed me into the pit"}
History of Everything Sheldon finished working on his tie and went to adjust his coat. He looked in the mirror and approved of the result - of course, geeks didn't have any sense of fashion, but they were great in lining their clothes up, which made them look, at least, a little more presentable. He decided he was ready and went to the living room where his three friends were waiting for him. "Hi, guys, I was thinking…" Penny stormed into the apartment without knocking, as usual. She hadn't finish her sentence before she realized there was something weird going on. The four men looked at her at the same time and she raised her eyebrows. They were all wearing social clothes, well, theoretically social clothes; Penny didn't think anybody should wear those around other people. "What's going on?" she asked, trying her best to control her laughter. "Oh, we're heading to a restaurant for a special dinner," Leonard explained. "Yeah, I can see you are all… dressed up for the occasion…" she looked at their clothes again. "What are you guys celebrating?" it had to be something really important for Sheldon to give up his usual superhero T-shirts. "Today's the anniversary of the day we all first met," Leonard said. "Yep, seven years of pure geek-love and a complete lack of lady-love," Howard nodded, "what a great time for being alive" Rajesh nodded and smiled lopsidedly. "Wow, really, guys? I had no idea!" she answered, excited. "There's a story I'd love to hear." "Aw, good for you, but we can't spare you the time right now. It's already 07:45 and we have to be at the restaurant by 8 o'clock," Sheldon replied, showing her his watch. She chuckled, imagining he was kidding. She should have remembered that Sheldon never joked when it came to timing. Actually, did he ever joke about anything? "Oh, c'mon... What if I go with you?" she suggested, putting on the puppy-eyed expression they couldn't resist. The others looked at Sheldon; he agreed against all his will. X Leonard Hofstadter was one of the first to arrive in the classroom. He sat down in the first row and bounced excitedly in his seat: it was his first day as a college student. He had come from New Jersey and he was loving the fact that that he would never run into any of his awful classmates from High School, since none of them were smart enough or cared enough to get accepted by Caltech. Not to mention it was the first time in years he would have a little time for himself since his parents wouldn't be around anymore. Massachusetts was too close for him to risk. Almost all students had arrived in class now, and someone in the back row had just been slapped by a girl, causing everyone to stare at him, and some nervous laughter. The guy blushed and stared at his desk. Someone rumbled, and all the students turned to the front again, a man of about Leonard's age was in front of them, he figured it was one of his classmates pretending to be a professor. He rolled his eyes not believing that even Caltech wasn't free of goofs. "My name's Sheldon Cooper and I'll be your professor for this trimester. Before we start I want you all to know I have no desire whatsoever to be here and I won't tolerate stupid inquiries, any questions?" The man looked at them with a serious expression. Some students frowned, clearly not seeing any fun in the joke. One decided to play along. "So, Tee, what are we learning about today?" the student scoffed. "Well, I'll ramble about quantum mechanics and its interactions with other scientific theories, but of course, you won't learn anything, perhaps exercises using the formulae of constant acceleration would be more suitable for you," Cooper replied, raising his eyebrows. He was clearly not finding anything amusing about the situation. The classroom held its collective breath. "Wait, you're really our teacher?" asked the girl beside Leonard. Sheldon Cooper nodded impatiently. "But you're about our age…" Leonard said. "Yes, that's true," he agreed, "but I'm way more accomplished than you will ever hope to be". Leonard couldn't believe his brusque attitude to the class. That was just not a thing teachers were supposed to tell their students. The class continued in complete silence; they were all too scared to ask any questions or even make any sound, for that matter. The other classes didn't have the same problem, which made Leonard feel a little better. He grabbed his tray in the cafeteria during the lunch break and looked around for a place to sit. He saw the teachers table, he saw Professor Cooper eating alone in another one, and he saw a table with two students one of whom, he realized, was the guy who'd been slapped in Cooper's class. The other seemed to be an exchange student. He joined them; at least they would already start with a subject in common. Clearly none of them had much practice in meeting new people. They all greeted each other shyly and talked about themselves as if they were in a support group. Howard Wolowitz was the	History of Everything Sheldon finished working on his tie and went to adjust his coat. He looked in the mirror and approved of the result - of course, geeks didn't have any sense of fashion, but they were great in lining their clothes up, which made them look, at least, a little more presentable. He decided he was ready and went to the living room where his three friends were waiting for him. "Hi, guys, I was thinking…" Penny stormed into the apartment without knocking, as usual. She hadn't finish her sentence before she realized there was something weird going on. The four men looked at her at the same time and she raised her eyebrows. They were all wearing social clothes, well, theoretically social clothes; Penny didn't think anybody should wear those around other people. "What's going on?" she asked, trying her best to control her laughter. "Oh, we're heading to a restaurant for a special dinner," Leonard explained. "Yeah, I can see you are all… dressed up for the occasion…" she looked at their clothes again. "What are you guys celebrating?" it had to be something really important for Sheldon to give up his usual superhero T-shirts. "Today's the anniversary of the day we all first met," Leonard said. "Yep, seven years of pure geek-love and a complete lack of lady-love," Howard nodded, "what a great time for being alive" Rajesh nodded and smiled lopsidedly. "Wow, really, guys? I had no idea!" she answered, excited. "There's a story I'd love to hear." "Aw, good for you, but we can't spare you the time right now. It's already 07:45 and we have to be at the restaurant by 8 o'clock," Sheldon replied, showing her his watch. She chuckled, imagining he was kidding. She should have remembered that Sheldon never joked when it came to timing. Actually, did he ever joke about anything? "Oh, c'mon... What if I go with you?" she suggested, putting on the puppy-eyed expression they couldn't resist. The others looked at Sheldon; he agreed against all his will. X Leonard Hofstadter was one of the first to arrive in the classroom. He sat down in the first row and bounced excitedly in his seat: it was his first day as a college student. He had come from New Jersey and he was loving the fact that that he would never run into any of his awful classmates from High School, since none of them were smart enough or cared enough to get accepted by Caltech. Not to mention it was the first time in years he would have a little time for himself since his parents wouldn't be around anymore. Massachusetts was too close for him to risk. Almost all students had arrived in class now, and someone in the back row had just been slapped by a girl, causing everyone to stare at him, and some nervous laughter. The guy blushed and stared at his desk. Someone rumbled, and all the students turned to the front again, a man of about Leonard's age was in front of them, he figured it was one of his classmates pretending to be a professor. He rolled his eyes not believing that even Caltech wasn't free of goofs. "My name's Sheldon Cooper and I'll be your professor for this trimester. Before we start I want you all to know I have no desire whatsoever to be here and I won't tolerate stupid inquiries, any questions?" The man looked at them with a serious expression. Some students frowned, clearly not seeing any fun in the joke. One decided to play along. "So, Tee, what are we learning about today?" the student scoffed. "Well, I'll ramble about quantum mechanics and its interactions with other scientific theories, but of course, you won't learn anything, perhaps exercises using the formulae of constant acceleration would be more suitable for you," Cooper replied, raising his eyebrows. He was clearly not finding anything amusing about the situation. The classroom held its collective breath. "Wait, you're really our teacher?" asked the girl beside Leonard. Sheldon Cooper nodded impatiently. "But you're about our age…" Leonard said. "Yes, that's true," he agreed, "but I'm way more accomplished than you will ever hope to be". Leonard couldn't believe his brusque attitude to the class. That was just not a thing teachers were supposed to tell their students. The class continued in complete silence; they were all too scared to ask any questions or even make any sound, for that matter. The other classes didn't have the same problem, which made Leonard feel a little better. He grabbed his tray in the cafeteria during the lunch break and looked around for a place to sit. He saw the teachers table, he saw Professor Cooper eating alone in another one, and he saw a table with two students one of whom, he realized, was the guy who'd been slapped in Cooper's class. The other seemed to be an exchange student. He joined them; at least they would already start with a subject in common. Clearly none of them had much practice in meeting new people. They all greeted each other shyly and talked about themselves as if they were in a support group. Howard Wolowitz was the embarrassed boy from the back of Cooper's class. He was Jewish and had always lived in California. Rajesh Koothrappali was the exchange student from India, who hated Indian food and was the greatest investment of the University that year. "Can you see Professor Cooper?" Rajesh asked Howard, who nodded confirmation. "Great, now tell us what he's doing so we can make mean commentaries about it," he continued, with an evil smile playing on his lips. The other two looked at him puzzled. "What? Isn't it what Americans do to people they don't like?" he asked. They were forced to concede that, yes, it was usually the case. "Alright, he's taking something from his suitcase…" Howard said. "Maybe it's his copy of 'Terrorizing students for dummies'," Leonard suggested, and they all chuckled. "Oh, my God," Howard said. He stopped laughing and let his jaw drop. The other two looked at him with curiosity. "Don't look now, but he's got the latest edition of The Flash and is reading it right now." He started to shake excitedly. Rajesh and Leonard turned immediately to the professor. It was true, Leonard couldn't believe it. "Perhaps he's not so bad after all… do you think we should go sit there with him?" Leonard asked shrugging. "Oh, please, you're only saying this because you want to read that comic book," Rajesh replied. "So…?" Leonard continued. Howard and Rajesh looked at each other and agreed, they stood up and went in single file to talk to him, Leonard in the front, followed by Raj and Howard for last. X "Oh, so it's like a universal thing, having this first impression of Sheldon," Penny commented, when Leonard finished telling her how they had all met. The others agreed while Sheldon looked at with scorn. Leonard pulled over the car and they got out. They had just arrived at the restaurant. Penny looked at the front of the shop, she had figured it would be Chinese, not even a special occasion could disrupt Sheldon's freakish food schedules. It was a lot fancier than the place they usually ordered from, though. They entered the restaurant and a waitress attended them. Leonard told her his name and she started to walk them to their table. "But this story starts a little earlier from my point of view, sweetheart," Howard said, trying to pass his arm through Penny's shoulders. He gave up on that idea when he saw her expression, and quickly got on with his story. X Howard Wolowitz entered the gates of the University, extremely animated; he couldn't help his smile every time a hot freshman girl crossed his path. All just as he liked them, fresh, innocent and vulnerable. "I can also lead you to your dormitory and test your bed with you," he replied to a woman that came after him asking if he could direct her to her building. Her response was pushing him and letting him hit someone passing by, when he recovered himself she was already out of sight, and he looked at the person he had stumbled into by accident. "I'm sorry…" Howard said. "These freshmen…" Dr. Cooper mumbled as a response and continued his way. "I'm a sophomore!" he corrected him, although he was too far away already. Howard grabbed his schedule, looked at it, and walked to Dr. Cooper's classroom. He went directly to the last row, since if there was any chance of finding hot girls in that class they would be on the back row. He sat down on the side of a red headed girl. She looked at him smiled timidly, and blushed. "Enchanted, milady, I'm Howard Wolowitz," he introduced himself, smiling back at her. "I see your pupils are dilated and your heartbeat is accelerated, which are signs of sexual attraction, would you prefer to- " The answer was a slap on the face that made everybody else in the room look at him. He crossed his arms and sat quietly for the rest of the class. When lunch time arrived, he chose an empty table to sit alone and stare at the ladies peacefully. He didn't even notice the foreign student coming towards him. "Can I sit here?" the boy pointed to the empty seat in front of him. Howard shrugged and went back to looking at the female freshmen. "I'm Rajesh Koothrappali and I can't talk to women," he introduced himself smiling. "I'm Howard Wolowitz and women don't want to talk to me," he replied. "Huh, I think we'll get along," Koothrappali responded. X Penny took another sip of her drink and raised her arms in cheers. Penny put down her drink and clapped excitedly. "This is so cool, guys. I'm learning a lot about you, and, like, you haven't changed at all in the past seven years," she laughed. The guys looked at each other. She was probably getting drunk: there was no other reasonable explanation for why she was having such a great time with this. "Oh, Penny, don't listen to them, it starts even earlier in Choco Daddy's version here," Rajesh said, pointing both of his thumbs to himself, the other person on the table who had drunk a little more than he should. She straightened up in her seat and looked at him, ready to hear his version of the story. Sheldon made a sign to the waitress bring their desserts. "Are you sure, Penny? We could talk about anything…" Leonard asked her, trying to get her drink out of her reach. She frowned at him, and he gave it back to her, defeated. She thanked him, took another sip and looked back to Rajesh, who was ready to talk. X Mrs. Koothrappali gave her son another kiss on the cheek. "Baby, are you sure you don't want me to go in with you?" she asked, hugging him and giving one more kiss. "Stop spoiling the kid, do you want him to depend on us for the rest of his life?" Dr. Koothrappali moaned at his wife from his car. "Yeah, mama, I'll be okay. It's my first day at college, I should be doing this by myself," Rajesh said. She shook her head in disagreement, but still held him tighter, gave him a final kiss on the cheek and handed him a bag with his lunch in it. He waved them goodbye and looked inside the bag. All Indian food. He grumbled, and threw it in the closet garbage can. As he looked at the University and the people passing through its gates, one guy caught his attention; the guy was talking to a girl and apparently doing it very well. Raj envied him for being able to talk to a woman that wasn't his own mother, even though she eventually pushed him away. From this moment on, he decided he would follow that guy and try to take tips from him, no matter what it took. X "Is this why I saw you in all the classes I took in the first two weeks and never more?" Howard asked, slightly surprised. Rajesh nodded, embarrassed. Once Koothrappali learned that his mentor Howard was actually the one who needed help, he decided he would have a more promising future focusing on the college matters. "So I didn't scare a student away from my class?" Sheldon asked, equally surprised. Rajesh nodded again, even more embarrassed. "But he missed your first class, and you got softer the week after…" Leonard pointed out, "I always wondered what happened". "Wow, you guys must be feeling pretty proud of yourselves right now," Penny commented. They looked at her questioningly. "Oh, c'mon, he admired you," she pointed to Howard, "and you got a student that wasn't even supposed to be in your class," she pointed to Sheldon. "Maybe true, but I'm not done yet," Rajesh said raising his eyebrows suggestively. Sheldon seemed particularly disturbed with this. X "Mr. Koothrappali?" one of the Deans of the University called. Rajesh responded. "Would you follow me, please? I'd like to introduce you to someone…" he started to walk. Rajesh glanced at the student he was stalking, unsure. The Dean called him again and he decided he would try to find his future mentor later. They stopped in front of an office. The Dean knocked and opened the door. "Excuse me, Dr. Cooper," he started. The professor stood up, "here's Rajesh Koothrappali; he's an exchange student from India and our biggest investment of this year". They both shook hands. "We would really appreciate it if he decided to join the University permanently, encourage him to stay," the Dean continued, with a smile that was supposed to be encouraging but was really just creepy and left them alone. "Do you have any other college you want to go to?" Professor Cooper asked him. "No, Dr. Cooper," Rajesh responded. "Welcome to the California Institute of Technology. Goodbye," Sheldon said, leaving the office to go to his class. X "Hey, speaking of Sheldon, where is he?" Penny asked, looking around. The boys shrugged, uninterested, and continued their talk about the past. She decided to go find him. He was in the restaurant's backyard, taking some fresh air. She hugged her coat closer to her body to keep herself warm and joined him. She greeted him and he replied, distracted, looking at the movement on the street. "I guess this is the part where you expect me to apologize for making you change your plans for supper…" she said, to break the silence between them. He looked at her. "Well, I'm not apologizing. I had a great night getting to know you all better. Now, when am I going to hear Dr. Sheldon Cooper's version of the history of the Fantastic Four?" She smiled sympathetically. She smiled sympathetically. He let out a sigh, knowing he had no other escape, even though he was completely offended by her comparison of them with the Fantastic Four. Who would be Invisible Woman in this particular scenario? And none of them were dating each other or were any kind of relative. He looked back at the street, the lights of passing cars blurring slightly. The memory surfaced not as a story he wanted to tell, but as the simple, unvarnished facts of that day. When he finally spoke, his tone was detached, as if reporting an experiment. X Sheldon Cooper looked at the time in his watch and hurried up, he not only had to take the schedule for the new semester; he still had to be presented to the new "investment of the year" student. He hated that party, a bunch of brainless teenagers receiving better treatment than the other, equally brainless teenagers only because they had come from the other side of the world. And having to teach these brainless teenagers wasn't very satisfying either. He was just thinking about that when a student - apparently being dumped by another student - stumbled into him. His day had just gotten worse. The day started with a freshman class, he moaned when he read it on the schedule pinned to the board in his office. He opened his suitcase on the table and organized his papers while waiting for the Dean to arrive with the exchange student. Rajesh Koothrappali, surprisingly, ended up being a little more interesting than the previous geniuses he had met over the years. He didn't seem to be threatened by Sheldon's attitude, which already earned him some points, although not enough for Sheldon to treat him with respect, but enough to, for instance, allow them to sit together at lunch and not get overly bothered by their attempts to purloin his new Flash Comic Book. After lunch, Sheldon Cooper went back to his office to continue his String Theory research for his second PhD, which was, lately, the only thing he honestly enjoyed doing in the University. "Dr. Cooper, do you have a moment?" the head of the department asked, entering his office. Sheldon rolled his eyes, already imagining what it was about, saved his work on the computer and looked at the man in front of him. "I'm coming from a reunion with some of your students and there was a topic that really concerned them…" he continued, carefully, "they said you were a little… unnecessarily rough with all of them". Sheldon raised his eyebrows. "I bed to differ, Dr. Wright, I only told them what they needed to hear, if anything, I was completely upfront and honest with them," Sheldon replied. "Dr. Cooper, it's not the first time this has happened and I see a pattern emerging, first when your mother was sick and now with your father's recent death," Dr. Wright said and Sheldon mentally scoffed him, "but we can't mix our personal life with our work, do you understand?" "Yes, Dr. Wright," Sheldon agreed, like he had the first time they had this conversation and absolutely nothing changed. It wouldn't be any different this time. "I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. This is your last warning, one more and we'll have to suspend your classes or even fire you," Dr. Wright finished, with a serious tone of voice. Sheldon knew he meant it this time, or he just didn't want to risk it. He reluctantly agreed and went back to his work. X "So this is why you got softer…" Penny thought out loud, Sheldon shrugged by her side, uncomfortable, "you got yelled at," she mocked, knowing this would drive him crazy. He opened his mouth to correct her. "Thanks for telling me. I guess this is it, right?" she said smiling, before he could start talking. He confirmed and they decided to go back inside and go home. The trip was quiet; the effects of the alcohol were out of Rajesh's system, and he was back to normal already, even Sheldon and Howard weren't talking, but this was because their bedtime was a few hours ago and Leonard was too nervous being effectively alone with Penny to try to start a conversation. "We've arrived, kids," Leonard announced, pulling over the car and waking up the three grown man on the back seat. They all yawned and rubbed their eyes. Penny couldn't help her smile from ear to ear. "Goodnight, guys," she said when they reached their floor. She grabbed her keys and opened the door to her apartment. "Happy anniversary!" They said farewell back to her and as she closed the door behind them Leonard, Rajesh and Howard looked at Sheldon. "No, she's not joining us every year," he frowned and finished the subject. They moaned, but eventually decided it was better this way. They could have a special dinner just for the anniversary of when they met her, only if they could remember it. Sheldon put on his day pajamas, got into bed and, before finally falling asleep, he thought about the last memory he had of the day he met his friends, a moment he hadn't shared with Penny. X "Hey, Professor Cooper," Leonard called when the first day was over and they were all going home. Sheldon looked around, "where are you going, Professor Cooper?" Leonard called again, now getting closer to him, followed by Rajesh and Howard. He was too surprised to formulate an answer for Leonard's inquiry. "Well, we're heading to the Comic Book store now, would you like to join us?" Leonard asked, starting to feel insecure about the professor's lack of response. Sheldon pondered about it for a moment. He didn't get why they were being so… nice to him, especially how he had treated them when they first met, it was almost like they wanted to be his friend, and no one ever wanted to be his friend, unless it was for some personal interest or they were part of his family. It felt oddly comforting, and he nodded without thinking. That day, he realized he preferred having friends to being alone, and deep inside he didn't think it would be too bad if Howard, Rajesh and Leonard remembered Penny had moved next door on September 24th.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591401	{"authors": ["Keiko_Noriko"], "language": "English", "title": "History of Everything"}
A day's in a hard work Percy groaned as he rubbed his crotch. Thinking about being the one who gets to see Dean after a day at hard work. The one who Dean took to bed. "Fuck" Percy sighed taking off his pants and boxers letting his dick spring out. He drolled on his hands and started jerking it. Thinking about being Dean being the perfect house wife. You see what brought this fantasy was none other then the one and only Wild Bill. The day of the assault he lied on his bed staring at his roof at his empty two story house. He didnt like thinking of being Bill being his wife. But Dean? That got him going just think about it. The thought of Dean and him. Him and Dean. The only man he honest to God had feelings for. Of course by any means he wasnt a fag. Gross. Percy fucking hated faggots. The ones that made him feel sick to his stomach. The ones that made him feel angry to think about. Dean wasnt a faggot. He didnt make Percy feel like he needed to puke. Or make him feel undeniable angre. No Dean made him feel like he was a feather floating. Made him feel happy just by smiling at him. Dean had made him a faggot. Percy felt disgusted with himself after he cummed. He had cummed thinking about his coworker being a housewife to him. A coworker who probably hates him. And yet. When he finished washing his hands and got done cleaning the evidence. Dean was their laughing with Brutal and Paul. "Percy! Guess what!" Percy tried his best to hide his emotion. "What Dean?" "My wife if pregnant with baby number three!" Dean said smiling. Percy froze for a second then let a small smile appear. "Congratulations Dean." And fucking Dean. The only man hell ever love. Looked at him with that fucking smile. "Thank you Percy." Before he turned back to Brutal and Paul. Talking about names. Percy was heartbroken walking outside to take a break. He watched as prisoners walked around doing nothing special. If only Dean was a girl. Percy thought bitterly.	A day's in a hard work Percy groaned as he rubbed his crotch. Thinking about being the one who gets to see Dean after a day at hard work. The one who Dean took to bed. "Fuck" Percy sighed taking off his pants and boxers letting his dick spring out. He drolled on his hands and started jerking it. Thinking about being Dean being the perfect house wife. You see what brought this fantasy was none other then the one and only Wild Bill. The day of the assault he lied on his bed staring at his roof at his empty two story house. He didnt like thinking of being Bill being his wife. But Dean? That got him going just think about it. The thought of Dean and him. Him and Dean. The only man he honest to God had feelings for. Of course by any means he wasnt a fag. Gross. Percy fucking hated faggots. The ones that made him feel sick to his stomach. The ones that made him feel angry to think about. Dean wasnt a faggot. He didnt make Percy feel like he needed to puke. Or make him feel undeniable angre. No Dean made him feel like he was a feather floating. Made him feel happy just by smiling at him. Dean had made him a faggot. Percy felt disgusted with himself after he cummed. He had cummed thinking about his coworker being a housewife to him. A coworker who probably hates him. And yet. When he finished washing his hands and got done cleaning the evidence. Dean was their laughing with Brutal and Paul. "Percy! Guess what!" Percy tried his best to hide his emotion. "What Dean?" "My wife if pregnant with baby number three!" Dean said smiling. Percy froze for a second then let a small smile appear. "Congratulations Dean." And fucking Dean. The only man hell ever love. Looked at him with that fucking smile. "Thank you Percy." Before he turned back to Brutal and Paul. Talking about names. Percy was heartbroken walking outside to take a break. He watched as prisoners walked around doing nothing special. If only Dean was a girl. Percy thought bitterly.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586661	{"authors": ["POKI_dokiKILLurself"], "language": "English", "title": "A day's in a hard work"}
Dorothy’s secret Dorothy was furious. This hadn’t developed at all in the way she had planned. The scheme had been simple enough, to waltz in at Skeldale, throw a few seductive glances at that easily fooled vet and then the problem would be solved forever. Her old pal from the WRNS would swallow the bait without question and do all the necessary work. Yes, there was a small concern that Aud’s crush on her boss would be an obstacle, but that was a risk Dorothy was willing to take. She had put on her sweetest smile and that glamorous look that she knew a countryside vet very seldom laid his eyes on. But from the moment she stepped into that hopelessly old fashioned house, she felt that there was something wrong. Glancing longingly and flirt by teaching him to throw darts hadn’t helped. And she felt Awful Aud (yes, that was one of the nicknames she had in the WRNS, when she wouldn’t allow the girls to go on leave, if they wanted to meet up with a bloke) standing behind them, glaring at their every move. So she had to come up with something else. Why not go with him on a farm call, pretending to be interested in his work and praise the beautiful countryside? He had looked at her from top to bottom when she asked. She was dressed up in her new green coat and a matching hat. And of course nylons (given to her by an American soldier. Let’s not go into that!) and high heels. She would match his fancy car, she figured. “I’m sorry, the Rover is at the workshop. But please, step right in. He opened the passenger door to an old clunker, dirty and looking quite dangerous. She could do nothing but step in. As the car started rolling with a jerk, she fell backwards. And didn’t that prick by the wheel chuckle?? They arrived to a sad looking old farm, everything about it was just depressing including the old bat that owned it. But she talked about the beauty of it all, caressed his ego, but not really noticing any effect of her actions. “Some things are different..” he said. Fuck that, she thought. They are different to me too. And as he walked ahead of her to the car, she climbed right into a big cowpat. It was really slippery and she fell on her knees in the wet soil. Alright, he helped her up, she had to give him that. Got the shoe and cleaned it. But she had the feeling that he was amused by the whole incident, even if he didn’t show it. She had booked a room at the inn, hoping not having to use it. But sadly there was no way of getting into Siegfried’s bed that first night, that was quite obvious. The next day, Christmas Eve, she would have to go on with her plan at that hopeless establishment called The Drover’s. A darts competition about a goose, that was so very much Awful Aud. Well, that was actually good, she would be so busy with the game that Dorothy would be able to work on Siegfried without her noticing. She found him at once, bought him a single malt to make him more conformable and stayed by his side. But the stupid man kept looking for Audrey. She had to take action. Just before Audrey’s last throw, she went up to her, smiled obligingly and said: “Aud, I hope you don’t mind if Siegfried and I sneak away for the rest of the day? We really need some time together on our own..” The poor girl’s smile went from happy to very stiff, she then turned around, threw the last dart and hit Bull’s eye. And rushed out of the pub. Good! Now all she had to do was… But where was the bloke? She couldn’t find him anywhere. As she stepped out of that gloomy pub, she found him. In the arms of her dowdy old friend. Kissing. Furious, she went back to the inn, collected her things, threw them all into her car and drove in a breakneck speed the fifteen miles to her sister. Little Donnie was asleep when she arrived, but Dorothy didn’t listen to her sister’s protests, she pulled the seven year old out of bed and ordered him to get dressed. Half an hour later she was on her way back to Darrowby, with the lad on the backseat. When she stormed into Skeldale there was some kind of family gathering going on. They were all in the sitting room, raising their glasses, Siegfried and Audrey with their arms around each other. Good. Then this would be so much more awkward for him. She took Donnie by the hand and stepped right into the circle. “This, Siegfried Farnon, is your son Donald. I have been taking care of him on my own the latest seven years. I think it’s about time you start sharing the responsibility!” A bomb couldn’t have made a bigger impact. The whole bunch of stupid people, that Audrey called her dear family, stared at her and the little ginger lad that, sadly, was her son. “But … how?! We never..” Siegfried stuttered and glanced at Audrey who had slipped out of his arms and gazed at him with a horrified look. “You don’t remember?? Eight years ago. On Christmas Eve. You kissed me out on the square. And then you went into the church, to her. But I waited for you, sneaked back into the house. We drank quite a lot of whiskey when	Dorothy’s secret Dorothy was furious. This hadn’t developed at all in the way she had planned. The scheme had been simple enough, to waltz in at Skeldale, throw a few seductive glances at that easily fooled vet and then the problem would be solved forever. Her old pal from the WRNS would swallow the bait without question and do all the necessary work. Yes, there was a small concern that Aud’s crush on her boss would be an obstacle, but that was a risk Dorothy was willing to take. She had put on her sweetest smile and that glamorous look that she knew a countryside vet very seldom laid his eyes on. But from the moment she stepped into that hopelessly old fashioned house, she felt that there was something wrong. Glancing longingly and flirt by teaching him to throw darts hadn’t helped. And she felt Awful Aud (yes, that was one of the nicknames she had in the WRNS, when she wouldn’t allow the girls to go on leave, if they wanted to meet up with a bloke) standing behind them, glaring at their every move. So she had to come up with something else. Why not go with him on a farm call, pretending to be interested in his work and praise the beautiful countryside? He had looked at her from top to bottom when she asked. She was dressed up in her new green coat and a matching hat. And of course nylons (given to her by an American soldier. Let’s not go into that!) and high heels. She would match his fancy car, she figured. “I’m sorry, the Rover is at the workshop. But please, step right in. He opened the passenger door to an old clunker, dirty and looking quite dangerous. She could do nothing but step in. As the car started rolling with a jerk, she fell backwards. And didn’t that prick by the wheel chuckle?? They arrived to a sad looking old farm, everything about it was just depressing including the old bat that owned it. But she talked about the beauty of it all, caressed his ego, but not really noticing any effect of her actions. “Some things are different..” he said. Fuck that, she thought. They are different to me too. And as he walked ahead of her to the car, she climbed right into a big cowpat. It was really slippery and she fell on her knees in the wet soil. Alright, he helped her up, she had to give him that. Got the shoe and cleaned it. But she had the feeling that he was amused by the whole incident, even if he didn’t show it. She had booked a room at the inn, hoping not having to use it. But sadly there was no way of getting into Siegfried’s bed that first night, that was quite obvious. The next day, Christmas Eve, she would have to go on with her plan at that hopeless establishment called The Drover’s. A darts competition about a goose, that was so very much Awful Aud. Well, that was actually good, she would be so busy with the game that Dorothy would be able to work on Siegfried without her noticing. She found him at once, bought him a single malt to make him more conformable and stayed by his side. But the stupid man kept looking for Audrey. She had to take action. Just before Audrey’s last throw, she went up to her, smiled obligingly and said: “Aud, I hope you don’t mind if Siegfried and I sneak away for the rest of the day? We really need some time together on our own..” The poor girl’s smile went from happy to very stiff, she then turned around, threw the last dart and hit Bull’s eye. And rushed out of the pub. Good! Now all she had to do was… But where was the bloke? She couldn’t find him anywhere. As she stepped out of that gloomy pub, she found him. In the arms of her dowdy old friend. Kissing. Furious, she went back to the inn, collected her things, threw them all into her car and drove in a breakneck speed the fifteen miles to her sister. Little Donnie was asleep when she arrived, but Dorothy didn’t listen to her sister’s protests, she pulled the seven year old out of bed and ordered him to get dressed. Half an hour later she was on her way back to Darrowby, with the lad on the backseat. When she stormed into Skeldale there was some kind of family gathering going on. They were all in the sitting room, raising their glasses, Siegfried and Audrey with their arms around each other. Good. Then this would be so much more awkward for him. She took Donnie by the hand and stepped right into the circle. “This, Siegfried Farnon, is your son Donald. I have been taking care of him on my own the latest seven years. I think it’s about time you start sharing the responsibility!” A bomb couldn’t have made a bigger impact. The whole bunch of stupid people, that Audrey called her dear family, stared at her and the little ginger lad that, sadly, was her son. “But … how?! We never..” Siegfried stuttered and glanced at Audrey who had slipped out of his arms and gazed at him with a horrified look. “You don’t remember?? Eight years ago. On Christmas Eve. You kissed me out on the square. And then you went into the church, to her. But I waited for you, sneaked back into the house. We drank quite a lot of whiskey when she had gone to bed. And then… it was beautiful, Siegfried! And you honestly don’t remember??” Audrey looked at him, tears were rolling down her cheeks. “No..” she said. “Oh yes” said Dorothy. “You were asleep on the other side of the wall. I’m surprised you didn’t hear us!” The silence was deafening until Siegfried cleared his throat and took a step forward. “Of course I’ll take full responsibility for… my son. What do you suggest?” Well, finally! She sighed with relief and prepared for the words she was there to say. “I want you to marry me. To give the boy his rightful name.” A falling needle would have caused a thunder. Siegfried cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, Dorothy, that is out of the question. I won’t marry you. I will of course pay monthly, school fees, clothes, whatever you need..” “Pay?? You think you can pay me off?? I have cared for him for eight years! Now it’s your turn! Good luck!” She let go of Donnie’s hand, stormed out and jumped into her car, floored it out of Darrowby like a maniac. Everything had gone wrong. The plan to marry Siegfried, stay around for a couple of months and then go back to Malta without without any boring husband, leaving Donnie in Audrey’s care, had gone into pieces. She had taken for granted that he would be as easy to pick as eight years ago. But apparently some things were different. And the difference was Awful Aud. She growled of anger. Never again would she put her foot in that godforsaken village Darrowby. But in the middle of the Skeldale sitting room was a small, ginger boy, with big tears slowly rolling down his cheeks. Christmas Day 1946 At six o’clock he couldn’t wait any longer. He carefully opened the door and peaked out in the hallway. Everyone was still asleep. The door to mum’s and dad’s bedroom was still closed. Also the door to the bedsit. To bad. He would have wanted Jimmy as his companion. But it didn’t matter. With great care he tiptoed down the stairs and into the sitting room. There were so so many presents under the tree. But the best of it all: on the mantle piece there were three stockings, bulging with – well, whatever might be inside. One for Rosie, one for Jimmy and one for him. He couldn’t remember ever having a Christmas stocking. Being shoved around to different relatives his entire life, without anyone really caring for him, his arrival at Skeldale house a year ago, had been like heaven opening its gates. Audrey had heard him. She kissed her sleeping husband on the forehead, put her dressing gown on and went downstairs. The ginger little head was the first thing she saw as she entered the sitting room. He was sitting on the floor with Dash beside him, pulling toys and sweets out of his stocking. The sight filled her heart with joy. He was her precious little boy, it didn’t matter that she hadn’t given birth to him. With the help of Dorothy’s sister they managed to find out what had happened. As it turned out, Dorothy had already been pregnant when she came to Skeldale in 1937. With a Scottish sailor she’d had one night with in Scarborough. She didn’t even know his name. So the idea had been to “make” Siegfried the father by seducing him. Since it didn’t work, she tried some other red headed blokes she knew. None of them swallowed the bait. So she went to Malta, had the baby and placed it with foster parents. When the war started, she sent the boy to the English countryside and had different relatives to take care of him. But when her sister became poorly, she decided to solve the problem once and for all. Or so she thought. Audrey sat down beside the boy on the floor. He looked up at her. “Mum, Santa’s sack must have been so full! There was so many things for me! And Jimmy’s and Rosie’s stockings are also full!” She stroke his dark red curls and smiled. To adopt this sweet lad was the best decision she and Siegfried had ever made. Well, apart from getting married, that is. “His sledge must have been full to the brim with things for all the children in Darrowby!” said Audrey. Donnie wrapped his arms around her neck and whispered in her ear: “Thank you, mum! I knew it was you and dad, not Santa! But let’s not tell Jimmy and Rosie!” “You right, sweetheart. Let’s not!” At that moment the rest of the house’s inhabitants were storming down the stairs, Jimmy first, then Rosie, Siegfried, Helen, James and at last Tristan. Donnie jumped up from the floor when he saw Siegfried. “Look dad, a horse! It was in my stocking! It’s really nice!! What shall I call it? Siegfried sat down on the sofa, took his lad on the lap. “I have an idea! Why don’t we call him Vonolel!” On a beach, many many miles away, Dorothy lay down on her sun bed after her morning dip in the sea. Christmas Day… thank god she was far away from England. And little Donnie was fine, she had received a letter from Audrey yesterday. Everything had worked out, even if it didn’t go as she had planned. She’d had to tell the truth about Donnie. But at that point Audrey had already taken the boy to her heart. She was happy, Siegfried was happy, the boy was happy. A fairytale ending indeed. And she could go on living her life as she wanted. She smiled at the young, very handsome man that served her the first drink of the day. It would be a nice Christmas Day, she figured.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586671	{"authors": ["Pinny_for_them"], "language": "English", "title": "Dorothy’s secret"}
People Watching In Aoyama, Amane Misa idly gnaws on her straw and waits. She knows Kira had to have seen her message by now, and she tamps down a huge grin at the reminder. Meeting the real Kira... she'd always wanted to thank him, it's true, and now that he could be wandering down this very street, just for her? She's getting shivers just thinking about her reality. How lucky she is... Though, come on, she's not shallow. Kira could be anyone, she knows this, but of course he's always gonna be dreamy and smart and perfect for her. There's no way that's gonna change. Call her a hopeless romantic, but she's always felt that love at first sight tugged on her heartstrings as soon as those burglars toppled over, dead and gone and getting exactly what they deserved. Even if Kira was a woman, she thinks she'd still swoon—how could she not, under such perfect ideals, such a sharp mind— —her gaze lands on a man, hunched over so far forward she thinks it'd be easy to push him over. Misa tilts her head, readjusts her sunglasses, frowns ever so slightly. His hair's wildly unkept, he's wearing the drabbest clothes she's ever seen on someone, and he's barely looked around, let alone up, this whole time. And what's up with his name? A single letter? Gosh, who even named this guy? The other guy next to him is nothing special, shooting concerned glances every which way, but he rings clear to her. Misa purses her lips. Wow. Who knew Kira would be so... unique? "You are disappointed?" Rem prods, at her shoulder as always. Misa snaps open her phone, pretend-dialing someone as she fiddles with her hair. "Hello?" She glances at Rem, grimacing slightly. Hey, after all that effort, she's allowed this much, right? "Um... no, not exactly. He's just—different. From what I expected. But different's not all that bad, right?" She's not sure who she's trying to convince. Urgh. He just looks so... Geez. That's pretty shallow of her, isn't it? Well, might as well go meet the guy. . For a person so set on following him, they certainly have a conspicuous way of going about their investigation. A day after his venture into Aoyama with Matsuda, who insisted on stopping not one but three times because he "needed to go to the bathroom" (quite the flagrant excuse to shop without him nearby), the Task Force receives another message from the second Kira. The entire tape is bathed in brashness and impulsivity, far too much for comfort. It seems he will need to find the second Kira much earlier than expected. How irritating. Yagami Light, of course, is the first one to make the distinction. "Aoyama? This means... Ryuga, Matsuda, are you absolutely sure you didn't see anyone?" "In all fairness," L starts, cutting off the beginnings of whatever Matsuda had thought to stammer out, "the second Kira could reasonably be anyone, and we observed no abnormal behavior. Furthermore, Aoyama could simply be a distinction meant to lead us astray. It's entirely possible that the second Kira had eyes in multiple previously-suggested locations." "Funny you say that," Light says, "because the only Task Force group that went out yesterday was you and Matsuda." Interesting. So he had convinced the police chief to discreetly shift their plans. A risky and foolhardy maneuver had he not been Kira; fitting for someone like him. Unfortunately for Light, the distinction hardly matters. "By multiple locations," L says, eyeing the monitor, "I was not excluding the Tokyo division. Besides, it is highly unlikely that the second Kira could have predicted that the original Kira, should they be among the Task Force, would bother going to Aoyama. In the end, all we can properly conclude is the following: the second Kira most likely has a method of tracking multiple people at once, and they were active in either Aoyama or Tokyo the previous day." Try as he might, Light is still far from capable of mastering a neutral expression. The dour look he shoots L as he trails out the door after his father is noted, and promptly ignored. Now, to the point: he's almost 90 percent certain that the second Kira does indeed have a method of tracking people, yet he doubts it to be cameras. He'd gone out of his way to take an inconvenient route to his apartment, up to and including doubling back with a mildly different appearance (a hat Matsuda insisted on purchasing) disguising most of his immediate recognizable features, yet he could not shake the pervasive feeling of a prickling on the back of his neck. A set of eyes, perhaps, or a shadow grown malignant. Given the existence of shinigami and the notebook he has stored away, he hardly has room to doubt the existence of youkai as well, yet… Truthfully, the notion is so absurd that he would rather not entertain it until absolutely necessary. The nature of his recent proclivity is an establishment of justice, of control; what good is this newfound ability if he has been caving to the whims of the supernatural this entire time? Yet the gaze on his back	People Watching In Aoyama, Amane Misa idly gnaws on her straw and waits. She knows Kira had to have seen her message by now, and she tamps down a huge grin at the reminder. Meeting the real Kira... she'd always wanted to thank him, it's true, and now that he could be wandering down this very street, just for her? She's getting shivers just thinking about her reality. How lucky she is... Though, come on, she's not shallow. Kira could be anyone, she knows this, but of course he's always gonna be dreamy and smart and perfect for her. There's no way that's gonna change. Call her a hopeless romantic, but she's always felt that love at first sight tugged on her heartstrings as soon as those burglars toppled over, dead and gone and getting exactly what they deserved. Even if Kira was a woman, she thinks she'd still swoon—how could she not, under such perfect ideals, such a sharp mind— —her gaze lands on a man, hunched over so far forward she thinks it'd be easy to push him over. Misa tilts her head, readjusts her sunglasses, frowns ever so slightly. His hair's wildly unkept, he's wearing the drabbest clothes she's ever seen on someone, and he's barely looked around, let alone up, this whole time. And what's up with his name? A single letter? Gosh, who even named this guy? The other guy next to him is nothing special, shooting concerned glances every which way, but he rings clear to her. Misa purses her lips. Wow. Who knew Kira would be so... unique? "You are disappointed?" Rem prods, at her shoulder as always. Misa snaps open her phone, pretend-dialing someone as she fiddles with her hair. "Hello?" She glances at Rem, grimacing slightly. Hey, after all that effort, she's allowed this much, right? "Um... no, not exactly. He's just—different. From what I expected. But different's not all that bad, right?" She's not sure who she's trying to convince. Urgh. He just looks so... Geez. That's pretty shallow of her, isn't it? Well, might as well go meet the guy. . For a person so set on following him, they certainly have a conspicuous way of going about their investigation. A day after his venture into Aoyama with Matsuda, who insisted on stopping not one but three times because he "needed to go to the bathroom" (quite the flagrant excuse to shop without him nearby), the Task Force receives another message from the second Kira. The entire tape is bathed in brashness and impulsivity, far too much for comfort. It seems he will need to find the second Kira much earlier than expected. How irritating. Yagami Light, of course, is the first one to make the distinction. "Aoyama? This means... Ryuga, Matsuda, are you absolutely sure you didn't see anyone?" "In all fairness," L starts, cutting off the beginnings of whatever Matsuda had thought to stammer out, "the second Kira could reasonably be anyone, and we observed no abnormal behavior. Furthermore, Aoyama could simply be a distinction meant to lead us astray. It's entirely possible that the second Kira had eyes in multiple previously-suggested locations." "Funny you say that," Light says, "because the only Task Force group that went out yesterday was you and Matsuda." Interesting. So he had convinced the police chief to discreetly shift their plans. A risky and foolhardy maneuver had he not been Kira; fitting for someone like him. Unfortunately for Light, the distinction hardly matters. "By multiple locations," L says, eyeing the monitor, "I was not excluding the Tokyo division. Besides, it is highly unlikely that the second Kira could have predicted that the original Kira, should they be among the Task Force, would bother going to Aoyama. In the end, all we can properly conclude is the following: the second Kira most likely has a method of tracking multiple people at once, and they were active in either Aoyama or Tokyo the previous day." Try as he might, Light is still far from capable of mastering a neutral expression. The dour look he shoots L as he trails out the door after his father is noted, and promptly ignored. Now, to the point: he's almost 90 percent certain that the second Kira does indeed have a method of tracking people, yet he doubts it to be cameras. He'd gone out of his way to take an inconvenient route to his apartment, up to and including doubling back with a mildly different appearance (a hat Matsuda insisted on purchasing) disguising most of his immediate recognizable features, yet he could not shake the pervasive feeling of a prickling on the back of his neck. A set of eyes, perhaps, or a shadow grown malignant. Given the existence of shinigami and the notebook he has stored away, he hardly has room to doubt the existence of youkai as well, yet… Truthfully, the notion is so absurd that he would rather not entertain it until absolutely necessary. The nature of his recent proclivity is an establishment of justice, of control; what good is this newfound ability if he has been caving to the whims of the supernatural this entire time? Yet the gaze on his back is too heavy to be a passing gut instinct, and Ryuk has not stopped snickering. By this point he can confidently eliminate the mafia or any errant Task Force members, and all surveillance cameras scattered around this area of the city have been accounted for. This must be something else, and it must be real. A knock on the door only confirms it. Amane Misa greeting him on the other end complicates matters. Ryuk sets an apple down and snorts. "Excuse me," she's saying, wide grin plastered on with far too much ferocity. So this is his stalker? Hm. Not quite. "I think the complex totally mixed up our packages, I got one with your apartment number on it. Haha, how silly, right?" Ah, yes, that does explain the arm hidden behind her back. Concealing a potential weapon and aiding her alibi; though paper-thin, she must have thought this through, but for what? "May I come in?" "Thank you, but there's no need for that." L holds out his hand, ignoring Ryuk’s steadily-rising cackles. Even if his suspicions are right, he cannot risk confirming hers. Amane frowns. "Oh, c'mon, of course there is!" She leans forward, dropping her voice. "I'm Amane Misa, y'know. Misa-Misa. I can't be out in a hotel hallway talking to a total stranger like this! Do you know what they'd say about me?" She is the second Kira. Her reckless introduction had already proven as such— "And besides, L Lawliet, I don't think you'd want what I know getting out, do you?" L has had ample training for how to handle a situation like this. Leaving Wammy's House behind never meant leaving the bell tolls behind, and yet, even as he locks his expression into something convincingly similar to his prior disinterest, he meets Amane's gaze and the abrupt sensation of being blatantly wrong-footed floods him with alarming malice. His eyes do not widen but hers do, curving into something far past delight to something seething and unrecognizable. His hand falls from its prior position, hanging limply at his side. His fingers fidget, but cannot find purchase. Honestly, how frustrating. He'd taken every possible precaution during his time in Japan, though more personal involvement had been unavoidable in a few instances. Even so, he cannot remember Amane ever being present in any cases he took prior to leaving, or in Los Angeles two years ago, nor did he need to take too many risks. Not even the Task Force or most in Wammy's House know his full name— —Ah. The shinigami eyes. Ryuk's laughter reaches a grating crescendo. "Well, then." L steps back, halfheartedly gesturing inward. "Come in." . Geez, for someone who fought her being here the whole way through, he's sure being chatty now! "And furthermore, we must ensure we aren't seen together without reason," L continues, sitting... really weirdly. She's kind of regretting pulling a chair over now. "If you or I were to be implicated, the other would, of course, follow." Oh, that's it. Does he think she's weak? Stupid? Useless? Sure, she got Rem to stalk him, but she played her own part in staying close enough to let Rem finish tailing him, and she mapped out all the cameras beforehand so she could avoid them, too! Honestly, she didn't just stroll up here without thinking, and she definitely didn't go all this way just to get turned away by Kira, come on! "Amane?" Misa shakes her head, rubbing her eyes. When her vision clears, L is still just... sitting like that. She's not even sure he's blinked. Wow. Unique doesn't even begin to cover it, huh? "Well, see, I'd agree, but there's just one problem with that." "And what would that be? I believe I outlined all the necessary steps to remain out of suspicion—" "The part where I just leave and do nothing to help you!" she bursts out, throwing her hands up. After trying to send her away, what was he expecting? A thank you? "As Kira, I trust in your beliefs more than anything. You killed the burglars that killed my parents and got away with it—" "Oh," she vaguely hears him mumble, "that cold case." "—and I have to repay you somehow. In any way," she adds, after seeing him raise his head, "except to stay out of it. I mean, I have another Death Note and the shinigami eyes! I can be useful! Actually, do you wanna see it?" "Misa," Rem says, low and warm and afraid. Business as usual, then. "Are you certain this is what you wish? You do not yet know this man." She knows Rem means well, and L might mean well if he's not sending her away because he thinks she's dumb or something, but gosh she's getting really sick of being talked down to. "I know that he's Kira, and that's enough for me!" "What?" L blinks. "Ah. A shinigami. You have one, too?" Misa nods eagerly, clasping her hands as she sits up. For the first time, he's looking at her with proper interest! Yes! Finally! "Yep! Her name's Rem. Here, you should be able to—there you go!" She unceremoniously dumps her Death Note into his arms, and his eyes flicker up to meet Rem's almost immediately. Misa smiles, carefully watching the minute shift backward, the slow set of his expression to something resembling defensiveness, before he opens his mouth. "...Hello, Rem." "Hello, L Lawliet," Rem booms in response. Her voice is a little more thunderous than usual. She'll have to tell her to tone it down. "This goes without saying, but if anything should happen to Misa, I will kill you." Oh, this talk. With a single warning not to scare him too badly, Misa lets Rem give her whole speech as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook—a regular one this time. The main thing L kept bringing up was that if they were seen together without reason, that'd spell disaster. Well then, obviously they’ll just have a reason. Ooh, and if it’s some special occasion where the task force or whatever can’t know it’s them, she's got about three hairdressers, two stylists, and one jeweler on speed-dial! If she pulls some strings, she could definitely do this right... "Amane, I believe Rem is done giving me a 'shovel-talk', as it were," L says, back to stirring the cup of tea he'd prepared in, if she's being real, a supernaturally-short time. Seriously, she blinked and the cup full of hot tea was just right in front of him. "Was there anything else you needed—" "Yep, a ton of stuff." Misa shoves the notebook his way, slamming her hands down to propel herself closer. It rattles the cup. Neither of them move to adjust it, so whatever. "If the problem's me as Misa-Misa, then we create an excuse for you to be around me! Hmm, maybe I could send in an anonymous tip to some sleazy tabloid press that Misa-Misa's out meeting with her secret boyfriend late at night? And if we really can’t be seen like this, then we can just wear disguises. Simple!" "Secret boyfriend, huh," he repeats flatly. "Don't give me that! What are you even going by, huh? Hideki Ryuga? I've met him, you need a better alias.” "I wasn't aware names were restricted to one individual." Misa shoots him a glare, but he continues on first. "I am quite aware that it makes it obvious that I'm going by an alias. Among other reasons, that sort of precaution would make me appear more competent in the eyes of the Task Force. 'Hideki Ryuga' will suffice for now." Urgh, but it's so boring—fine, fine, she concedes after he shoots her another look. "Well, fine. But if we're gonna be wearing disguises, you definitely need to be wearing something more—" she looks him up and down: plain shirt, plain pants, she can't see his shoes from here... she definitely has her work cut out for her "—up to date." He glances down at himself. It's totally just for show, so she's not sure why he bothers. "What's wrong with what I have now?" Yeah, she's not responding to that.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586681	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "People Watching"}
Playing with the Box December 11th Playing with the Box "One thing you really should know about me, Amy is that I am most definitely a mad man with a box! Want to play with it?" "Always, Raggedy-man! Show me what it can do!" The Doctor made some adjustments to the console and threw a lever. The TARDIS lurched into flight and abruptly stopped. "December 25th, year zero. Want to see the first Christmas?" "Sounds great, but I'm still in my pyjamas." "I wouldn't worry. How many children play shepherds in school nativities in their pyjamas?" Amy shrugged. "Good point. OK, let's see." She pulled the door open onto a very rainy landscape of rolling fields and mud. "Doesn't look like Bethlehem to me." The Doctor glanced at the console and looked back at Amy, sheepishly. "Ah, that's because it's still Leadworth. I forgot to move us in space. Still, first Christmas at Leadworh isn't bad." Amy shut the door to keep the rain out. "It always rains at Christmas. Can't you take me somewhere dry?" "How about a view of the Earth from space?" "Ooh, yes! I've always wanted a go at being weightless!" "Excellent, excellent! I'll take you into space, extend the force field so you can breathe out there and give you a go at floating." He began altering the controls. "Is this what your life's like then? Just playing with the box?" "Always playing with the box, Pond. Always just playing with the box!" He threw a lever and they took off again.	Playing with the Box December 11th Playing with the Box "One thing you really should know about me, Amy is that I am most definitely a mad man with a box! Want to play with it?" "Always, Raggedy-man! Show me what it can do!" The Doctor made some adjustments to the console and threw a lever. The TARDIS lurched into flight and abruptly stopped. "December 25th, year zero. Want to see the first Christmas?" "Sounds great, but I'm still in my pyjamas." "I wouldn't worry. How many children play shepherds in school nativities in their pyjamas?" Amy shrugged. "Good point. OK, let's see." She pulled the door open onto a very rainy landscape of rolling fields and mud. "Doesn't look like Bethlehem to me." The Doctor glanced at the console and looked back at Amy, sheepishly. "Ah, that's because it's still Leadworth. I forgot to move us in space. Still, first Christmas at Leadworh isn't bad." Amy shut the door to keep the rain out. "It always rains at Christmas. Can't you take me somewhere dry?" "How about a view of the Earth from space?" "Ooh, yes! I've always wanted a go at being weightless!" "Excellent, excellent! I'll take you into space, extend the force field so you can breathe out there and give you a go at floating." He began altering the controls. "Is this what your life's like then? Just playing with the box?" "Always playing with the box, Pond. Always just playing with the box!" He threw a lever and they took off again.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586701	{"authors": ["mindfogohbrilliant"], "language": "English", "title": "Playing with the Box"}
A Tudor's Fate Main character/s: HAYEMI TUDOR - Princess of England, second child, 15 years old, studious, loves ribbons HARRIS TUDOR – Crown Prince of England, eldest child, 18 years old; intelligent, volatile, struggles with control and responsibility ----- HARLAN TUDOR – King of England, father of Hayemi and Harris, early 40s; calculating, strategic, emotionally distant; values power over sentiment, travels a lot WESLEY HART - Childhood friend of Hayemi and Harris, the eldest son of the current duke, 18 years old, disciplined, earnest, guilt-driven; devoted to Hayemi in ways he doesn’t fully understand. WINSTON HART - illegitimate (?) child of the current duke, Wesley's half brother, 17 years old, sharp witted, hides seriousness behind reckless humor, has a close relationship with Hayemi ever since they met at the academy LOUIS SEVERUS - Son of a Marquis, 16 years old; quiet, thoughtful, politically woke CAELUS EPIAN - French step-son to a Viscount, 15 years old; shy, soft-hearted, easily overwhelmed; hopeless romantic ELEANOR FITZALAN - Daughter of a Marquis, 15 years old, graceful, perceptive, socially adept; knows more than she speaks	A Tudor's Fate Main character/s: HAYEMI TUDOR - Princess of England, second child, 15 years old, studious, loves ribbons HARRIS TUDOR – Crown Prince of England, eldest child, 18 years old; intelligent, volatile, struggles with control and responsibility ----- HARLAN TUDOR – King of England, father of Hayemi and Harris, early 40s; calculating, strategic, emotionally distant; values power over sentiment, travels a lot WESLEY HART - Childhood friend of Hayemi and Harris, the eldest son of the current duke, 18 years old, disciplined, earnest, guilt-driven; devoted to Hayemi in ways he doesn’t fully understand. WINSTON HART - illegitimate (?) child of the current duke, Wesley's half brother, 17 years old, sharp witted, hides seriousness behind reckless humor, has a close relationship with Hayemi ever since they met at the academy LOUIS SEVERUS - Son of a Marquis, 16 years old; quiet, thoughtful, politically woke CAELUS EPIAN - French step-son to a Viscount, 15 years old; shy, soft-hearted, easily overwhelmed; hopeless romantic ELEANOR FITZALAN - Daughter of a Marquis, 15 years old, graceful, perceptive, socially adept; knows more than she speaks	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586761?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["denny_006"], "language": "English", "title": "A Tudor's Fate"}
Viva Las Greedvas Vox sprinted into his partners office excitment radiating through his body. Valentino hardly looked up from what he was doing. Counting bills and bringing them close to his face trying to see which ones were frauds. His hookers just brought in payday and he needed to make sure they were collecting right. "You won't believe what i just got us!" "A new bitch to replace the sow i tore apart? Hey, do you think Mammon looks skinny on this bill?" Vox peeks over Vals shoulder to glance at the bill. "What? No. Since when do I pick you up whores?" "You picked me up ♡" Val smirked. Looking up at the box headed Tv set looming over him. Teal claws snapped infront of his pink tinted glasses. "Focus, numbnuts. I got us a pass to go to one of the other rings-" Val cut him off shoving Vox to take the passes he was flaunting. Looking them over his imagination going wild at the possibilites. "We can go to Lust!! Oh i cant wait to see all the sex toys and aphrodisacs they make! Gasp! Do you think i could find a way to meet Asmodeus?!" Vox rubbed his head deadpanned at the other geeking out over sex. "Uh. No. I already set up our destination. Its set for Greed." The horny moth demon immediatly became unintrested. Dropping the passes. Vox dove for the passes not wanting them to even touch the shag carpet. A steillto heel stabs into his back. Valentino huffing anf kicking his partner on the ground, his tv face staticing flipping between his face and tv stations. "Stupido! You get me a once in a lifetime chance and you ruin it for that?!" Electricty span from voc up Vals legs making the assailant squeak and yelp in pain. The television demon groans in pain rising up. Frustration fueling him. He pins the taller man against the desk beside them. "Think. Dick brain. What is in Greed?" "Bootleg LuluWorld and a concert venue- oh! Art we starting a band? I call being on the guitar. I am sexy guitar player." Vox leans up closer resuming the moths attention to his shining screen. "Casinos, Val. Big Casinos. And the banks. And Hells Mint." He grabs a fraudulent bill waving it to make his point. "Which is where the printing plates are kept." "Oh! Amorcito! Thats more like it!" His upper set of arms cup the sides of Voxs box head, kissing him. The static hum of Voxs screen maming him feel fuzzy already. When they break off he rushes across the room. "I need to make sure my wardrobe is perfect! What do you think? Black dress and gold gun? Or black gun with gold dress?" "I wouldnt get too accustomed to what you can wear now. We still can't go to Greed as Sinners. Luckily i found someone who brewed up a way for us to become Hellborns." Out of his suit jacket he pulls out two vials, the ruby red liquid inside had swirls of black floating through the concoction. He downs the one vial. From his neck prominate gills break through his growning neck, he face going from rectangle shape to a stout triangular like a shark. His antenna spreading out to turn into a pair of horns. From his back end a thick shark tail bursts and flops own, swishing slowly. Vox had gone from the Television demon into a Bullshark hellborn. His tail flipped again Voxs clawed hands moving back to touch it. A huge grin spread across his face. Trying to contain his enthusiam was provig to be hard. He ultimatley couldnt control it whipping his head around to try and see his new appendage. A flash of a disposable camera went unnoticed as Valentino snuck it back into his fluffy clevage. Finally composing himself Vox holds out the other vial to Val. "Your turn, Val." He made a face at the offensive potion before looking at Vox's excited new form. "I turn into a shark. I'm shooting you. " He downs the shot in one gulp. His lower set of limbs shoot inside him, his shedding. Antenna fusing together to make a pair of black horns. Magnificent floor length velvet wings morph shorter and turn to leather on his back, a heart cut out on the bottom and black hearts now speckling them. His soft body turning to bright pink skin save for the top of his head now bleach blonde. A thin black tail whipping out from his rear. "A succubus huh? Okay i can rock this." Val spun around on his heel. He began digging through his closet for what in his closet better suited this new body. The pair strode their way to Hells elevator. Already sensing victory making it into Imp city passing the barrier that held Sinners in their confinments. They handed off thier vouchers and descended in the elevator. Sucessfully making it to Greed. Vox was wearing a blue polo shirt with kahkis pants. Around his waist a dark blue fanny pack sits. Beside him Val looked around in awe of the new sights. He wore a pair of scaticly short shorts, and a crop top that showed off his pecs. Covering his nipples from the cold air was a giant red and black puffy coat, the collar lined with white fur. A white bucket hat and flip flops helping make him look to be in 'vacation' mode. "Okay the potion and passes last for	Viva Las Greedvas Vox sprinted into his partners office excitment radiating through his body. Valentino hardly looked up from what he was doing. Counting bills and bringing them close to his face trying to see which ones were frauds. His hookers just brought in payday and he needed to make sure they were collecting right. "You won't believe what i just got us!" "A new bitch to replace the sow i tore apart? Hey, do you think Mammon looks skinny on this bill?" Vox peeks over Vals shoulder to glance at the bill. "What? No. Since when do I pick you up whores?" "You picked me up ♡" Val smirked. Looking up at the box headed Tv set looming over him. Teal claws snapped infront of his pink tinted glasses. "Focus, numbnuts. I got us a pass to go to one of the other rings-" Val cut him off shoving Vox to take the passes he was flaunting. Looking them over his imagination going wild at the possibilites. "We can go to Lust!! Oh i cant wait to see all the sex toys and aphrodisacs they make! Gasp! Do you think i could find a way to meet Asmodeus?!" Vox rubbed his head deadpanned at the other geeking out over sex. "Uh. No. I already set up our destination. Its set for Greed." The horny moth demon immediatly became unintrested. Dropping the passes. Vox dove for the passes not wanting them to even touch the shag carpet. A steillto heel stabs into his back. Valentino huffing anf kicking his partner on the ground, his tv face staticing flipping between his face and tv stations. "Stupido! You get me a once in a lifetime chance and you ruin it for that?!" Electricty span from voc up Vals legs making the assailant squeak and yelp in pain. The television demon groans in pain rising up. Frustration fueling him. He pins the taller man against the desk beside them. "Think. Dick brain. What is in Greed?" "Bootleg LuluWorld and a concert venue- oh! Art we starting a band? I call being on the guitar. I am sexy guitar player." Vox leans up closer resuming the moths attention to his shining screen. "Casinos, Val. Big Casinos. And the banks. And Hells Mint." He grabs a fraudulent bill waving it to make his point. "Which is where the printing plates are kept." "Oh! Amorcito! Thats more like it!" His upper set of arms cup the sides of Voxs box head, kissing him. The static hum of Voxs screen maming him feel fuzzy already. When they break off he rushes across the room. "I need to make sure my wardrobe is perfect! What do you think? Black dress and gold gun? Or black gun with gold dress?" "I wouldnt get too accustomed to what you can wear now. We still can't go to Greed as Sinners. Luckily i found someone who brewed up a way for us to become Hellborns." Out of his suit jacket he pulls out two vials, the ruby red liquid inside had swirls of black floating through the concoction. He downs the one vial. From his neck prominate gills break through his growning neck, he face going from rectangle shape to a stout triangular like a shark. His antenna spreading out to turn into a pair of horns. From his back end a thick shark tail bursts and flops own, swishing slowly. Vox had gone from the Television demon into a Bullshark hellborn. His tail flipped again Voxs clawed hands moving back to touch it. A huge grin spread across his face. Trying to contain his enthusiam was provig to be hard. He ultimatley couldnt control it whipping his head around to try and see his new appendage. A flash of a disposable camera went unnoticed as Valentino snuck it back into his fluffy clevage. Finally composing himself Vox holds out the other vial to Val. "Your turn, Val." He made a face at the offensive potion before looking at Vox's excited new form. "I turn into a shark. I'm shooting you. " He downs the shot in one gulp. His lower set of limbs shoot inside him, his shedding. Antenna fusing together to make a pair of black horns. Magnificent floor length velvet wings morph shorter and turn to leather on his back, a heart cut out on the bottom and black hearts now speckling them. His soft body turning to bright pink skin save for the top of his head now bleach blonde. A thin black tail whipping out from his rear. "A succubus huh? Okay i can rock this." Val spun around on his heel. He began digging through his closet for what in his closet better suited this new body. The pair strode their way to Hells elevator. Already sensing victory making it into Imp city passing the barrier that held Sinners in their confinments. They handed off thier vouchers and descended in the elevator. Sucessfully making it to Greed. Vox was wearing a blue polo shirt with kahkis pants. Around his waist a dark blue fanny pack sits. Beside him Val looked around in awe of the new sights. He wore a pair of scaticly short shorts, and a crop top that showed off his pecs. Covering his nipples from the cold air was a giant red and black puffy coat, the collar lined with white fur. A white bucket hat and flip flops helping make him look to be in 'vacation' mode. "Okay the potion and passes last for three days. So we need to make sure we are back in the pride ring. And back in the entertainment district by monday night. You got that Val? Val?" He looked around at the empty space beside him. Where Valentino was supposed to be. Eventually his trianvle pupils caught him. Off across the street flirting with some big hellhounds. Hot air huffed from his nostrils as he stomped over yanking Val by the tail away from the pair. "Focus, dick brains!" "I am focusing! Those two big streaks happen to have a friend who guars for the mint, tch. Thinking i'm useless." Val crosses his arms huffing himself at the lack of confidence vox had in him. "You have a reputation." Vox mutters stuffing his hands in his pockets. Vals eyes flick down than bend over stroking Vox's new chin with one hand. His other hand easily swiping a shot off a female imps tray who is walking the strip selling drinks on the streets. "Voxxy, look around. These hellborns are bored, broke, and looking to get lucky ♡. I am the center of lady luck. So let me take lead, and when we get inside the casinos. We can switch positions." He downs the shot keeping it in his mouth as he kisses vox, pouring the liquid into him. When they break off, blush dusts voxs new cheeks. "Your getting very comfortable kissing me like that." He growls, his crawled hand wrapping around Vals waist. It restng perfectly on his hip bone. "Is that a complaint i hear?" The Imp girl rounded back their way offering shots again. Vox hands her some bills and they drink another shot each. Vox groaned. His head was throbbing. Sitting up from the large unfamilar bed he looked around. It was a enormous hotel room now trashed. There was trash, broken bottles and a woodencross leaning on a wall. An imp clad in leather letting himself down off it and scurring out the room. "What the hell?" Panic jolts him to focus. What time was it?! What day?! He scrambles to look at the clock at the bedside. 8am Monday. "Fuck!" He goes to scramble out the bed. How the hell did they lose the entire trip?! His memories a haze of drinks and some sex. The person still in the bed covered by a pile of blankets shifted. "Now where the fuck is Val-" His heart stopped at the glint on his person that surprised him. A gold band. On his right hand. A pillow gets lobbed hitting his back. Val sits up still grouchy and sleepy. On his chest a gold chain now connects his nipples, dried blood flecked around his heart shaped nipples. The hand that threw the pillow also donning a gold ring. "I'm going to be sick" Connecting the dots, vox said. "Throw up somewhere else. Im still sleepy." Whined val flopping back onto the bed. "No! Val!" Ignoring the elephant blaring to the talled about the other matter needed to be addressed now. Climbing back on the bed he shakes the inccubi's shoulder t better wake him. "We need to get back to the Pride ring! I am not ready to face, Lucifer, or Satan if we don't get there in time!!" "Already monday? I havent had a bender this good in years" "VAL. VA MOO. NOES." Valentino smacked vox on his shark nose. "Don't do that." Thr two scrambled down the hotel to the valet where a small fiat is pulled up for them. Shrugging Vox gets in the drivers seat speeding down having Val dig in the glove box for a map of the ring. "Do you even remeber anything?" He asked his eyes glancing at the gold ring shining against the black leather of the steering wheel. Val shrugs, not a worry. He ditched the search for a map to dig around in the backseat. "I sort of remember hitting a jackpot on craps at a casino." "No way you did that. Everyone knows the dice are loaded at casinos!" "I'm tell you i did it!" Val elbows the back of Vox's seat. Finding something on the floor of the baskseat. When he looks up his body going from lax to serious. "Voxxy. Speed up." "What? I can't its about to turn into traffic" cursing in spanish Val yoinks the drivers seat back. Climbing into the shark demons lap. His foot slamming on the gas and taking over the wheel. "Fucking hell of a time to not have four arms." Vox was protesting under him as Vals erratic driving threw them left and right. Another left turn and bullets come flying breaking off their tail light. Vox swerves his head to look out the back window at who was firing at them. A row of black cars are chasing. At the head is an Imp with white hair a fedora pressed on his head. The white scars on his right eye standing out. "Who the hell are they?!" "I don't know. But between me and you. I think you are the one who pissed them off." Another spin of the wheel. Vox palming the backseat for one of Vals guns. He suceeds and shoots out the back window trying a shot for the chasers behind them. "Val, i can't shoot this thing." "Useless fucking man. I swear to god!" They switch once more val handing vox his glasses. "My eyes arent as bad like this. You break those you're buying me twenty pairs to replace them. " "Yes, 'Tino." Vox replies puttint the pink shades on his face to keep them safe. Val stands up through the sunroof. Hand steading his magnum pistol. Sniping with each shot with ease. Doing this with other his glasses was a foriegn experiance. He had become accustomed to the pink hue, accenting each shot he took. Seeing everything in bright lights and dull greens didn't cut it for the atmosphere. The car slides up the steps to the building hpsting the elevator. The two scrambling out, Val empting out another 6 shots into one of the vehicles. One of the shots from the imp pinging off cracking Vals glasses. Vox and Val managed to get on the next ride back up to pride. When they stepped out walking back into familar territory laughes erupted from the two. Their bodies were slowly returning to normal. Vox handed Val back his cracked glasses. "Twenty of them right?" "Custom. I want them to be heart shaped. With real gold. Are you wearing a ring?" "..oh. yeah. I guess we stole some jewelry from that guy." He quickly takes the ring off and pockets it. His eyes flickering to the matching one on Vals hand. "Speaking of! I dont think this was a total lose." Val pulls his purse up, it was a large pink tote with a gold chain strap. He opened the contents showing it to vox. An addtional gun and ammo sit near the bottom, ontop of that stacks of bills than a set of metal plates. "Is that?" "5 mammon dollar printing plates." Vox hooted in the sucess kissing Val. "Its a start!" Val smiles softly hefting the purse on his shoulder. Starting the walk home with Vox. "Hey im hungry. We should get some food before we go to the motel."	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586721	{"authors": ["BonBon500"], "language": "English", "title": "Viva Las Greedvas"}
I Wanna Start From The Top [S]- -> Be Dave It felt like any typical day, but the air felt heavier than usual; it must be that Bro is going to ask him to the rooftop later that afternoon. You sigh and drag yourself to the kitchen to get yourself cereal. The cold blast on this decaying day from the fridge gives you some glimpse of hope that, maybe, you might win for once. You grab the cereal box and the milk carton as you observe the rest of the fridge. All that is left are a couple of Jell-O cups and about five slices of white bread. You need to work extra hard over the next few days. 'God, I work hard enough already' is what you think to yourself as you slam the door and turn to grab a bowl, the kind of bowl with the straw so you did not have to make a mess of your shirt, makes you remeber the good days when you could barely hold that damn sword and actually laugh when you played with that puppet he always walks around with. Pouring the cereal makes you realize he might wake up, but it abruptly ends as it seems the cereal was out too. You barely got anything out of it, but you suck it up and pour a little bit of milk before shoving it back in the fridge in disappointment. You sink to the floor and eat your cereal, savoring every bit while you still can. Reminiscing in the thoughts of your childhood, eating out of this shitty plastic bowl, you turn your head to the side and see the sneakers of a man and the long orange legs of a puppet. You look up and see the same four motions of Bro's hand, at him, at you, behind you, and up. He disappears before you can even get up by yourself. You let a heavy huff come out as you stand, and drag your feet to your room to grab your sword. How long have you been doing this? How long have these sharp scars been popping up? How long has it been since it was only plastic hitting? How long has it been since you tried winning? You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Before you know it, you're on the rooftop and in fighting position. You stare daggers in your brother's direction, determined to win. You do not know what consequences will be, but it will be worth it. The breeze is just right on this Texan day, with the sun covered by large, soft clouds. For the first time in years, you actually don't feel nauseous from the fact that your brother is at it again. CLING- he's already started, you begin methodically swishing your sword to counter his moves. Sweat drips down your face as if it were pouring; you both counter, and swords go flying out of your hands. This escalated quickly, with punches thrown at each other as if there was no tomorrow. Tempers flare hotter than the concrete beneath your feet. He lunges forward, the puppet dangling uselessly. You knock him over and straddle him on his chest grabbing at his shirt and punching right in the face, his shades fly off his face and he groans. The sunlight comes out and as he tries to open his eyes he pushes you off, sending you flying back like at least a foot. He sits up agitated and try’s to find his glasses, he grabs them but immediately crumbles into his hand, he throws the discarded glasses onto the floor and he gets up, covering his eyes with his fingers. You stand and try walking over but he uses the hand that’s occupied with the puppet to motion you to stay back. “Fuck kid uncalled for, you really fucked up, I can barely see straight now." He turns away, keeping his head low as he takes slow steps to the exit door. “You know i have sensitive eyes, HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU?” you step back as his voice raises. “I’m sorry.. but you are the one who starts these,” you say, voice wavering as guilt starts to burn in your chest. “I’m trying to man you up yet look at you, haven’t even grow a tiny bit of muscle mass… and not an ounce of respect..” He slams the door on you, great.. Just great, you won but at what cost, he’s going to be petty all day long. It sucks that he’s so inconsistent with you. Watching the clouds under your shades as you take a seat on an AC unit, the harsh wind drowning out all the other noise. You hate this place, really it’s annoying to have an abusive brother who can’t even feed you. He talks as much shit as the shit that comes out of your ass from only eating apples, he says they’re good for you cause they are fruit. Apples tend to blister your lips after a while and the pain from the acid doesn’t hurt as much as the scars he gives you. Honestly you’re glad he’s taught you a few things, he taught you how to defend yourself whether it’s a fist fight or a sword fight, he taught you how to sew stitches on yourself and he damn sex puppets, seriously it’s disgusting but it pays the bills. Which isn't saying much considering the kind of rent slumlords charge in this city when they have tenants desperate enough to accept anything. But sometimes it feels like you're never going to escape this cycle of survival, and even if you do, where will you go, who will take you in? Rose couldn’t cause her moms	I Wanna Start From The Top [S]- -> Be Dave It felt like any typical day, but the air felt heavier than usual; it must be that Bro is going to ask him to the rooftop later that afternoon. You sigh and drag yourself to the kitchen to get yourself cereal. The cold blast on this decaying day from the fridge gives you some glimpse of hope that, maybe, you might win for once. You grab the cereal box and the milk carton as you observe the rest of the fridge. All that is left are a couple of Jell-O cups and about five slices of white bread. You need to work extra hard over the next few days. 'God, I work hard enough already' is what you think to yourself as you slam the door and turn to grab a bowl, the kind of bowl with the straw so you did not have to make a mess of your shirt, makes you remeber the good days when you could barely hold that damn sword and actually laugh when you played with that puppet he always walks around with. Pouring the cereal makes you realize he might wake up, but it abruptly ends as it seems the cereal was out too. You barely got anything out of it, but you suck it up and pour a little bit of milk before shoving it back in the fridge in disappointment. You sink to the floor and eat your cereal, savoring every bit while you still can. Reminiscing in the thoughts of your childhood, eating out of this shitty plastic bowl, you turn your head to the side and see the sneakers of a man and the long orange legs of a puppet. You look up and see the same four motions of Bro's hand, at him, at you, behind you, and up. He disappears before you can even get up by yourself. You let a heavy huff come out as you stand, and drag your feet to your room to grab your sword. How long have you been doing this? How long have these sharp scars been popping up? How long has it been since it was only plastic hitting? How long has it been since you tried winning? You close your eyes and take a deep breath. Before you know it, you're on the rooftop and in fighting position. You stare daggers in your brother's direction, determined to win. You do not know what consequences will be, but it will be worth it. The breeze is just right on this Texan day, with the sun covered by large, soft clouds. For the first time in years, you actually don't feel nauseous from the fact that your brother is at it again. CLING- he's already started, you begin methodically swishing your sword to counter his moves. Sweat drips down your face as if it were pouring; you both counter, and swords go flying out of your hands. This escalated quickly, with punches thrown at each other as if there was no tomorrow. Tempers flare hotter than the concrete beneath your feet. He lunges forward, the puppet dangling uselessly. You knock him over and straddle him on his chest grabbing at his shirt and punching right in the face, his shades fly off his face and he groans. The sunlight comes out and as he tries to open his eyes he pushes you off, sending you flying back like at least a foot. He sits up agitated and try’s to find his glasses, he grabs them but immediately crumbles into his hand, he throws the discarded glasses onto the floor and he gets up, covering his eyes with his fingers. You stand and try walking over but he uses the hand that’s occupied with the puppet to motion you to stay back. “Fuck kid uncalled for, you really fucked up, I can barely see straight now." He turns away, keeping his head low as he takes slow steps to the exit door. “You know i have sensitive eyes, HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU?” you step back as his voice raises. “I’m sorry.. but you are the one who starts these,” you say, voice wavering as guilt starts to burn in your chest. “I’m trying to man you up yet look at you, haven’t even grow a tiny bit of muscle mass… and not an ounce of respect..” He slams the door on you, great.. Just great, you won but at what cost, he’s going to be petty all day long. It sucks that he’s so inconsistent with you. Watching the clouds under your shades as you take a seat on an AC unit, the harsh wind drowning out all the other noise. You hate this place, really it’s annoying to have an abusive brother who can’t even feed you. He talks as much shit as the shit that comes out of your ass from only eating apples, he says they’re good for you cause they are fruit. Apples tend to blister your lips after a while and the pain from the acid doesn’t hurt as much as the scars he gives you. Honestly you’re glad he’s taught you a few things, he taught you how to defend yourself whether it’s a fist fight or a sword fight, he taught you how to sew stitches on yourself and he damn sex puppets, seriously it’s disgusting but it pays the bills. Which isn't saying much considering the kind of rent slumlords charge in this city when they have tenants desperate enough to accept anything. But sometimes it feels like you're never going to escape this cycle of survival, and even if you do, where will you go, who will take you in? Rose couldn’t cause her moms an alcoholic, not Jade cause she lives on an island and she lives alone so maybe you’d get into a weird situation where like she crosses a boundary and then you can’t leave the island. John could probably take you in, his dad’s chill and says he lives in Riverton..? You think, you should probably check your chats again. You let that last gust of wind help you get off the AC unit and begin heading for the stairs. Suddenly, your phone vibrates with a new message from John, the preview popping up. EB: hey TG! TG: yo EB, can ask you a question EB: anything buddy TG: so hypothetically, if i were to “visit” you, like road trip, totally cruising on down main street, feeling relax and feeling good, could i know what city and or state you live in. EB: uh, Riverton.. EB: i told you this a week ago TG: well you know when a young producer got beats flowing in and out of him sometimes locations ain’t as important as they seem EB: dave is there something on your mind that you wanna talk about? TG: . TG: i’ll talk to you in a second You open the door to the apartment and here no grumble or groan or moan from your brother inside, which feels unusual enough to make you pause halfway through the doorway, heart pounding at the sudden silence in your own home. A drop from the sink is heard and you snap your neck towards the kitchen and see an unfamiliar note on the fridge, you approach it slowly and take it into your now sweating hands, reading- Scrawled in messy handwriting at the top, it simply says: "Don't look for me," which makes your stomach flip as an icy dread creeps over you because your brother never writes notes, let alone leaves without a word about where he's going or if he'll return. You start to panic but almost relieved because maybe your fantasy of living with John and doing awesome bro stuff might come true. You pull out your phone and begin to pester him again. TG: yo i’m back want the radical good news or the bad news? EB: well wouldn’t the good news lead to bad news..? TG: i’ll just tell you the good news first and that is that we could probably meet if i everything goes perfectly according to plan EB: what EB: what happened? TG: that’s where the bad news comes in, so for context TG: i was fighting with bro as per any usual day goes and i was in the zone TG: im talking like one of your shitty action packed fight scenes but with a better budget EB: my movies are not trash! TG: don’t lie to yourself TG: anyways like i was saying TG: totes in the zone and then bam we start fist fighting and boom his glasses fly off and crack TG: he gets so mad and starts being a hypocrite TG: then once i finally came down to apologize to this prick he leaves a note saying “Don’t go find me” or whatever it says cause his hand writing is atrocious EB: dave, do you know how bad that sounds? TG: yeah that’s why it’s the bad news EB: i mean seriously you’re alone in the house like what is there in the fridge TG: lemme check TG: oh woah and he took the food that is absolutely fantastic EB: oh my gog dude you need to call CPS TG: but what if i don’t and i maybe TG: live with you TG: not in like a squatter way more in like a TG: bro way EB: i don’t think my dad will allow this dude TG: aw you gotta be shitting me, my paycheck doesn’t even come in until next week, what if he’s not back by then EB: well then you have to go report him for being a missing person TG: you know i don’t even like him that much what if i just find a way on how to make myself disappear from his life EB: dave you aren’t gonna TG: no john im not going to kill myself TG: im trying to convince your brilliant mind to come up with a plan on how to get me out of here EB: well where are you TG: uh dallas texas EB: that’s not a lot to go off of but uhm give me a minute EB: that’s about a 18 hour drive to my town if we’re just going based off whatever maps is giving me EB: and oh look at that it also gives me ones for trains TG: dude your about to derail my train of thought TG: bars EB: that was not bars but ok EB: i mean.. i can beg my dad to help you out EB: i’ll do whatever i can to help, i never knew your home environment was this bad TG: it’s ok bro ill talk to you later i guess	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591396/chapters/197669891	{"authors": ["luiuex"], "language": "English", "title": "I Wanna Start From The Top"}
well-fed devils and famished saints Julie ━━━━༻❁༺━━━━ There was something peaceful about death, when Julie imagined it. For a time, she'd been fascinated by it. Granted, this had been long ago; her mother had performed in the opera for many years, and Julie had often been there to watch in the wings. Her mother had found a niche in those stories that toed the line between intrigue and idolatry of that dark oblivion that awaited them all. To Julie, it hadn't been a frightening thing; just a place that would one day call her home. She had been young, she supposed, when her father had died. Not young enough, of course. How different her life might had been had she still entirely been a child. But she'd been old enough—still an adolescent, but cognisant enough to be an adequate scapegoat for blame that wasn't hers—for him to almost ruin her life. His lies had almost had her sent to an asylum, like so many other inconvenient women. That had scared her, more than death. She'd heard some stories of what awaited there. It had none of that gentle nothingness, that unthreatening lack of sentience. So she'd shed no tears when he'd died. And when Verso had lied as he had—told her that her memory deceived her, that she misremembered, misunderstood, as though she could not trust her own eyes or mind—she'd seen the ghost of her father's face, heard the echo of his words. She'd had no power, back then. Things were different now. And the others had seen, too—had doubted themselves until she'd confided what she swore she'd seen in them. Had agreed that something had to be done. Verso had his lies. She had her walls. They had both snapped them firmly into place. It had all happened so fast, she didn't have time to doubt. She'd hoped she could outrun it; have this all over, all concluded and neatly wrapped away, before it ever caught up with her. But then, of course, it did. It all seemed monstrous, suddenly, what they had been doing to the man she'd trusted with her life mere days before. Clinically cruel, morals left in a gutter somewhere along the way. It twisted her stomach in a way nothing had before, left the cold sweat of nauseous doubt clinging to her skin like so much of the blood they'd already spilled. Yes, they'd made promises to each other. Yes, they'd both broken them, and he'd broken his first. But this was too much. She had to stop it. She only wished she knew how. She came to this conclusion as if surfacing from underwater, the dampened sounds of the world around her crashing back into full focus as she blinked the daze from her eyes. Louise was over by the fire, warming her hands with a blank stare. Dion was pacing, as he had been frequently for the past few hours, alternating between squeezing his head between his hands and slicing at the air with his sword as he walked. Claude was a short distance from her, crouched before Verso and the tree he'd been staked to with the rusted swords they'd taken from those creatures—the nevrons—they'd cleared out from here days ago. He'd seized Verso by the collar, long since sodden through with blood, his other hand closed around a gleaming pistol, his finger threatening to tighten on the trigger, barrel pressed to Verso's chest. Around them were their piled dead, left petrified in dark stone where they'd fallen months before on their failed Expedition. Already too many of them to count. Too many she would never see laugh or talk or fight again. Too many they'd already lost. How, then, could they continue this? "Why," Claude asked again, "won't you die?" It wasn't with malice that he asked it, thumbing back the hammer—just fear, hands still trembling, even as he pushed the weapon harder against Verso to steady it. He wasn't looking for an answer, not really. Verso didn't offer one; just gave a slow shake of his head. I don't know. It had been the constant refrain to this performance they'd all been stuck in. Julie had begun to realise that it wasn't entirely a lie. "Claude," she said, a sharpness in her voice that made him pause with uncertainty before he could pull the trigger. "Stop." His head turned slightly towards her, though he didn't take his eyes from Verso—the same way they never let a nevron out of their sight in a fight. "What?" He sounded more confused than anything else. Julie took his sudden stillness to come around to his side—not standing between him and Verso, not quite, but close enough to it that Claude looked up at her with a frown. "I think we—" The words got stuck in her throat. Verso's gaze had gone straight to her, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his eye. She dipped her voice lower. "What if we're wrong?" Wrong about this. Wrong about Verso. She didn't need to clarify; her meaning was obvious. Claude's expression flickered for a fraction of a moment before he shuttered the doubt back down. "We're not. You saw what we did. You know he lied." He emphasised the point with a further jab of the barrel against Verso's chest. "A traitor gets a	well-fed devils and famished saints Julie ━━━━༻❁༺━━━━ There was something peaceful about death, when Julie imagined it. For a time, she'd been fascinated by it. Granted, this had been long ago; her mother had performed in the opera for many years, and Julie had often been there to watch in the wings. Her mother had found a niche in those stories that toed the line between intrigue and idolatry of that dark oblivion that awaited them all. To Julie, it hadn't been a frightening thing; just a place that would one day call her home. She had been young, she supposed, when her father had died. Not young enough, of course. How different her life might had been had she still entirely been a child. But she'd been old enough—still an adolescent, but cognisant enough to be an adequate scapegoat for blame that wasn't hers—for him to almost ruin her life. His lies had almost had her sent to an asylum, like so many other inconvenient women. That had scared her, more than death. She'd heard some stories of what awaited there. It had none of that gentle nothingness, that unthreatening lack of sentience. So she'd shed no tears when he'd died. And when Verso had lied as he had—told her that her memory deceived her, that she misremembered, misunderstood, as though she could not trust her own eyes or mind—she'd seen the ghost of her father's face, heard the echo of his words. She'd had no power, back then. Things were different now. And the others had seen, too—had doubted themselves until she'd confided what she swore she'd seen in them. Had agreed that something had to be done. Verso had his lies. She had her walls. They had both snapped them firmly into place. It had all happened so fast, she didn't have time to doubt. She'd hoped she could outrun it; have this all over, all concluded and neatly wrapped away, before it ever caught up with her. But then, of course, it did. It all seemed monstrous, suddenly, what they had been doing to the man she'd trusted with her life mere days before. Clinically cruel, morals left in a gutter somewhere along the way. It twisted her stomach in a way nothing had before, left the cold sweat of nauseous doubt clinging to her skin like so much of the blood they'd already spilled. Yes, they'd made promises to each other. Yes, they'd both broken them, and he'd broken his first. But this was too much. She had to stop it. She only wished she knew how. She came to this conclusion as if surfacing from underwater, the dampened sounds of the world around her crashing back into full focus as she blinked the daze from her eyes. Louise was over by the fire, warming her hands with a blank stare. Dion was pacing, as he had been frequently for the past few hours, alternating between squeezing his head between his hands and slicing at the air with his sword as he walked. Claude was a short distance from her, crouched before Verso and the tree he'd been staked to with the rusted swords they'd taken from those creatures—the nevrons—they'd cleared out from here days ago. He'd seized Verso by the collar, long since sodden through with blood, his other hand closed around a gleaming pistol, his finger threatening to tighten on the trigger, barrel pressed to Verso's chest. Around them were their piled dead, left petrified in dark stone where they'd fallen months before on their failed Expedition. Already too many of them to count. Too many she would never see laugh or talk or fight again. Too many they'd already lost. How, then, could they continue this? "Why," Claude asked again, "won't you die?" It wasn't with malice that he asked it, thumbing back the hammer—just fear, hands still trembling, even as he pushed the weapon harder against Verso to steady it. He wasn't looking for an answer, not really. Verso didn't offer one; just gave a slow shake of his head. I don't know. It had been the constant refrain to this performance they'd all been stuck in. Julie had begun to realise that it wasn't entirely a lie. "Claude," she said, a sharpness in her voice that made him pause with uncertainty before he could pull the trigger. "Stop." His head turned slightly towards her, though he didn't take his eyes from Verso—the same way they never let a nevron out of their sight in a fight. "What?" He sounded more confused than anything else. Julie took his sudden stillness to come around to his side—not standing between him and Verso, not quite, but close enough to it that Claude looked up at her with a frown. "I think we—" The words got stuck in her throat. Verso's gaze had gone straight to her, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his eye. She dipped her voice lower. "What if we're wrong?" Wrong about this. Wrong about Verso. She didn't need to clarify; her meaning was obvious. Claude's expression flickered for a fraction of a moment before he shuttered the doubt back down. "We're not. You saw what we did. You know he lied." He emphasised the point with a further jab of the barrel against Verso's chest. "A traitor gets a traitor's death. It was written into protocol for a reason." "And if we're wrong?" She swallowed past her sandpaper-dry throat. They were the doubts that had been spinning around her own head for some time now, but voicing them aloud send a fresh slice of guilt and panic through her. "If he's not. A traitor." Claude pressed his lips together, staring back at Verso with wide eyes, before he shook his head. "Then he'd understand." "That's insane." She said it so softly she wasn't sure if Claude had even heard her, but he gave a short, sharp laugh in return. "This is all insane." His hand shook more violently. "We're all that's left. How's that fair?" This conversation was turning to the frozen surface of a lake beneath her feet; she could almost feel the cracks spider-webbing beneath her feet. This was dangerous territory; she did herself and Verso no favours if Claude was spooked and turned on her, too. "You're right," she said carefully, turning her voice placating in the way she'd mastered so many years before. "You're right. I just think we need to rest. Make a better plan in the morning. Not—this." Claude's eyes flickered between her and Verso for a few too-long seconds. She kept her own locked on Claude, willing him to not read anything threatening in her face or words. If she could convince the others—slowly, carefully—to reassess the situation, they would come to the same conclusion as her. They were all good people, just tired and terrified. The wheels had fallen off, and their fears had run away with them, but if Julie had managed to snap out of it, so could they. Carefully, carefully, she had to nudge them back to their senses. "Okay," said Claude, nodding to himself. "Okay. Rest." Julie thought, perhaps, this was a small step in the right direction. Claude looked up at her, then back at Verso. Then he pulled the trigger, anyway. ━━━━༻❁༺━━━━ "I think," said the low voices by the campfire, "it might've gotten to her. You know, with everything, and…" Julie lay awake on her bedroll, turned away from the others. She'd kept her breathing slow and steady, as if she'd fallen asleep. As if she could. She'd been sleeping poorly for days on end already, but now her mind played over and over Claude's pull of the trigger. Verso slumping into the sword that held him up, unconscious for long minutes that now put that old fear back in her—that now she'd made her decision, this death would finally stick, that he wouldn't open his eyes again and it would be all her fault. And then he'd come around again, and Claude had walked away and left her staring as Verso's breath came back in wobbling snatches. When they had interrogated him, she'd told herself he was just like a nevron. That he didn't feel pain, not really, not the same way—that it was a ploy to try and get them to doubt themselves, to stop. This pain was not an act. Julie had moved away as fast as she could to find a tree to throw up behind, and then excused herself to, ostensibly, sleep—though in truth, she just needed time to think without the others paying too much attention to her. She'd needed to find the right words, the right way to convince the others to abandon the route they'd started down. And then she'd heard the conversation. "You think he got in her head?" Claude asked. Louise sighed. "Maybe, they were close before, and if anyone would falter—" "I don't think she'd falter," Dion said. He'd said very little in the past few days, just withdrawing further and further into himself. Louise had begun to talk faster and faster, as if to make up for it, tripping over her words and then sometimes abandoning sentences entirely. Claude had grown more erratic, more angry. "Everyone has a breaking point," Louise countered. "It's a lot, it's all—insanity. Maybe we find a way to finish this without her having to stay, you know, to see it, to..." There was the scuff of feet, the silence of consideration. Claude cleared his throat. "Like… leave her?" "No!" Louise's voice rose a fraction, surprise adding more volume to her words than she'd clearly intended, before dropping back down to the quieter whisper. "I'll stay back. In the morning, I can split off with her. You two take him and finish things off somewhere else. She doesn't need to see—that anymore." "Counterpoint," Claude said. "We can't kill the bastard." Silence. Then, from Dion: "There are some ways we've not tried." Julie's stomach turned to ice. Yes, there were other ways they'd wanted to try; but even at her worst, she'd vetoed fire. She'd argued it risked him reappearing elsewhere if he burnt down to cinders, but in truth she couldn't stomach the idea. Not knowing what he'd long had nightmares of. Not knowing she'd once promised—with all the lack of power she had over such a thing—she'd never see it happen to him. The longer passed with her mind set on ending this madness, the more she realised quite how far gone they'd all become. In a matter of days, they'd gone from competent Expeditioners to jumping at shadows and endlessly trying to kill one of their own. Their patience and will had been fraying for some time, but Julie couldn't help but feel she'd been the one to help push it over the edge. But why had he felt the need to lie? Why had he suddenly decided he couldn't trust her? She supposed all she'd done was prove his suspicions right. She couldn't undo this, but she could stop it. And if the others were unlikely to listen to reason—if they wanted to spirit Verso away to continue far from her sight—then it seemed she would have to try the same. ━━━━༻❁༺━━━━ "Go on." Julie gave Louise a nudge as she walked over to her spot by the fire. "Get some rest. I'll finish up this watch." Louise glanced over at her. She'd barely moved, elbows on her knees, hands dangling before her loosely. The same blood and grime covered her as the rest of them, but none of them had paid any mind to cleaning themselves up. It was the least of their worries. Julie wondered if she could ever really wash all that blood off, even if she scrubbed down to the bone. "You sure?" "Yeah." She gave her another nudge. "Resting earlier helped. Go on." Louise considered for a second, then pulled herself to her feet with a tired nod. There wasn't any mistrust, any suspicion; why would there be? They all trusted each other with their lives. That was why they were there. No nevrons had passed near them the whole time they'd been in that small corner of the battlefield. Julie had to have faith the same would hold true when she abandoned her watchpost. But the reality was it had never been the nevrons they were keeping an eye on during the night. Julie waited for Louise's breathing to deepen and even as she fell into the same fragmented sleep as the others, and then waited minutes more before silently standing from her perch beside the fire and moving towards where Verso had been left. He didn't sleep. She'd known he'd always had nightmares which had woken him throughout the night when he did manage a few hours of rest, but since they'd begun their interrogation he hadn't even seemed to try. At the start, he'd pled innocence and ignorance whenever they'd begun to move towards him. That had only ever served to incense them further; they all knew what they'd seen, and he'd already lied about that multiple times before they'd proved the fact once more. Accidentally, admittedly, when Claude's hand had slipped. But Verso's deathlessness had been proved true, and the floodgates were opened. Some time since, he'd stopped looking at them as they'd approached. Julie knew what it was like to watch hope dim in someone's eyes; she'd seen it in her own once, and now watched it mirrored in Verso's. All that was left was an exhausted resignation and the occasional refrain of I don't know, though those came fewer since they'd stopped asking questions and started trying to find a way to keep him dead. Julie crouched beside him. His eyes were closed, but he was awake. She knew the difference in the curve of his shoulders, the softness of his breath. Of course she'd known when he'd lied. How could she not have? But how could she have done this? "Verso." Her voice was the faintest whisper, low enough to almost be lost under the gentle whistle of the wind through the trees and the wooden walls of the trenches that sprawled, maze-like, around them, but she knew he was listening for it. "I'm not here to…" I'm not here to hurt you. How low they had come. How redundant a statement considering all that had come before. Slowly, his eyes opened. That startling silver-grey gaze met her own, sending another twisting barb of guilt through her once more—along with a ghost of that same, almost painful squeeze of her heart she'd had to practice ignoring. She held his gaze. She owed him that much. "I'm getting you out." The words were easier to say than she'd expected; like they'd been waiting and waiting for her to pick them up, turn them over, offer them out. There was a flicker of something behind the weary blankness of Verso's expression; disbelief, maybe, warring with a kernel of hope. He'd gotten better at pulling that mask shut against her; she'd gotten better at looking away. How had they ended up here? Words meant little; Julie knew that well herself. So instead—first sparing a glance over her shoulder to check the others still hadn't moved—she closed both hands around the long handle of the rusted sword that pinned him, and braced her feet more firmly in the bloodstained ground. She didn't need to warn him it would hurt. It took three hard yanks to free from the wood behind him, and another to slide free of Verso with a sickening, wet sound. He'd clamped down on any cries of pain as she'd jerked the sword out, face paling to a disconcerting shade of white, but had doubled over with a quiet, broken noise as the blade had finally come free. He bled, the same as any of them. It seemed cruel, somehow, to be immortal and yet still be left to feel every blow. As she reached around him to slice the rope that held his wrists, his head sagged against her shoulder, the damp curls of his hair brushing her cheek. "Julie," he breathed, the word like a prayer and a plea and relief all in one. He stayed like that, even once his wrists were free. Belatedly, she wondered if he could even stand. Her plans—which didn't really amount to much more than get Verso and go—somewhat hinged on him being able to walk. They had to move, had to run, but her shoulder had grown wet under his face and her resolve to not let herself stop and think about any of it until they were clear of the camp crumbled. It felt strange to let herself touch him with gentleness again, after everything that had been done—surely, it would be rebuffed; surely, some divine force would smite her from the hypocrisy of it—but it was still second nature to wrap her arms around him, and he still sank into the embrace. "I'm sorry," she whispered, the words muffled into his hair. They didn't do it justice. She didn't try to explain herself, give her reasoning. No amount of it would absolve her. "I'm so sorry." He clutched at the lapel of her uniform like it was a lifeline. "Don't," he said, voice hoarse; ever the pleaser, ever trying to soothe others at the cost of himself. They stayed like that for too long, their ragged breaths loud in the quiet of the night, before Julie was able to steel herself again to get them moving. "Can you stand?" He nodded against her shoulder; she kept an arm under his as she pushed herself up from the ground, half-dragging him with her. She didn't dare look back at the others; with how light their sleep had been recently, she knew she didn't have long before one of them drifted back into consciousness. Verso leant heavily against her. Though the wound from the sword had already closed over, he was practically dead on his feet for lack of sleep and food; things, they had discovered, he still seemed to need, even if he might not die from lack of them. They'd not tested that, really—the incident on the battlefield that had started all of this was still only days ago—the others had only floated the idea. But that required a far, far longer continuation of what they all wanted to end, and so other methods had been pursued, to little effect. It felt monstrous to think about. "Okay," she said, as much to herself as to him. Camp was still quiet. There were the two sleeping forms of Louise and Dion, and— Her heart thudded too loudly in her ears. Claude. Where was Claude? He'd been asleep when she'd swapped with Louise—she was almost certain of it. Or had he not been there? Had she somehow missed his absence? Had she been so preoccupied with her lack of a plan that she'd not seen the lack of him? "Shit," she whispered. "Shit, shit, shit." Verso stiffened against her; she'd not heard Claude step out from behind them, but she heard the barrel click back. "Julie," Claude said shakily, "what the fuck are you doing?" He must have risen in the night to relieve himself, or else needed to step away from their camp for a few moments. Tiredness had made her count what she saw now as a tangled sheet as his sleeping form. Neither of them had noticed him as he'd returned. A glance over her shoulder confirmed the barrel of the pistol pressed against the back of Verso's head. The shot would leave him a dead weight; at least, for long enough to rouse the others, to secure him back against the tree again. "Claude," she tried, but then he was already shouting. "Traitors!" he cried. "Both of you!" Louise and Dion were on their feet in a breath, weapons coming quickly to hand as they took in the scene before them. Confusion turned to that terrified anger Julie was well-acquainted with. She knew what her father would do in her position. Blame Verso, throw all the fault somehow entirely on him, save her own skin. Verso glanced at her; she knew he was thinking the same thing. How could she judge him for it? She'd proven she could be just as cold. But she was not her father. Her grip around his side tightened. She felt more than heard his shakey exhalation, and then his own grip tightened on her, too. "Claude," she tried again. "This is madness. You have to see that." "He," Claude said, "is a liar, and a traitor. A—a thing that won't die. You saw that, too." This line of argument wouldn't work. Another angle, then. She prayed Verso could see what she was trying to do, and forgive her for it. "Maybe that's useful. Maybe we can use that, so that we—so no more of us fall." "You're lying, too." Claude's voice had risen in pitch, a wobble of a disbelieving laugh shaking his words. "Are you like him? Is that—is that it?" She couldn't risk turning to face him; she knew how his hands had trembled that evening, and didn't want to risk him squeezing off the shot into Verso. Verso, wisely, stayed silent. "I'm not," she said slowly, as though speaking to an animal at risk of bolting—but Claude had already moved the pistol to jab into her back. "Prove it." How did she prove a negative? Julie could have laughed. She'd found herself in the same situation as Verso. The irony wasn't lost on her. "What were you doing, Julie?" Louise seemed to teeter between disbelief and fury. "Trying to—to sneak away in the night?" "With him." Claude's voice had hardened into cold anger. "Did he tell you what really happened to the rest of Expedition Zero? Was this all part of some plan?" Julie shook her head, frustrated. "A plan to do what, Claude?" "I don't know. Maybe you—you fucked up. We weren't meant to see him not die. You had to avoid suspicion, so you sided with us. And then planned to, in the night—" "Why would I wait so long? Claude, listen to yourself. What are we doing? This doesn't solve anything. Expedition Zero—" "Everyone who continued on with him and his father are dead." "This doesn't bring them back." She'd known that, really, the moment they'd taken Verso. She'd pressed the doubts at the back of her mind down, pulled her walls tight, pretended it was fine. Used her righteous fury to blind herself to anything that contradicted her suspicions. And what had they achieved for all their efforts? They had nothing to show for it but blood. The metal of the barrel bit into her back. She could feel the shake of Claude's hand through it. "I thought you were on our side," he whispered. "I am," she said desperately. "Claude—" Three things happened simultaneously, too fast for her to process at once. She hit the ground. This came last, she realised later, but it was the first thing she made sense of. The chroma at her back had twisted—the tell-tale sign a fraction of a second before Claude had finished pulling the trigger on the pistol. And Verso—Verso had moved faster than she'd thought possible, faint curls of chroma peeling from him where he lay on the ground beside her. Where he'd fallen, when he'd shoved her out of the space where Claude's pistol had been pressed. When he'd taken the shot instead. "Verso!" Julie scrambled to him, cradling his head against her. Fresh blood had bloomed across his abdomen, his eyes drifting shut. Panic seized her again. Would that just be it? Would this time, the death stick? The others were arguing, but the sounds were muffled in the haze of the fear that clutched at her. "Verso," she tried again, fighting to keep the wobble out of her voice, fighting to try and stay calm. "Hey, Verso. Please." Mercifully, she found his pulse, but his eyes stayed shut. It would be minutes, maybe, before he was up again. Knowing it, though, didn't assuage her fear—he was still so limp in her arms, so pale under the blood. Louise had turned to her, weapon still in hand. "We can't trust him, Julie. He's a traitor, and either—" she paused, pain flickering across her face. "Either you're with us, or you're with him. I know you were close, but—" Louise took a step towards them. Julie's arm came up automatically, sword already in hand as she levelled it at her. "Don't," Julie warned. Verso had saved her, so many times, without hesitation. Before things had gone to shit, she had done the same for him. He'd lied to her, yes, but it had been a mistake to allow what had happened since. She'd get the truth from him—and she was determined she would get it eventually—but not that way. That wasn't who they were, and it wasn't who they should be. No—they were people who saved each other. And she'd die before she let herself forget that again.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75591411/chapters/197669941	{"authors": ["rhibbet"], "language": "English", "title": "well-fed devils and famished saints"}
A Hunger He’s never known a hunger like that before.The way he wants Spock. The way he wants to hold him. He’s known hunger. But this is something entirely different than the feeling of an empty stomach. Of skin clinging to bones and atrophied muscle. This is a need like anything. A hunger that teases his mind and strings along his heart. This makes his teeth ache, his hands tremble in a way low blood sugar could never rival. He wants Spock like it’s pertinent to his survival. The thought alone should scare him, but it doesn’t. He known hunger before. This is just another hunger. And he will have to starve. He would rather starve than risk this precious friendship that he holds so dear to himself. He would rather starve than live a life without Spock by his side. He would rather starve than confess his feelings for the fear of rejection outweighs anything else. It’s okay, he’s starved before. Maybe it’s a good thing he knows the familiar tendrils of hunger, knows best how to ignore the pang that tells him he’s starving. Maybe it’s a good thing. At least, that is what he keeps telling himself anyways.	A Hunger He’s never known a hunger like that before.The way he wants Spock. The way he wants to hold him. He’s known hunger. But this is something entirely different than the feeling of an empty stomach. Of skin clinging to bones and atrophied muscle. This is a need like anything. A hunger that teases his mind and strings along his heart. This makes his teeth ache, his hands tremble in a way low blood sugar could never rival. He wants Spock like it’s pertinent to his survival. The thought alone should scare him, but it doesn’t. He known hunger before. This is just another hunger. And he will have to starve. He would rather starve than risk this precious friendship that he holds so dear to himself. He would rather starve than live a life without Spock by his side. He would rather starve than confess his feelings for the fear of rejection outweighs anything else. It’s okay, he’s starved before. Maybe it’s a good thing he knows the familiar tendrils of hunger, knows best how to ignore the pang that tells him he’s starving. Maybe it’s a good thing. At least, that is what he keeps telling himself anyways.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586786	{"authors": ["ForFucksSakeJim"], "language": "English", "title": "A Hunger"}
Do Ut Des A freshly added log settles with a clatter into the embers of the hearth. Its warmth has thawed the cold air of the cabin since dusk, keeping the house’s inhabitants comfortable as the sun sets in the window. The movement distracts a pair of eyes inside the kitchen: two hazel irises peek up through long, dark bangs, pupils glinting in the firelight alongside raised opalescent veins that crawl down the left side of his face. The man’s glance does not distract his hands from the dishes he cleans at the sink, one similarly discolored hand holding a plate as he scrubs the residue of the last meal off and down the sink with the other; tan, scarred, nails either slightly too long or bitten short. This man was once the most infamous person in all of Piltover. A golden icon, an innovator, council member, killer, betrayer, survivor… a defender; too many for one person if any one had cared to ask. He counted his blessings everyday that only one of those titles held any weight in their current circumstance. This one allowed him to be content in the simple distraction of the chore in front of him, letting time idly pass without the world resting on his shoulders. Here in this moment, standing comfortably against the sink in a light undershirt and shorts, all he has to be is Jayce of House Talis: devoted partner to his other half. Before his eyes return to the task at hand, they catch on the other occupant of the cabin. He sits not far away, back propped up against the left side of a couch backed up to the kitchen counter from the other side. The man’s longer hair falls in front of the closer half of his face, but Jayce can make out one golden eye focused on the book his partner silently reads from. The crackle of the hearth does not distract this man, but he spares a quick glance up regardless to his partner busy at the sink, almost like he knew eyes would fall on him. A light smirk pulls the mole at his cheek taut; an acknowledgement that the fire did not leap out to attack him, but that the attentiveness is appreciated and welcomed. Jayce can’t help a chuckle to himself, the glow in his cheeks a mix of the heated room and a blush. His eyes return back down to rinse the dish and set it among the others in a handmade wooden drying rack, carefully shifting weight onto an opalized left leg, warped golden pieces resembling what was once a brace locking the joint in place. A whistle of steam goes off behind him, just as he turns to check on it: a hot kettle reaches a boil. Jayce moves it off of the heat quickly and turns off the stove. Leg stiff from the prolonged standing, he hobbles himself along the counter line, pulling down 2 mugs from the shelf above him and some spices from the nearby pantry. The pour of warm milk reverberates satisfyingly against the ceramic of both cups as a perfect portion for two empties from the canister. A pinch of ground anise gets sprinkled into one cup while the second gets a couple shakes of sugar and a drop of vanilla. He lets the temperature of the two after-dinner goodies cool off to perfection as he packs away the pantry and kettle. Jayce makes a quick reach down to his opalescent knee, feeling along the muscles on the outside. A firm press to a pressure point where the inorganic muscles meet allows the stiff knee to hinge more freely, the smoother movement allowing him to carry the cups without disturbing the spice decorated on the warm milk’s surface. He makes his way slowly out of the kitchen, rounding the corner to his left to join his partner in the living room. There sits Viktor; his partner, best friend, other half, his love… the man he truly had no life without, still sprawled across the couch. One might argue that he was a little underdressed for the weather, relaxing in a simple tank top and long capris, but it’s not like he was anticipating staying unbundled for too long. His good leg is resting off of the couch planted outward and on the ground, making an ever-convenient sitting-spot in his lap for Jayce to plop himself down into. He does not feel rushed though, taking in the firelight’s glint along Viktor’s similarly-matching leg. His eyes take in the sight he still finds himself getting used to again; a Viktor without the stress of time withering him away, a Viktor content with simply existing again, existing at his side as they used to everyday in the lab, a sight that would not disappear as he shook awake to stare at a ravine wall damp with morning dew. Eyes once again meet as Jayce brings his gaze upwards to Viktor’s face. His partner looks up at him, expectantly. “Hello.” Viktor’s accent soft on the ‘h’ reminds Jayce that while they have all the time in the world, the warm drinks are losing their perfect temperature every second he stands there. “Hi!” he replies as he turns around and sits himself down, smiling himself silly. Viktor carefully sets his book upside down to keep his place and make room for a certain someone’s large shoulders. “Special	Do Ut Des A freshly added log settles with a clatter into the embers of the hearth. Its warmth has thawed the cold air of the cabin since dusk, keeping the house’s inhabitants comfortable as the sun sets in the window. The movement distracts a pair of eyes inside the kitchen: two hazel irises peek up through long, dark bangs, pupils glinting in the firelight alongside raised opalescent veins that crawl down the left side of his face. The man’s glance does not distract his hands from the dishes he cleans at the sink, one similarly discolored hand holding a plate as he scrubs the residue of the last meal off and down the sink with the other; tan, scarred, nails either slightly too long or bitten short. This man was once the most infamous person in all of Piltover. A golden icon, an innovator, council member, killer, betrayer, survivor… a defender; too many for one person if any one had cared to ask. He counted his blessings everyday that only one of those titles held any weight in their current circumstance. This one allowed him to be content in the simple distraction of the chore in front of him, letting time idly pass without the world resting on his shoulders. Here in this moment, standing comfortably against the sink in a light undershirt and shorts, all he has to be is Jayce of House Talis: devoted partner to his other half. Before his eyes return to the task at hand, they catch on the other occupant of the cabin. He sits not far away, back propped up against the left side of a couch backed up to the kitchen counter from the other side. The man’s longer hair falls in front of the closer half of his face, but Jayce can make out one golden eye focused on the book his partner silently reads from. The crackle of the hearth does not distract this man, but he spares a quick glance up regardless to his partner busy at the sink, almost like he knew eyes would fall on him. A light smirk pulls the mole at his cheek taut; an acknowledgement that the fire did not leap out to attack him, but that the attentiveness is appreciated and welcomed. Jayce can’t help a chuckle to himself, the glow in his cheeks a mix of the heated room and a blush. His eyes return back down to rinse the dish and set it among the others in a handmade wooden drying rack, carefully shifting weight onto an opalized left leg, warped golden pieces resembling what was once a brace locking the joint in place. A whistle of steam goes off behind him, just as he turns to check on it: a hot kettle reaches a boil. Jayce moves it off of the heat quickly and turns off the stove. Leg stiff from the prolonged standing, he hobbles himself along the counter line, pulling down 2 mugs from the shelf above him and some spices from the nearby pantry. The pour of warm milk reverberates satisfyingly against the ceramic of both cups as a perfect portion for two empties from the canister. A pinch of ground anise gets sprinkled into one cup while the second gets a couple shakes of sugar and a drop of vanilla. He lets the temperature of the two after-dinner goodies cool off to perfection as he packs away the pantry and kettle. Jayce makes a quick reach down to his opalescent knee, feeling along the muscles on the outside. A firm press to a pressure point where the inorganic muscles meet allows the stiff knee to hinge more freely, the smoother movement allowing him to carry the cups without disturbing the spice decorated on the warm milk’s surface. He makes his way slowly out of the kitchen, rounding the corner to his left to join his partner in the living room. There sits Viktor; his partner, best friend, other half, his love… the man he truly had no life without, still sprawled across the couch. One might argue that he was a little underdressed for the weather, relaxing in a simple tank top and long capris, but it’s not like he was anticipating staying unbundled for too long. His good leg is resting off of the couch planted outward and on the ground, making an ever-convenient sitting-spot in his lap for Jayce to plop himself down into. He does not feel rushed though, taking in the firelight’s glint along Viktor’s similarly-matching leg. His eyes take in the sight he still finds himself getting used to again; a Viktor without the stress of time withering him away, a Viktor content with simply existing again, existing at his side as they used to everyday in the lab, a sight that would not disappear as he shook awake to stare at a ravine wall damp with morning dew. Eyes once again meet as Jayce brings his gaze upwards to Viktor’s face. His partner looks up at him, expectantly. “Hello.” Viktor’s accent soft on the ‘h’ reminds Jayce that while they have all the time in the world, the warm drinks are losing their perfect temperature every second he stands there. “Hi!” he replies as he turns around and sits himself down, smiling himself silly. Viktor carefully sets his book upside down to keep his place and make room for a certain someone’s large shoulders. “Special delivery for one Viktor and Jayce Talis?” Jayce outstretches the mug with anise in his right hand over to Viktor, who takes the cup with both hands around the base. “I would say it is right on time, but the delivery man seemed to have gotten stuck on the doorstep.” “Hey, maybe the ‘delivery man’ had to make sure he had the right address!” The two can’t help but giggle at each other as the steam from their cups warm their faces. Temptation finally taking hold, they both take a hefty sip from their mugs, both beverages perfect to each other’s tastes as they settle into quiet enjoyment of each other’s company. Jayce kicks out both feet and reclines back as far as he can, being careful to arch around Viktor’s thigh as he enjoys his sweetened milk. His free hand falls naturally to his side and rests against his partner’s shin, letting his thumb run against the taut muscles. Viktor lets a small groan resonate against the ceramic in relief from the massage, the sound reassuring to keep up the pressure he’s applying. “It’s the cold?” “Potentially,” Viktor replies, eyes looking down into his cup. His left hand also leaves his cup to rest just above Jayce’s knee. “These limbs do not seem to circulate blood, at least on the surface, and metallic structures do fluctuate surprisingly easily with temperature.” “Are you talking about the alloys that I specifically mixed for Hextech to NOT warp unless under severe one-hundred-year storm temperatures?” Jayce’s gaze flashes at Viktor with his scarred eyebrow raised in playful suspicion. It’s enough to pull an equally amused smirk from his partner and loses a small chuckle on his breath. “Or… it could be psychological. A placebo to compensate for the synovial fluid that would be affected in these conditions.” Jayce makes quick work of the rest of his sweetmilk as Viktor contemplates their theories and sets his empty cup behind him on the counter. He makes a swooping gesture with his now free hand to the space in front of his lap. “Mmm, speaking of joint fluids needing warming… Bring that other leg up here!” Viktor kindly obliges, lifting the leg off the couch to swoop over Jayce’s lap and relax his second ankle over the cushions. Who would Viktor be to refuse a full leg massage from such a handsome delivery boy with the warmest hands he has ever known to exist? He finds it hard to refuse anything of his Jayce these days. The unnamed deeper connection that he had believed for the longest time to be one sided was shattered in an instant when he saw himself through Jayce’s eyes. Small exchanges in their day to day that he could excuse through the lens of friendship were proven more, important events in both of their lives together memorized with such care that his visage would blur Jayce’s world around him; not even the masks he had worn during his time bound to the HexCore dissuaded his partner, in his own words, “finding the beauty in imperfections,” despite his physical features twisted beyond recognition. Those old fears no longer hold purchase in Viktor’s heart as he relaxes more into the couch arm, reveling in the firm pressure Jayce massages into his lower thighs. To quite the contrary, Viktor finds himself peering over the lip of his cup, watching his partner's shirt stretch and bunch around the firm back muscles hidden underneath. A warm, yet slightly mischievous smirk forms behind the ceramic as his gaze follows down the taut anteriors in his forearm and the ever calculated movements of his wide hands, easily wrapping the full width of his much thinner leg. If the occasional long drag upward of Jayce’s hand followed by an expectant side glance is not permission for mutual oogling, he would rewrite the dictionary itself to make it so. Jayce continues his thorough ministrations up and down the length of his partner’s legs as Viktor takes in the last few sips of his beverage. He pauses his hands warm and flat right above Viktor’s knees as the man carefully sets his empty cup with the other on the counter. Viktor’s previously occupied hand comes to rest on the back cushions of the couch, grabbing a fist full of a red and blue blanket draped across them. Jayce watches as he lays back comfortably into the armrest, motioning him to come closer with a flirty nod. He gladly accepts the invitation and settles softly against Viktor’s chest: his right arm slipped seamlessly between the small of Viktor’s back and the couch arm, head carefully resting against his sternum as the rest of his torso lay flush against the others. The regular pitter-patter of Viktor’s heart thumps against his eardrum, the sound being one of Jayce’s new favorites as he let his partner slowly take his full weight. His eyes relax, vaguely feeling Viktor shift beneath him, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and over them. He also eventually stills, resting the free hand against Jayce’s now blanketed shoulder, thumb swirling lightly against the muscle. Viktor is warm, or maybe Jayce runs colder these days. When the rune spit them back out away from Piltover, the arcane wasn’t sure what to do with a machine holding desperately to a soul and a broken body twisted by an unnatural will to survive. At least, that's their main theory on how Viktor’s face returned to flesh, why Jayce’s leg now shines with the special alloy he formulated; both their soul and body had become intertwined and inseparable, as it seems they were always meant to be. Jayce lets himself melt into their shared heat, eyes closed and fingers fidgeting at the hem of Viktor’s tank top, wrist resting at the junction of his partner's hip and thigh. With his ear still pressed against his other’s chest, he can hear Viktor’s lungs fill and empty. They’re a tad labored from weight pressed against him, but otherwise healthy. Alive. He can’t help pulling himself closer, can’t be bothered to hide the warm blush that creeps across his face at the small squeak Viktor lets out at the unexpected squeeze. Jayce finds his heart full and overflowing, desperately trying to pour out of his chest directly into Viktor’s. The silence and calm of domesticality between them is becoming a beautiful language between them once again, akin to the long nights in the lab they used to spend simply feeding off each other's synergy, making one unstoppable entity. Almost as if being rewarded for the clinging, Viktor’s hand drifts upward to card through Jayce’s long hair. Jayce sighs into the touch, shifting in Viktor’s lap to lay chest to chest, facing upward at him with his warmest smile and nearly tearing-up eyes. A slow drag of Viktor’s hand from his partner’s forehead backwards exposes the iridescent marks that now shimmer with a faint glow in the presence of the hand that made them. His fingers drift backward to his partner’s nape where a matching patch of bleached hair lies: Jayce is here, he sees him. His Jayce has changed certainly from the young face and spirit of their innovations; face wrinkled and scarred from his time in his Mage Self’s world, spirit hardened from hard choices he wasn’t equipped to handle. Yet in Viktor’s arms lies a Jayce in his raw components, a Jayce with newfound confidence in his choices, with a new dream, but still a Jayce as devoted as the day he met him. Viktor cradles this Jayce, his Jayce, further into his chest, resting his chin gently against his partner’s fluffy scalp and wrapping himself to the best of his ability around those broad shoulders. A brief gust of wind shakes the window blinds next to the fireplace, blurred movements of what look to be snowflakes floating down to freshen the already thick layer on the ground. “That makes it the eighth day in a row, no?” Viktor asks quietly, barely heard over the hearth. “We are approaching the winter solstice! At least if wherever we are runs on the same calendar.” Jayce flips around to lay back-to-chest against Viktor, taking the hand resting on his shoulders and laying it against his heart. “The first few days were a delightful experience, but now I just find myself worrying about the garden.” Jayce lets out a breathy giggle. “That’s pretty much the universal experience for someone’s first time with snow! It’s all fun and games till the ice melts into your socks.” He squeezes the top of Viktor’s hand in reassurance, “Don’t worry about the garden though, we prepared well in advance. You did great!” Viktor hums in content, remembering briefly the first snowfall at the cabin. Hands held as they wandered off the porch into the matte white fog of the snow. Jayce showing him how to form snowballs and then instantly challenging him to a fight despite this being his first time in the snow. Jayce’s mind drifts to the memory as well, watching Viktor’s golden eyes widen taking in the view. Viktor’s concentrated look as he let snowflakes land and warm in the palm of his hand. Viktor’s hands tenderly brushing the snow out of his hair after being forcefully placed there with a snowball directly to the face. They both fondly remember the warmth in each other's arms and the touch of their forehead shadowing the harsh light reflected from their surroundings: more giggles quickly ensue as they realize they’re picturing the same thing, Viktor nuzzling gently at the side of Jayce’s head. Jayce sighs back into Viktor and pulls the blanket back up to his chest. His next breath draws quick then stutters, exhaling a little louder than normal. Noticing, Viktor slides the hand at Jayce’s chest to his bicep. “What is it?” “I…” Jayce pauses, unsure of how much he wants to say and if now is the time to do so. Wordlessly, Viktor rubs his palm against his partner's arm and shoulder; his way of telling Jayce that he’s okay to speak his mind only if he wants to. Jayce looks towards the motion, allowing Viktor to see Jayce’s worry melt back into his signature Talis smile. “Me and my mom started a little tradition amongst ourselves every winter to exchange presents with each other. Little-kid me thought it up as a way to honor the Mage’s gift of magic to us and it just… kinda stuck over the years.” Jayce’s left hand searches the blankets for Viktor’s and settles softly over it. “It was one of the few things that kept me sane through the cold months, staying distracted thinking of what fun contraptions I could make for her. This will technically be the first year I miss out on it.” “Oh my sweet Jayce, I’m sorr-” Viktor exasperates quickly before being cut off. “No, no. It’s ok!” Jayce quells. “I don’t think either of us expected to be around for this time of year and I’ve never mentioned it before. You wouldn’t have known.” He gives Viktor’s left hand a firm squeeze before both his hands disappear beneath the blanket. “I… did always have the idea about expanding the little tradition to Caitlyn and yourself, but I could never figure out a way to broach the subject. But if you’ll allow me…” Viktor feels Jayce shift his hips under the blankets, doing what he assumes to be pulling something out of his shorts pocket. Jayce continues to flip himself around to face Viktor again, but this time pulls his knees underneath him so he can lean back. Resting in his partner's hands down in his lap lies a small leather pouch pulled shut with a drawstring. Jayce’s fingers fidget at the ruffled top, but he eventually lifts the item up and cradles it to his chest. “Would you accept my ‘Do Ut Des’, Viktor?” This man… if he could see himself right now, Viktor contemplates to himself as he tries to fathom any universe in which he wouldn’t. He pulls his legs into a crisscross and sits up. “I would,” he confirms as he returns his gaze to his partner's doe-y hazel eyes, that lovely red blush of his reaching cheek to cheek and shoulders relaxing into a soft curve. “If I think about it too hard,” Jayce transfers the gift to his right hand and offers his left, “this is technically the second time you got to participate?” Viktor does not reply, instead he brings his left hand up to his outstretched partner’s. His fingertips brush lightly against the indent said gift left behind in the rebuilt metal and collagen. The gift of inspiration, connection, and most recently new life: Viktor might have choice opinions of his other self’s methodologies, but he will not let those sour the mood. Jayce continues on, the question turning out to be more rhetorical than genuine. “Back then, I didn’t want to take advantage of Cait’s already generous donations or your hard earned stipend, but given everything we know now with the mage, I thought-” Jayce feels Viktor’s hand shift and slowly flip over, his partner’s palm splayed open and wide. “- Am I ramblin’ again?” Jayce chuckles, suddenly very aware of his nerves trying to bail him out. “No, my dear, you are not,” his amór says, adding his second hand to the bottom of the stack, making a warm hand sandwich. “My interest is merely piqued, forgive my… insistence?” A playful roll of the other's eyes and the soft tense of dusted pink cheeks can always shake off the most stubborn worries Jayce can affix to himself. “Oh, excited are you?” The pouch only moves barely a foot to land in Viktor’s palm, but it makes it there slowly, like the air between them congealed into thick molasses. The leather almost sticks to his hand as he releases his grip on the gift, the weight around him lifting instantly, letting the empty palm fall against Viktor’s knee. “Mayhaps.” He lifts his hand up from Jayce’s to take a closer look at the parcel. A simple construction, but lovingly stitched; their rune, the Acceleration Rune, carefully carved into the front. “I can’t say a gift from you has ever been less than inspiring.” “Go on then, dig in!” Jayce encourages in delight, nearly buzzing in his spot. Viktor holds the pouch tight as his right hand loosens its mouth, the item inside solid, but padded with something soft. With the leather lax and opening exposed, he makes out a small “JT x V” carved on the inner lip. It does not slow his curiosity as to what remains inside, so he quickly overturns the bag to pour out the contents into his other hand. A small thing wrapped in a multicolor felt, likely made from the coat of the creature that donated itself for the bag and likely a couple days ago’s dinner. Setting the now empty pouch in his lap, he unfurls the felt carefully, revealing a beautiful clear quartz spear about the size of his thumb. The cut is raw, but it’s cleaned and polished, its sharp, geometric edges glinting solid white at every seam. Within it, hundreds of what looked to be golden inclusions bear lines nearly straighter than the edges of the crystal all in different random directions: the abstraction of it all a beautiful chaos. Viktor felt his eyebrows furrow as he continued to look over his new specimen, feeling the cold surface warm beneath his hands, spinning and rotating it to watch the light reflect off the edges and the inflections, absolutely mesmerized by both the crystal and that Jayce could pull this on him out of nowhere. “Rutile…” the blurred silhouette behind Viktor’s hands murmurs. “The inclusion material, if you were curious. I might have shown you a couple in my collection, but I never had a specimen this clear and visible before!” “Jayce, I… This is…” Viktor tries to stammer out, so moved from Jayce’s beautiful present that his emotions could not even form into a simple sentence yet. “Hold on! You haven’t seen the best part yet!” Jayce rushes in, his hands coming up to Viktor’s once more to cup underneath them. A quick look of confusion washes over the giftee’s face. There wasn’t more in the bag and Jayce did not bring out anything new. Jayce’s smile smears wide across his face, his cute incisors peaking over his lower lips, his eyes sparkling bright and full of energy. “Channel some of our magic through it. Just a little bit, it doesn’t need much.” Viktor’s features dull, and he feels himself pull inward ever so slightly. As a part of sharing each other’s bodies, the two also found that they share Viktor’s old connection to the Arcane. Jayce, ever so curious, dabbled with it occasionally on Viktor’s guidance, often helping plants in the garden take root or levitating items up to high shelves that were hard to reach. As for himself, however… He can feel it stir within himself, can quantify its potential. It’s nowhere close to what he could wield as the Herald or even the simplest charge he felt when he first rewoke, but it’s still enough. Enough to harm, enough to kill if he had a reason, enough to worry his control could slip. The memory of what used to be pure beauty and good nature twisted into soulless perfection still haunts his dreams on bad nights. “Hey, V?” Jayce coos to him. He feels a gentle squeeze to the back of his hands. “I trust you with this. I’m here if anything goes wrong, ok?” He makes sure Viktor can find his eyes as he talks, body shifting closer and lower to meet Viktor’s downturned gaze. He flashes his partner a playful smirk. “And nothing will go wrong because I triplicated the triplicate testing with no adverse reactions.” Viktor lets out the breath he was holding onto in a burst of short laughs. “You of all people should know testing power input requires linear m-plicate testing to form a correlation chart, yes?” “I do and I did! I just had to make sure you were paying attention,” Jayce says with a roll of his eyes. “Cheeky.” Viktor gleams, a smile returning back to his face. “I trust you. I will try.” Jayce nods and lowers his hands confirming he is ready, letting Viktor’s eyes trail back to the crystal. It awaits his attention patiently as he lets out an exploratory zap, a slow purple pulse illuminates through the metallic arm. The pull of the power feels simple enough, no different than a lightbulb’s simple resistance when met with electricity. He now also nods in consensus with his partner and closes his eyes to focus. The best descriptor of channeling the arcane is like flexing a muscle: it is either willed taut or relaxed and unused. It takes him a moment to find it and when he tests it, it wavers with a weak jitter. “Jayce trusts this, I trust him.” Viktor wills the mantra into reality and slowly releases his magic into his new gift. The static fills his arms, the charge of the arcane buzzing with resonance. He feels the crystal lift from his palm, its center of gravity waning cautiously as it centers itself in the weightlessness. Over the initial focus, Viktor reopens his eyes to see a dim, cool white light begin to glow at the crystal’s center, casting almost a familiar blue shadow throughout the room. “Just a little bit more, V. You’ve got this,” Jayce encourages. Viktor has a feeling Jayce scooted back on the couch a couple inches, almost certainly because he does have this. The giggle he lets escape is almost certainly teasing Jayce’s irony, but his confidence is not deflated and he ramps up the output. The light of the crystal expands and brightens as he feathers in more of his energy. He can sense where exactly he needs his power to reach, like a slide latch finding the end of its track. He feels Jayce also begin to draw from their connection, not to help or control, but for his own use. The candles and lamps around them dim and snuff out; the fireplace calming nearly to embers, darkening the room significantly. The crystal’s light, now the brightest thing in the room, wavers momentarily right below full power. Viktor’s gaze flickers across to his partner, his collar and arm glowing with the same purple he is, eyes still locked on him with a hopeful gleam. Trust. The last drop is surrendered to the crystal with a brief flash of white. The light glowing within it implodes, then softens and stabilizes, like the fire of a gas stove. Energy begins to seep into the inclusions, rods beginning to glow with a deep blue hum. As each rod fully ignites, a spark jumps outward from it; hundreds of them start to emerge from the crystal and spread out to fill the room. The lights eventually still into a hemisphere centered around Viktor, embers of various sizes surrounding him like a field of firelights frozen in time. Jayce watches the pure elation wash over his partner’s face at his gift. The wonderment has his eyes bulging so wide they would fall out if they weren’t attached to his skull. His mouth hangs open, awestruck, the edges quivering trying to form words. His posture straightens and shoulders become lax, making the room necessary for his lungs to breathe exaggeratedly in his small chest. Joy always looked good on Viktor. He really had missed its look on him. Jayce blinks away the moisture attempting to blur his vision, his emotions high from observing Viktor’s reaction. He watches his partner swallow and compose himself enough to speak. “Jayce… This is… extraordinary! Where did you find this?” Viktor asks, still unable to peel his eyes from the display, as if committing every spark to memory. “Would you believe me if I said I made it?” he replies. He subconsciously raises his arm to scratch the back of his head out of nervousness. “You made this?!” “How did you think the crystal knows what it looks like?” Jayce teases, knowing his partner hasn’t quite noticed what exactly he was looking at yet. “What it looks like…” Viktor echoes back at him, the logical side of his brain whirling up to solve the cryptic hint offered to him. He rises from his spot on the couch and moves closer to the room’s center, brows furrowed in equal parts confusion and thought. Jayce follows his movements, shifting off of his knees to sit properly on the center cushion of the couch. He picks up the discarded cloth and pouch and sets it on the coffee table, then pushes himself to stand as well. Jayce catches the exact moment his partner figures it out, Viktor’s temple easing as he starts to follow certain sparks with his free hand, tracing faint glowing lines between them, connecting them. “There are.. constellations here. These are stars, the night sky of Piltover!” Viktor asserts with a calm assurance. “Spot on, V!” Jayce confirms with a pleased smile. “I see what time of year you picked as well.” His partner points to one of the constellations he traced out near the horizon line of the projection. “This one is only visible during the summer solstice.” “It was the night we camped out on top of the HexGates before we turned it on for the public. It’s one of my favorite’s, so it was easy enough to pull from!” The crystal’s light begins to fade and waver mid-air as Viktor cuts off his supply of magic, the sparks blinking out of existence one by one. He catches it as it falls down into his hand, then shifts it up to clasp between his fingers. Deep in contemplation and appreciation, he joggles it back and forth. “This is… you are... incredible!” Viktor sputters out as he makes his way back towards Jayce and the couch. “I’m glad you-” Jayce starts, but he is interrupted by his partner rushing into his arms. Viktor presses his forehead into Jayce’s jugular as his arms encircle him just below his ribcage, his free hand splaying flat against his shoulder blades. His torso instinctually curls over his partner to create more contact between them, but the rest of him remains startled, not used to Viktor being the one to seek contact. “Thank you, Jayce. I love this gift so very much,” Viktor mumbles contentedly against Jayce’s chest as he attempts to squeeze him in a tight embrace. Resisting the urge to crush Viktor into him so hard that their bodies merge into one, he compromises with a slow, careful hug in return. His shoulders curve around his partner, allowing one arm to wrap across both of Viktor’s and the other to practically cup his opposite ribcage. He nuzzles against the side of Viktor’s head, catching a whiff of the handmade vanilla-mint shampoo that lingers in his partner’s soft hair. You’re welcome Jayce whispers right next to his ear as they press together, reveling in each other’s warmth, letting their breaths intermingle and hearts beat in beautiful rhythm. Jayce is ultimately the first to pull back, his eyes flickering with iridescent color as he reignites the lamps in the room and re-stokes the fireplace, his arms unfurling to rest his hands on Viktor’s forearms. Viktor lifts off from his chest, his arms sliding to Jayce’s waist before falling away to his sides. “You must absolutely show me your notes on this,” Viktor states as he gestures at Jayce with the crystal. “I did not have an occasion to try transmutation with minerals like this. Where were you even hiding it all?” “Out in the tool shed!” he exclaims as he lowers himself back down onto the couch. “I wasn’t really hiding it, but I’m glad it was a surprise! Maybe I’ll show you after the snow lets up?” “I would like that,” Viktor nods as he, too, reclaims his spot on the couch. He packs the crystal back into its pouch for safe-keeping and sets it up on the kitchen counter by their previously discarded cups. “I must apologize, I do not have anything prepared to give you in return,” Viktor laments, sitting forward on the cushion. “Oh, no. I’m not expecting you to!” Jayce retorts, waving his hands in a defensive splay. He sighs as he pinches at the bridge of his nose. “I surprised you with this. You didn’t exactly have a chance to come up with something.” Viktor takes a moment in thought, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes. Jayce watches patiently as his partner’s eyes drift to the stack of books on the coffee table. “Actually, wait a moment.” The older man turns to him with a flicker of satisfaction across his face. “I might have something I can give you.” “You do?” Jayce watches as Viktor reaches for the pile. He digs through it and fishes out a journal, sitting back and into Jayce’s side. Jayce lets Viktor settle against him, extending his arm across his partner’s back to rest his hand at his waist. Viktor opens the journal and flips through some pages to land on a hand sketched map. He recognizes a rough sketch of their cabin on it; some other locations of note are a large tree, a little city of wooden houses, a couple of gates, and one arch structure with a sideways crescent moon over the top. “I have been looking through the old tales and whatever I can get my hands on to figure out where exactly we are in this space,” his partner begins, tapping his finger at the page. “This place, Marus Omegnum- It’s a temple rumored to manifest both here and on Runeterra during lunar eclipses. Theoretically if we can locate this place, we should be able to get insight on establishing a connection back to Piltover. I doubt it would be that simple to just wait out an event in the temple, but-“ “A way back is possible…?” Jayce can’t help but interject. It’s his turn to be stunned speechless, both at the extensive research Viktor has been tracking down and the rough conclusions of said research. Viktor lets Jayce take the journal from him, watching his partner flip through his notes, corroborating all of what he was just told. “I haven’t added it to these notes yet,” Viktor adds, “but the book I was just reading indicates that it could be as close as a week’s journey south from here, but I’d like to find more accounts to confirm.” Viktor’s hand falls smoothly to Jayce’s knee, looking over his partner’s face as he digests his findings. He finds him deathly still, gaze fixed somewhere over the top of the journal. Jayce breathes deeply and smoothly, calculated in a way that is obvious he’s forcing himself to. An extra glint of light forms at his partner’s eye and slides down his cheek; his lips quivering momentarily before attempting to speak. “Cait… Mel… my… my mom, ” Jayce’s voice wavers as he speaks. “I can see them again… I never thought…” Viktor rubs comforting strokes into Jayce’s thigh as the tears continue to flow. “You really think?” “I do. I would not tease you with this.” He crosses his second hand over and stacks it on the first. Viktor turns his body to face Jayce properly, searching desperately for any relief on his partner’s face. Jayce closes the journal and places the free hand on Viktor’s. He squeezes them gently and without a word, his thumb rubbing up and down the older man’s knuckles. He leaves the journal in his lap and turns to meet Viktor in the middle. Despite the tears continuing to run down his cheeks, Jayce’s now-hopeful expression takes him back to their first nights working together: hopeful, confident, absolutely enrapturing. “I can bring you home,” he exhales. Viktor can barely manage a nod before he feels a hand at his nape, not quite pushing him forward, but enough to encourage a lean. Their foreheads meet over their entwined hands, eyes closing as they feel the other’s touch. Viktor can feel his partner’s fingers tease at the baby hairs on his neck and returns a firm pressure to Jayce’s thigh. “Thank you,” Jayce whispers, barely audible over the the crackle of the fireplace and their beating hearts as his shudders from crying meld into elation. Viktor separates his hand from the bottom of the pile and lifts it to Jayce’s cheek to wipe at one of the tear tracks with his thumb. “You are most welcome, my sweet.” He feels Jayce tilt into his touch, foreheads sliding apart, but neither back away. Viktor’s eyes fall open to see those lovely hazel orbs framed by wet, clumped-together lashes gazing downward. As he registers where Jayce is looking, he feels the other’s hand pull him forward, guiding the last centimeter of space between their lips together. The kiss is an innocent one, reverent, the third gift of the night, given freely and wholeheartedly. It isn’t their first kiss together, but it’s still another new thing to come after the Anomaly, a new facet of their relationship that opened as their souls were splayed apart and pulled back together. It doesn’t stop Viktor’s next breath from feeling like fire in his lungs, the warmth expanding throughout his chest fills his diaphragm, his features relaxing like putty as the breath leaves him. He has to make the conscious decision to weave his fingers into Jayce’s beard to keep his hand from falling away limp to his side. Whether the kiss lasts five seconds or fifty, Jayce is the one to release his press. He looks over the wreck he’s left his partner in with one little dose of affection, the heat pooling across Viktor’s face filling out a crimson blush cheek to cheek, his eyes having misted over with high emotion. He says nothing as a grin stretches across his own face, not unaware of his own glow brought about from the observation that Viktor’s hand has fallen to land against his chest. His own hand slides forward to tuck back a stray hair that had fallen across his partner’s face, patiently waiting for him to cool down. “I… I might have forgotten I can do that now,” Viktor finally manages to stumble out, eyes fidgeting between Jayce’s gaze and his hand on his chest. “Mmm, that sounds like you need to kiss me more often, mi vida.” Jayce teases back, leaning back just enough for Viktor’s palm to properly splay against his chest. “Repetition is key to forming habits, after all!” “Hah!” The gasp that leaves Viktor brings both a smile to his face and lets Jayce see that toothy grin he loves. “As if I could attribute the urge to kiss you to mere habit.” Viktor wastes no time using both his hands to pull Jayce in for a series of short rapid-fire kisses all directed at his lips. Jayce braces himself by grasping his partner’s forearms as Viktor’s hands wander from the sides of his jaw to his neck and back, returning every press with matched enthusiasm. By the end of the onslaught, both men’s lips are glistening and swollen, eyes and arms droopy with sleepy affection. “I love you, Viktor. You know that, right?” one partner asks of the other. “It is undeniable,” the other confirms with no doubt in his words. “My Jayce, oh how I love you too.” It is unclear which of them initiated the next kiss; it has no bearing on the rising smoke from the fireplace that was keeping the two men warm. The cabin creaks with the weight of the snow settling on its roof, the wood it’s constructed from unknown to this realm. How the cabin came to being itself is unknown.. It did know one thing however: its purpose. To bring comfort to those ushered to it. It is content this night, its residents overwhelmed with elation and filled with purpose. The boundary of the cabin’s influence shimmers in delight, the Arcane sphere swirling and spiking along its surface. The contrast of its white iridescence stands out against the dark meteoric landmasses of the Spirit Realm, but it brings no harm nor alarm to its surroundings; it merely exists, just as the two inside deeply wished to do.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75582101	{"authors": ["hornbird_dot_ao3"], "language": "English", "title": "Do Ut Des"}
Three Lives Chicago, September 1918. The air was thick with the stink of death, camphor, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood that no amount of bleach could erase. The Spanish flu had turned the city into a charnel house, hospitals overflowing with the dying, streets echoing with the wail of ambulances and the muffled sobs of the bereaved. I was just another boy in a sea of them, seventeen and fever-ravaged, my body a battlefield I was losing inch by inch. My mother, Elizabeth, went first. She had been my anchor, fierce, unyielding, the kind of woman who could stare down a storm and make it blink. But the flu didn't care about strength. It took her in a delirium of heat and whispers, her hand clutching mine until the very end. "Save him," she begged the doctor hovering at her bedside, her voice a ragged thread. "Whatever it takes, save my Edward." I didn't hear his reply. The fever was pulling me under by then, a roaring tide that drowned everything in fire and shadow. I remember fragments: the cool press of a cloth on my forehead, the murmur of prayers from the nuns, the distant chime of a clock striking midnight. And then, nothing, until I woke to a face that shouldn't have existed in that hellish ward. He was standing over me like a vision from a Renaissance painting, the kind my father used to drag me to see at the Art Institute on Sundays. Golden hair swept back from a forehead as smooth as marble, skin pale and flawless under the dim gaslight, eyes a strange, molten amber that seemed to glow from within. He wore a white coat stained with the day's labors, but there was no exhaustion in his posture, no human frailty. He smelled of crisp winter pine and something sharper, like the edge of a scalpel, clean, cold, and utterly out of place amid the rot. I tried to speak, to ask who he was, but my throat was a desert. My lungs burned with every shallow breath. He leaned closer, his expression a mask of sorrow that didn't match the steady calm in his voice."Edward," he said softly, as if we'd known each other for years. "I'm Dr. Carlisle Cullen. Your mother... she asked me to save you." I managed a weak nod, or thought I did. The room spun, the fever cresting like a wave about to break. His hand, cool as stone, brushed my cheek, and for a split second, the pain eased. Then his face hardened with resolve, and he whispered words that made no sense at the time."Forgive me, Edward. This is the only way." He bent down, his lips grazing my neck like a lover's kiss. But it wasn't a kiss. It was fire, liquid agony exploding through my veins, searing every nerve, every cell. I screamed, or tried to, but the sound was lost in the inferno. The world dissolved into three days of unrelenting torment, a hell where time stretched into eternity. I burned alive, my body remaking itself in flames that no water could quench. Visions flickered through the haze: my mother's face, stern and loving; my father's laugh, cut short by the war; childhood memories of summer fields and stolen kisses with girls whose names I'd forgotten. And always, that golden doctor, his voice a distant anchor murmuring apologies and promises. Sometimes the words were only fragments, half-remembered prayers or lines of poetry he must have carried for centuries. I clung to them the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. Once, through the roar of the fire, I heard him clearly: “Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death…” His voice never wavered, steady and low, as if Keats himself had written the ode for this exact hell. On the third night, the fire guttered out. I opened my eyes, now a vivid, unnatural crimson, and the world snapped into impossible clarity. Every dust mote in the air, every thread in the sheets, every vein pulsing under the skin of the man waiting at my bedside. Carlisle Cullen. He hadn't left me, not once. "You're safe," he said, his voice steady but his eyes shadowed with guilt. "You're with me now, Edward. Do you understand?" I sat up, too fast, too strong, and the cot groaned under me. My hands flexed, marble-hard and flawless. No fever. No weakness. Only a gnawing hunger that clawed at my throat like shards of glass. "What... what did you do to me?" He didn't flinch from my gaze. "I changed you. You're like me now, a vampire. Immortal. Stronger than any man. But cursed with thirst." Vampire. The word should have been laughable, a fairy tale from the old country stories my grandmother told. But the proof was in my veins, in the way I could hear his non-beating heart echoing my own silence, in the predatory sharpness of my senses. He explained it all that night, pacing the small isolation room he'd commandeered in the hospital's underbelly: his own turning in 1663 by a starving vampire in London sewers; centuries of wandering Europe, studying medicine, fighting the monster within; his vow to never kill, to feed only on animals; the loneliness that had driven him to this act of desperation.	Three Lives Chicago, September 1918. The air was thick with the stink of death, camphor, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood that no amount of bleach could erase. The Spanish flu had turned the city into a charnel house, hospitals overflowing with the dying, streets echoing with the wail of ambulances and the muffled sobs of the bereaved. I was just another boy in a sea of them, seventeen and fever-ravaged, my body a battlefield I was losing inch by inch. My mother, Elizabeth, went first. She had been my anchor, fierce, unyielding, the kind of woman who could stare down a storm and make it blink. But the flu didn't care about strength. It took her in a delirium of heat and whispers, her hand clutching mine until the very end. "Save him," she begged the doctor hovering at her bedside, her voice a ragged thread. "Whatever it takes, save my Edward." I didn't hear his reply. The fever was pulling me under by then, a roaring tide that drowned everything in fire and shadow. I remember fragments: the cool press of a cloth on my forehead, the murmur of prayers from the nuns, the distant chime of a clock striking midnight. And then, nothing, until I woke to a face that shouldn't have existed in that hellish ward. He was standing over me like a vision from a Renaissance painting, the kind my father used to drag me to see at the Art Institute on Sundays. Golden hair swept back from a forehead as smooth as marble, skin pale and flawless under the dim gaslight, eyes a strange, molten amber that seemed to glow from within. He wore a white coat stained with the day's labors, but there was no exhaustion in his posture, no human frailty. He smelled of crisp winter pine and something sharper, like the edge of a scalpel, clean, cold, and utterly out of place amid the rot. I tried to speak, to ask who he was, but my throat was a desert. My lungs burned with every shallow breath. He leaned closer, his expression a mask of sorrow that didn't match the steady calm in his voice."Edward," he said softly, as if we'd known each other for years. "I'm Dr. Carlisle Cullen. Your mother... she asked me to save you." I managed a weak nod, or thought I did. The room spun, the fever cresting like a wave about to break. His hand, cool as stone, brushed my cheek, and for a split second, the pain eased. Then his face hardened with resolve, and he whispered words that made no sense at the time."Forgive me, Edward. This is the only way." He bent down, his lips grazing my neck like a lover's kiss. But it wasn't a kiss. It was fire, liquid agony exploding through my veins, searing every nerve, every cell. I screamed, or tried to, but the sound was lost in the inferno. The world dissolved into three days of unrelenting torment, a hell where time stretched into eternity. I burned alive, my body remaking itself in flames that no water could quench. Visions flickered through the haze: my mother's face, stern and loving; my father's laugh, cut short by the war; childhood memories of summer fields and stolen kisses with girls whose names I'd forgotten. And always, that golden doctor, his voice a distant anchor murmuring apologies and promises. Sometimes the words were only fragments, half-remembered prayers or lines of poetry he must have carried for centuries. I clung to them the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. Once, through the roar of the fire, I heard him clearly: “Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death…” His voice never wavered, steady and low, as if Keats himself had written the ode for this exact hell. On the third night, the fire guttered out. I opened my eyes, now a vivid, unnatural crimson, and the world snapped into impossible clarity. Every dust mote in the air, every thread in the sheets, every vein pulsing under the skin of the man waiting at my bedside. Carlisle Cullen. He hadn't left me, not once. "You're safe," he said, his voice steady but his eyes shadowed with guilt. "You're with me now, Edward. Do you understand?" I sat up, too fast, too strong, and the cot groaned under me. My hands flexed, marble-hard and flawless. No fever. No weakness. Only a gnawing hunger that clawed at my throat like shards of glass. "What... what did you do to me?" He didn't flinch from my gaze. "I changed you. You're like me now, a vampire. Immortal. Stronger than any man. But cursed with thirst." Vampire. The word should have been laughable, a fairy tale from the old country stories my grandmother told. But the proof was in my veins, in the way I could hear his non-beating heart echoing my own silence, in the predatory sharpness of my senses. He explained it all that night, pacing the small isolation room he'd commandeered in the hospital's underbelly: his own turning in 1663 by a starving vampire in London sewers; centuries of wandering Europe, studying medicine, fighting the monster within; his vow to never kill, to feed only on animals; the loneliness that had driven him to this act of desperation. "I couldn't let you die," he repeated, his voice cracking for the first time. "Your mother... she saw something in me. Begged me. And I... I've been alone for so long." Alone. The word hung between us like smoke. I was an orphan now, twice over, human family gone, and this new existence thrust upon me without choice. But as the thirst built to a frenzy, he took my hand and led me out into the night, teaching me to hunt in the shadowed woods beyond the city. Deer blood on my tongue, warm and wild, quenching the fire but leaving a hollow ache. We returned to the tenement apartment he had rented as a solitary man: one narrow room, a single bed, books stacked on every surface because there had never been space for anything, or anyone else. It was never meant for two. We made it fit anyway. We had been back in the apartment only a short while, the taste of deer blood still strange on my tongue, when the voices began. At first I thought the thirst had returned in some new, crueler form. Hallucinations to torment me further. But the words were too clear, too distinct. They came in fragments, overlapping, like a dozen conversations happening in the tenement rooms around us: a woman humming a lullaby to her child two floors below; a man arguing with his wife over money; a boy my age (human age) daydreaming about a girl in his class, her name repeating like a prayer. I pressed my palms to my temples, eyes wide. “Carlisle,” I whispered, voice shaking. “I can hear them. Everyone. Their thoughts.” He froze in the act of stacking his medical journals on the small table, turning slowly to face me. For the first time since my turning, uncertainty flickered across his perfect features. He crossed the room in two silent steps and knelt in front of where I sat on the edge of the bed, taking my hands gently in his. “Tell me exactly what you hear,” he said, calm but intent. I did. Haltingly at first, then in a rush. The neighbors’ secrets, their fears, their small joys. When I finished, the silence stretched between us, heavy with wonder. Carlisle’s thumbs brushed over my knuckles, a soothing rhythm. “Some of us,” he said quietly, “carry forward something from our human lives. A talent, sharpened by the change. I have met vampires who could track across continents, others who could manipulate the emotions of those around them. Gifts, or perhaps echoes of who we were.” He looked at me then with something soft and fierce in his eyes, the same expression he had worn when he first carried me to this bed. “And you, Edward. You were always listening, weren’t you? Even as a boy. Watching people, trying to understand them, to feel less alone in the world. Your mother told me once that you could finish her sentences before she spoke them, that you seemed to know when someone needed kindness before they asked for it.” His voice dropped, almost reverent. “This gift. It suits you. It means you will never again have to wonder if you are truly seen. And it means.” He paused, a faint, sad smile touching his mouth. “It means I will never be able to hide from you how dearly I already care for you. How grateful I am that you are here. That you are with me.” I felt heat rise in my face. Pointless, bloodless heat. And looked down at our joined hands. The voices around us faded to a distant murmur. In that moment, there was only his mind, open and steady and warm, and the quiet certainty that whatever this new life held, we would face it together. For the first week, I was a storm contained in skin, raging at him for stealing my humanity, terrified of the monster I'd become, collapsing into fits of dry sobs that wracked my unbreakable body. He bore it all with infinite patience, sitting beside me through the long nights, reading aloud from Shakespeare or the Bible, his voice a soothing balm. He fed me from his own hunts when I was too weak, brought me clothes that fit my new, eternal frame, and answered every question with unflinching honesty. Those first weeks were a revelation in restraint. I could hear the heartbeats of every human for miles, smell their blood like perfume, feel the pull in my teeth every second. And there was Carlisle, moving among them at the hospital, stitching wounds, setting bones, delivering babies, never once faltering, never once taking what his body screamed for. He had done this for almost three hundred years. Alone, until me. One night, after I had nearly lost control near a dying patient and fled into the woods shaking with hunger and self-loathing, I asked him how he stood it. “How do you keep from becoming the monster?” He looked at me for a long moment, eyes steady and ancient. “I believe we still have souls, Edward. I believe God has not abandoned us. Every life I save instead of take is proof that we can be more than what we were made to be. Mercy is a choice we make every day. I choose it because someone must prove it is possible.” I looked at him then, really looked, and understood something that would never leave me, no matter what came after. He was the best man I would ever know. Not because he had saved my life, though he had, but because he had spent nearly three centuries trying to be worthy of the one he had been given. He believed a monster could choose not to be monstrous. I decided, right there under the cold stars, that if such a thing were possible, I would learn it from him. I would follow him for the rest of eternity if that was what it took to become half as good. His touch became my lifeline. A hand on my shoulder to steady me, fingers brushing mine as he passed a book. I didn't notice at first how those touches lingered, how his eyes softened when he looked at me. I was too lost in my grief, in the strangeness of immortality. But as the days blurred into weeks, the cramped little apartment became a sanctuary. We talked for hours, about the war raging across the ocean, the ethics of medicine, the existence of God in a world that allowed creatures like us. He shared stories of his long life: treating plague victims in 17th-century England, studying under Voltaire in Paris, crossing the Atlantic to escape the old world's hunters. I began to see him not as my maker, but as a man, brilliant, tormented, achingly kind. He had saved countless lives as a doctor, even as his own stretched on in isolation. "Why me?" I asked one night, sitting by the fire he'd lit more for comfort than warmth.He hesitated, staring into the flames. "Because in you, I saw... possibility. A companion. Someone to share the burden." Companion. The word sparked something in me, a warmth that had nothing to do with blood. That night, as he rose to retire to his study, I caught his wrist. He froze, his pulse, that false, remembered rhythm, quickening under my fingers. "Edward," he murmured, a warning laced with something deeper.I didn't let go. Instead, I stood, closing the distance between us. He was only a few inches taller, but in that moment, he seemed eternal, untouchable. I tilted my face up, searching his eyes. "Don't leave me alone tonight." He searched my face, conflict warring in those amber depths. Then, with a sigh that carried centuries of longing, he cupped my cheek. “I will never leave you, Edward,” he said, voice low and fierce. “Not tonight. Not ever. You will always be with me.” The words felt like an oath. He bent to kiss me again, deeper this time, and when my knees buckled he caught me, lifted me as if I weighed nothing, and carried me down the short hallway to his bedroom. He laid me on the bed that had been empty for two hundred and fifty-six years, then followed me down, hands already sliding under my shirt, mouth on my throat where the venom had burned three nights earlier. That was the beginning. The months that followed were a revelation. We learned each other slowly, reverently. The tiny space became our world, a place where the rules of men didn't apply. By day, he worked at the hospital, saving those he could amid the flu's carnage, while I hid from the sun, reading his books and practicing control. By night, we hunted together, shoulders brushing in the moonlit woods, then returned to tangled sheets and whispered confessions. He taught me how to walk among people unnoticed, how to pretend to breathe and blink, how to quiet the thirst. In the still hours he taught me love, the slow steady kind built in silence and careful touch. I learned the lines of his body: the faint scar on his collarbone from his human life, the catch in his breath when I kissed the hollow of his throat, the gentle strength in hands that could break stone yet held me like something fragile. One night, lying close with my head on his chest, he spoke softly into the dark. “I have always wanted a family,” he said. “Not the kind I was born into, but one I choose. People to care for, to protect, to grow with. I thought forever would keep me from that dream. Maybe it will not.” He brushed his fingers through my hair and smiled against my temple. “Maybe we are only the beginning.” In our closest moments he always called me Edward, his voice rough with feeling. I called him Carlisle, or love, or simply mine. And that was how our forever truly started.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75582121?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["kasperhowl"], "language": "English", "title": "Three Lives"}
How to Feel Nothing - Akira Subway lights burned overhead with a familiar buzzing hum. Akira fumbled with the hem of her school uniform skirt as the subway car was filled with the growling of machine grating, shifting of the wheels, and the usual moans from the bound Toy-Girl tied up in the corner. There she goes again. Ugh. Akira thought, wrinkling her face as the smell of the woman’s sex filled her nostrils. God, I can’t wait to be with him. Only a few more days Akira. Then, no more subway, no more school, all we have to do is make him happy. She comforted herself with these thoughts almost constantly. She peeked a glance over at the Toy-Girl, who had been tied in a doggy-style fashion, exposed sweaty, glistening breasts bobbing outward with every thrust from the business suit from behind, both briefly illuminated by the dim neon sign above her. Her half-ponytail of bubble-gum pink hair and bright purple lipstick lost their alternative-scene vibe when combined with a permanent O-shaped gaping mouth. Her eyeliner ran down her stained cheeks with every thrust, and whatever black one-piece she was wearing was torn and pushed aside from men who have long since left the train car. A strained masculine voice spoke up over the moans. “My name’s David, say my name!” “Ohhhh, David! Ohh, mmmmm” Toy-girl said, halfheartedly. He groaned a response in satisfaction, and Akira imagined his pitiful cock spurting loads in the slut’s asshole. She assumed the Toy-girl thought he was finished, because she then heard a hard Slap. “I’m getting my fucking money’s worth, don’t make me report you!” the man barked as the Toy-girl sobbed. Like all the others, the neon yellow-green words hung on the inside of the car above the pair. “Eve-Corp’s FAVORITE Toy - $9.95 a min!” Next to the ad was a large-print holographic red sign in white lettering. PAY BEFORE YOU PUMP. PROPERTY THEFT NOT TOLERATED. NO REFUNDS Questions? Call our support number at 1-800-987-0422 A vending machine chip-reader was installed next to the Toy-girl, a glowing yellow IN PROCESS banner dancing lights on her sweaty back. Akira cringed internally like she did every time she saw them. The semen-encrusted woman herself started shrieking and moaning like she was having the best time of her life at the mention of money. Akira knew. She heard them all shriek like that no matter how the person attached to cock on the other side of her body looked, how long they lasted. Bitc- No, Akira She made a face to herself and took a deep breath. Women. Women like that make us all look bad, giving it out for less than $10 a minute. Some guys don’t even last that long. She double checked her school bag to make sure she had all of her homework completed, then crossed her legs daintily and rested her hands upon her navy-blue pleated, starched skirt covering her down to her knees. The Toy-Girl’s shrieks turned to whines, then wails. Akira was slightly surprised, they almost sounded genuine. Only one more month, then I’ll be free from all of this. She waited like that, almost unmoving, as three larger men entered the train car. She smelled them before she heard them. Their clothes were dark, nondescript, and a bit tattered. One of the brutes swung around a half-full liquor bottle. They approached the Toy-Girl, still getting anally fucked by the original “client”. The largest vagrant approached the Toy-Girl’s face and started undoing his pants, Akira heard the clear jangling of his belt buckle and keys. “Hey, there’s still another hole over here, you wanna be a nice guy and let me just-” He was abruptly cut off by the businessman barking angrily, pumping his cock aggressively into her backside. “No, no, no! I paid! This one is mine until my card runs out! You fellas wanna fuck off!? I don’t even want you shitstains watching me!” Akira didn’t hear any of the trio respond, then the sound of fist hitting skin elicited an audible “oomph!” as the businessman’s face met fist. Another thud clanged presumably as his body hit the floor. The whines of the Toy-girl resumed, but it was now paired with a different boarish grunting. Does sex always make people this stupid? It felt like ages before the group finally ran out of time on the businessman’s prepaid time. “Ahhhh. This one’s spent.” The large brute thrusted two more times before a loud and deep robotic voice rang from his chip implant. “PENDING. PENDING. 3 SECONDS 21 MILLISECONDS.” Akira counted in her head. Three seconds, almost on the dot, the guy pulled out and raised his hands in defense. “I’m done, I’m done. Fucking God. Fuck.” They men shifted awkwardly as the first brute stuffed his dick back in his dirty jeans. The Toy-girl looked up at them with cautious doe-eyes, quiet and expressionless for once. One of the members must have finally looked around the near-empty subway car, because Akira heard a slightly higher-pitched voice from right behind her. “Hey, Frank. This one looks free.” A couple sets of footsteps approached her, and she	How to Feel Nothing - Akira Subway lights burned overhead with a familiar buzzing hum. Akira fumbled with the hem of her school uniform skirt as the subway car was filled with the growling of machine grating, shifting of the wheels, and the usual moans from the bound Toy-Girl tied up in the corner. There she goes again. Ugh. Akira thought, wrinkling her face as the smell of the woman’s sex filled her nostrils. God, I can’t wait to be with him. Only a few more days Akira. Then, no more subway, no more school, all we have to do is make him happy. She comforted herself with these thoughts almost constantly. She peeked a glance over at the Toy-Girl, who had been tied in a doggy-style fashion, exposed sweaty, glistening breasts bobbing outward with every thrust from the business suit from behind, both briefly illuminated by the dim neon sign above her. Her half-ponytail of bubble-gum pink hair and bright purple lipstick lost their alternative-scene vibe when combined with a permanent O-shaped gaping mouth. Her eyeliner ran down her stained cheeks with every thrust, and whatever black one-piece she was wearing was torn and pushed aside from men who have long since left the train car. A strained masculine voice spoke up over the moans. “My name’s David, say my name!” “Ohhhh, David! Ohh, mmmmm” Toy-girl said, halfheartedly. He groaned a response in satisfaction, and Akira imagined his pitiful cock spurting loads in the slut’s asshole. She assumed the Toy-girl thought he was finished, because she then heard a hard Slap. “I’m getting my fucking money’s worth, don’t make me report you!” the man barked as the Toy-girl sobbed. Like all the others, the neon yellow-green words hung on the inside of the car above the pair. “Eve-Corp’s FAVORITE Toy - $9.95 a min!” Next to the ad was a large-print holographic red sign in white lettering. PAY BEFORE YOU PUMP. PROPERTY THEFT NOT TOLERATED. NO REFUNDS Questions? Call our support number at 1-800-987-0422 A vending machine chip-reader was installed next to the Toy-girl, a glowing yellow IN PROCESS banner dancing lights on her sweaty back. Akira cringed internally like she did every time she saw them. The semen-encrusted woman herself started shrieking and moaning like she was having the best time of her life at the mention of money. Akira knew. She heard them all shriek like that no matter how the person attached to cock on the other side of her body looked, how long they lasted. Bitc- No, Akira She made a face to herself and took a deep breath. Women. Women like that make us all look bad, giving it out for less than $10 a minute. Some guys don’t even last that long. She double checked her school bag to make sure she had all of her homework completed, then crossed her legs daintily and rested her hands upon her navy-blue pleated, starched skirt covering her down to her knees. The Toy-Girl’s shrieks turned to whines, then wails. Akira was slightly surprised, they almost sounded genuine. Only one more month, then I’ll be free from all of this. She waited like that, almost unmoving, as three larger men entered the train car. She smelled them before she heard them. Their clothes were dark, nondescript, and a bit tattered. One of the brutes swung around a half-full liquor bottle. They approached the Toy-Girl, still getting anally fucked by the original “client”. The largest vagrant approached the Toy-Girl’s face and started undoing his pants, Akira heard the clear jangling of his belt buckle and keys. “Hey, there’s still another hole over here, you wanna be a nice guy and let me just-” He was abruptly cut off by the businessman barking angrily, pumping his cock aggressively into her backside. “No, no, no! I paid! This one is mine until my card runs out! You fellas wanna fuck off!? I don’t even want you shitstains watching me!” Akira didn’t hear any of the trio respond, then the sound of fist hitting skin elicited an audible “oomph!” as the businessman’s face met fist. Another thud clanged presumably as his body hit the floor. The whines of the Toy-girl resumed, but it was now paired with a different boarish grunting. Does sex always make people this stupid? It felt like ages before the group finally ran out of time on the businessman’s prepaid time. “Ahhhh. This one’s spent.” The large brute thrusted two more times before a loud and deep robotic voice rang from his chip implant. “PENDING. PENDING. 3 SECONDS 21 MILLISECONDS.” Akira counted in her head. Three seconds, almost on the dot, the guy pulled out and raised his hands in defense. “I’m done, I’m done. Fucking God. Fuck.” They men shifted awkwardly as the first brute stuffed his dick back in his dirty jeans. The Toy-girl looked up at them with cautious doe-eyes, quiet and expressionless for once. One of the members must have finally looked around the near-empty subway car, because Akira heard a slightly higher-pitched voice from right behind her. “Hey, Frank. This one looks free.” A couple sets of footsteps approached her, and she took a deep breath as she remembered what to do. A couple taps on her neck from her pointer and middle finger- a kneejerk response at this point- and all three men crumpled to the ground, clutching their ears and screaming viscerally. At one point the sound of their suffering used to bother her, but after so many incidents she stopped caring much, especially not for these thugs. No noise was made outside of their heads, but Akira assumed what was blaring through their skulls. She remembered when she was first told about the implant add-on. “It’s from the government!” Her mother said cheerily. “But I don’t need it! I don’t want it!” she remembered protesting. “The boys don’t have to wear it!” Her mother had said the same thing she had always defaulted to when the topic of “but the boys don't have to!” came up. "Times are changing, sweetie. It’s to keep you safe. Be a good girl and choose your battles.” When her family informed her that the government had found a suitor, a wealthy one at that, the implant software update was sent in the mail with clear instructions on when and how to activate it. She was told that if someone had threatened her in any way, she was to tap her first and second finger against the wireless controls that were already installed in her implant. I’m glad the good women have their protection, at least. Even though bitc- Akira we know not to say that. Wo-men like her over there make these brutes think we are all slu- improper. The men gathered themselves back together, presumably as the shrill “alarm” briefly ceased, warning them to keep a clear distance. “Fucking shit! Fuck lady, damn! We get the fucking point bitch!” She followed her training and didn’t acknowledge them. She composed herself properly and didn’t let any of these events have any effect on her demeanor. She straightened her skirt once more, not even glancing in their direction. “What’re we doing, choom!?” “We’re not fucking with this fucking bitch, go. Fuck, GO!” The large one made rushing hand gestures to his lackeys, making extra sure to not touch her with his oafish fingers. As they travelled to a different car, she saw the holographic sign overhead the front of the car update with her stop. A small voice arose from the whore. “What did you do to them? I’ll pay anything…” She almost groaned in disgust, but cleverly disguised it by pretending she was clearing her throat. She cautiously stood up, remembering to do it the proper way her tutor had taught her- straight back and straight up. “No, wait! I’ll give you my whole paycheck! Please, ma’am, please?” the Toy-Girl whined as Akira walked onto the bustling platform, treating the girl the same way she treated the guys. Soon she would meet her to-be husband, and she needed everything to be perfect. —-- Akira was met at the station by her brother, who was dressed in a beaten-up hoodie and ball cap. Through the throngs of people outside the busy station, she barely noticed him , almost accidentally walking past him entirely. She turned at the right time and approached him, doing her best to stomp quietly as she whisper-fussed. “What gives!? Why isn’t dad and mom picking me up!? I almost walked right past you!” Her brother shrugged and grimaced as they got into the car. “They had plans, I guess. Whatever, you fuckin’ found me. You know you’re not supposed to yell at me, it isnt laaady-like or whatever” he made a goofy mocking gesture as he enunciated before having a fit of laughter. She softly punched his arm and huffed, but inside she was grateful he came to pick her up. She was happy to be as far away from people as possible. “I’m just ready for this shit to end.” She gasped and held a hand up reactively to her mouth, as if her curse word was a wound. Her brother, Devon, laughed. “oooooOOOO you said shit! Oh no, the world is ending!” He mockingly put his arms up in a panic. Her face blushed. “Don’t tell!” He barely tried to contain his shit-eating grin. “Oh. I might.” “You wouldn’t. I need everything to be perfect, if Samson hears about this-” “You know, I’m kinda sick of that pencil-neck. I bet it would be fucking hilarious if he turned out to be one of those guys who just EXXXPLODE when they get the slightest bit ticked off.” He imitated a bomb blowing up with wild goofy gestures. “Do you think his forehead vein would pop from being stuffed in that getup he wears all the time?” “Samson is a fine tutor. He’s one of the best, you know he’s doing us a favor, right?” “Yeah, yeah.” Devon’s voice calmed down to a low mutter as he started up the car. “He’s going to make you a cardboard cutout picture-perfect wife until your wedding day when some random guy turns you into a cheap whore.” The last words were barely more audible than a whisper, but Akira heard it clear as day. Her face slowly contorted and scrunched up as if in slow-motion. “Devon!” she hissed. “Disgusting! How-!” “Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, let’s just be quiet, here, I’ll turn on the radio.” His voice calmed down, but underneath the exasperated tone, it reflected a hint of sadness for a brief moment, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. The radio blared the latest samey pop-rock-rap song, words indiscernible as always, until a radio broadcaster’s voice filled the second of empty space at the last few seconds of the song. “Hey, hey, everyone, this is 76.4, and we’ve got some news updates to make your commute worth living!” “Ugh, let’s just change it.” She reached towards the radio, but he thrust his right hand out towards her. “No, no, the news has been crazy lately! Can’t afford to miss these.” Devon turned up the radio dial. The news broadcaster's voice continued, detailing a couple robberies, business closures, and yet another new street drug software to hit the markets, undercut and expounded by tacky soundboard noises. Akira gazed out the window and let herself get lost in the small patch of clouds she could see through the tall buildings. I wonder what he’s going to be like. I don’t even know his name, Dad said he’s nice. She closed her eyes and imagined living in a luxurious penthouse apartment, complete with a hot tub roof, and a personal chef. All I know is that he’s got enough money to make sure I don’t even dream of working… Soon, they pulled into the side of town where they live, which happened to be far from the nice apartments and corporate buildings, but things could definitely be worse. Their meager apartment felt crowded, but at least she didn’t have to share a bed with Devon. She was greeted at the door by her frantic mother. Her normal straightened and neatly kept brown hair now tangled and frizzy, and a piercing look in her eyes reflected a frenzy. “What are you doing!? We have to get ready! Come on!” Her mom, in jeans and an old t-shirt, grabbed her by the shoulders and guide-forced Akira hastily into the house. “Mom! What’s going on with you!? Why aren’t you wearing your, uh, outside clothes?” Her mom stopped dead in her tracks. It was risky to even step outside wearing the wrong clothes. “Didn’t your brother tell you!? The wedding has been moved up!” “What!? When!?” A flash of nervousness and excitement hit Akira at the same time. “Tomorrow!” Akira felt a panic creep into her at a sharp pace. “I-I don’t think I’m ready..” “It doesn’t matter, you have to be. Just try really hard! No pressure!” “Where’s dad?” “Working late. Come on, Samson’s here, he will sort everything out. She watched her mom wipe her sweaty hands on the towel hanging out of her jeans. Samson was waiting patiently, in his usual attire. Regardless of the weather, he wore a thick wool overcoat on top of a formal vest. His posture, immaculate. His face, hidden behind his owl-glasses, always seemed to make him look stressed- and with the deep-set wrinkles Akira could never guess whether he was 40 or 60. Nevertheless, he was probably the one man Akira wanted to see right now. They went through their rigid performative schedule. Posture, etiquette, the cadence of her voice, luckily he had been advising her for almost a year now in preparation for this event. While Akira’s family was not in the poorhouse, she had no idea how her parents afforded him, and it always seemed rude to ask. They went through the training again and again, until Akira felt her ankles would give out. “Do you think I’m ready, Samson?” Akira asked gingerly. Like always, he sniffed sharply in resentment, his trademark vein throbbing in his head down to his neck. “Dear, you are far from ready.” He exhaled. “Just remember to not speak unless spoken to, always agree, and no cursing!.” The last words stung, as if he had been reading her mind. “Regardless. You are not my problem anymore. Lets just hope your dear husband doesn’t get sick of you.” Akira laughed, causing his eyes to roll. He left, and Akira was saddened slightly. I think I’ll miss the old pencil-neck. Like clockwork, her implant informed her of a call coming in. The caller ID was routinely monitored with constant firewalls to limit conversations with the “wrong” people. Today, however, it displayed a familiar name: Natalie. Natalie and Akira had been friends since middle school, and she was one of the few people allowed to talk to Akira anymore. “For your protection” Akira’s dad had said. “We wouldn’t want you doing anything… uncouth.” They both knew what that meant, even though Akira had no interest in boys at her school. Akira excitedly answered, seeing Natalie’s face on hologram. “Natalie! Oh my goodness, it’s been so long!! How are you doing!? How’s Sevan!?” Natalie had been married off months ago, and these calls were too short and too far between. However, instead of her usual chipper self, Natalie seemed almost sullen. “He’s good.” Akira turned her head, turning the entire projection with her. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?” “It’s nothing, how are you doing!? I heard your wedding is tomorrow!” Akira thought for a moment. Right. Mom must’ve told her. “Yes! I’m so excited! Did you see my wedding dress? It’s beautiful! Here let me sho- wait no never mind I guess you’ll see it tomorrow!” Natalie’s eyes flicked to the left of the screen. “About that… I’m sorry Akira. I won’t be able to make it.” What!? “What!? Why!? Is everyone ok? Are you sick?” Her eyes frantically darted around the screen to check for any fever or paleness in Natalie’s tanned face. “No, no we’re alright. I’m sorry, I don’t know why. Sevan said I shouldn’t go, and I wouldn’t dare go without him. You understand, right?” Akira was crushed, and she felt a new resentment for Natalie’s husband brewing. However, her training kicked in, and the only words she could muster was “Of course. I completely understand. I’ll send you pictures?” Natalie nodded quickly and then abruptly hung up on her. Akira sighed. The guest list was small already, and Natalie was kind-of the only guest she was looking forward to seeing. They had talked about their weddings since they were kids. It’s so strange for her to be fine with missing it… She quickly dismissed the thought. Probably just her training too. I hope my husband isn’t so shitty! It’s so unfair! Nonetheless, Akira decided to focus on good things tonight, humming and practicing her training thinking excitedly about her Prince Charming-to-be until she fell asleep, smiling. —-- The next day, Akira was awoken frantically by her mom, who seemed to have dodged any amount of sleep. The day went by in a blur as Akira was rushed through makeup, plucking and trimming, and she got her hair fixed into a modest chest-length cut. Before long, 6pm rolled around, and it was finally time. She was dressed in her long floor-length wedding gown, riding in the back of her parent’s beat up 4-door sedan. Her dad talked as they drove, but her mind was elsewhere. “We got you removed from that school, luckily you were already 18 so it was done in minutes.” “Mmhm” “The news said there was a robbery on that street over there.” “Mhm.” “Got a couple of the guys from work to come- oh an’ I’m sure you’re happy to see Natalie!” “Yeah. mm.” “Dear, Natalie wasn’t able to make it.” Her mom said in a hushed whisper from her modest flowery sundress. “Oh, well that’s unfo- anyways here we are!” They pulled into the long expansive driveway of a beautiful home. An usher directed their car, and when they got out, Akira got to admire the view for a moment, noticing the blue and purple azaleas neatly trimmed next to the planters. The front of the home was spectacular, and noticeably constructed to look more aged than she expected. The front of the pale brownstone house was line with short tear-drop shaped pines, and the doors to the home were carved wood, adorned with large knockers and stone cherubs. Her parents walked with her up to the front doors, standing in front. Akira’s eyes darted around, slightly concerned “Shouldn’t we find a side door- isn’t it bad luck for him to see me before the wedding?” Her parents kept speaking as if she said nothing. She took her queue to be silent. One of the doors opened, and an older gentleman dressed in an expensive pinstripe suit answered, holding a crisply folded set of papers. He graciously let them inside with a welcoming gloved white hand. Akira looked him up and down in awe. A butler! I must have hit the jackpot! In stark contrast to the exterior, the inside was decorated with lovely black marble, recently shined. Akira thought about how intimidating it must be to clean floors like this, her mind wandering to extravagant places. We’ll probably have a maid, at least. She went to take another step forward to get a glance of the main rooms, and her mother sharply grabbed her hand. “Stay, Akira.” She hissed a whisper. She saw out of the corner of her eye as the butler and her father walked a few paces out of earshot and into a side room, most likely a kitchen. However, something felt off. There were no bustling people anywhere, no decorations, no catering. She tried to put it out of her mind. They probably set something up in the backyard… but where is everyone? She could only hear muffled conversation, but she wasn’t able to strain her ears enough to catch a piece of the conversation before two sets of footsteps returned. Her mom lit up. “Is it done?” Her father nodded, and his voice almost cracked with how high his pitch became. “It’s a deal. 50k now, 50k after.” 50K? Is he selling drugs? People? The next thought hit her like a wave. Oh no. “Dad? What’s going on?” He didn’t speak, only briefly glared in her direction. Her mom sighed. “Oh thank god.” and then she turned to Akira, looking her in the eyes. “Remember your training, don’t fuck this up for us!” Tears welled up in Akira’s eyes, sheepishly she asked “The wedding?” Her mom sighed again, took her hand and shook her head. She opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but then hastily closed it. With one last pat on Akira’s pale hand, she walked away after her husband. “Mom? Mom!? Where are you going!?” A tear streamed down her cheek as she watched the butler close the old door behind them. Akira looked over to her left at the empty foyer, now feeling afraid. The butler looked her up and down slowly, stopping at her chest. “Come. They want you to wear something else.” He turned to walk. Akira turned too, but her legs felt like concrete. She looked towards the door. I could run. I could follow mom and dad, they’d take me home with them! Unfortunately, she knew that would probably not be the case based on their excited conversation before. I’ve never seen that look in dad’s eyes before… She nervously gasped out a reply. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m supposed to be here!” she started to turn towards the entrance, raising her fingers to her neck, her only defense mechanism. This is obviously a joke. They’re going to jump out the minute I walk in the next room. It’s gotta a big joke… right? The butler, however, did not seem to be apart of this joke. His face reflected little feeling, but his demeanor was clear. “Akira, it was?” She nodded. He rolled his eyes and went a different direction. “It’s in your best interest if you come with me. Their best interests as well.” nodding in the direction of her departing family. He spoke to her respectfully, but there were still undertones of condescension. “Also, I think you will be pleasantly surprised to learn your software is not compatible in this home.” Her eyes widened, and she tapped above the chip slot in her neck. Unsurprisingly, the butler was correct. He tapped his chip and a hologram of a data menu screen popped up. He entered a few keys, and a sharp electrical jolt crackled up her spine. Akira cried out, clutched her throat, her spine, trying to claw the immense pain out of her body before it abruptly dissipated. Tears streamed down her face. “I hope this has been a helpful lesson. Now come.” He beckoned with pristine white fingers like he would a dog. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, her thoughts scrambled and haywire as the crushing realization hits her. No wedding… No wealth… Not even my implant can help me here… Mom and Dad were in on it… Was Devon? She remembered her quick conversation with her friend. Was Natalie…? She desperately tried to remember what happened at Natalie’s wedding, but for some reason she couldn’t think of anything but vague pictures that were strikingly similar to their long late-night conversations. She followed the servant to a bathroom. Laying on the sink counter was a different white dress. “Put this on. I’ll give you some privacy.” And the butler closed the bathroom door behind him with a ‘click’ of the lock and the sound of retreating footsteps. On top of a small dress was a thin, sheer white bra and matching pair of panties. Strangely enough, they seemed to be at least a size smaller that her chest and waist. The fabric felt cheap, and it roughly grazed against her pale nipples, making them hard in response. Likewise, the panties rode up immediately after putting them on, almost forcing themselves inside her holes. She blushed. Am I really feeling violated over a pair of panties? They can’t even get my size right… Whoever ‘they’ even are… She turned her eyes onto the pearly cocktail dress. Unlike her flowing gown, this one barely came inches down her thighs. It was skin tight, but almost perfectly fitted to her measurements. Instead of any pattern, it was silky and iridescent with small, short sleeves. This seems more appropriate for a nightclub than a wedding, that’s for sure… Akira stared at herself in the mirror. She had inherited her mom’s brown hair, dad’s blue eyes. She usually wore looser clothes that didn't accentuate her chest and ass, but in this dress it almost made them both look bigger. She wouldn’t have described herself as fit, but she always appreciated her thigh gap and smaller waist. After putting on the matching heels to complete the ensemble, she noticed one last accessory. They looked like thick bracelets, made out of a reflective silver metal. Those were probably left here by accident. There’s no way they would go with any of this, it’s ridiculous enough. Her thinking was interrupted by brief knocking as the butler let himself in. He scowled at the cuffs still sitting on the sink counter. “Sorry, I think someone forgot those there…” She said quietly. “No, ma’am. Those are for you. Let me show you.” In an instant he was on her, grabbing her right wrist forcefully. She tried to wriggle out of her grasp. “No, no I don’t think they are!” It was pointless, regardless of age he seemed to have a strength and precision not reflected in his quaint demeanor. Before a minute had passed, the shackles were around her wrists. The butler held her arms behind her back. “Hey! What are you-” she started, but was interrupted by a quiet ‘beep’. The butler let go, but when she tried to move her arms, they felt glued at the wrist “There you go. Now you are presentable.” He led her deeper into the home, and quiet voices came from a ballroom at the end of a hall. Akira felt her breath hitch in fear. Her world was slowly coming undone and her mind was racing with fear. When she saw the inside of the dark ballroom, it wasn’t the clusters of strange men and women in black-tie formalwear at the tables, or the scantily-dressed servers tending the patrons that terrified her the most. It was the short line of women, all wearing the same outfit Akira was wearing at the front of the room, on a temporary stage, standing at attention, hands behind their backs with their heads bowed low. A few men at the closest table whistled at Akira as their eyes followed. She detected a hungry look, like she was prey. A hopeless thought came to her I am prey at this point. They could do anything to me, and I’d be powerless to stop them. The butler grabbed the attention of a hostess who seemed to be on three calls at once via her implant. “Which one is this!?” She gestured towards Akira. The butler grabbed Akira by the shoulders and thrust her forward, tapping his fingers on the implant in her neck. A bright red number “074” appeared holographically, detailing her government identification, measurements, and to Akira’s horror, a contrasting banner at the top read “VIRGIN” “Got it. Move her up.” The woman said curtly as she swiped the screen away. The butler nodded, and pushed Akira, guiding her by her elbows, careful to not have his hand or any of the patrons graze any part of her as if she was made of glass. He walked her up the stage behind the other women. “Wait here until someone tells you otherwise.” Alone, helpless, and terrified, Akira could only nod. I’m so fucked.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75582131?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Amazingbazil"], "language": "English", "title": "How to Feel Nothing - Akira"}
Private Lessons “Pssst. Korra. Come outside. You gotta see this!” Bolin pokes his head through the cloth dividers out front of Narook’s Seaweed Noodlery. He grins an enormous grin. Korra looks up from her bowl of noodles and raises a brow at him. He waves her over, grinning wider. Korra considers it for a moment, idly tapping her chopsticks against the lip of the bowl and studying her distorted reflection in the broth. Whatever it is, it must be pretty good for Bolin to even think of coming between her and a hot bowl of noodles. Bolin’s grin falters, wobbling like her reflection. He looks her up and down, and she must look as bad as she feels, because his whole face scrunches up with concern. “It’ll make you feel better. I promise.” Korra sighs, and gets up. They hear it long before they see it--the sound of rock screaming against metal, fire roaring in the night. ‘A fight,’ Korra realizes. Bolin grabs her wrist and bolts down the block, chasing after the noise. He looks like Naga, hot on the trail of a stoatfox--singular of purpose and giddy out of his mind. She hasn’t seen him this happy since their penultimate match at the Pro-Bending Arena. The corner of Korra’s mouth quirks. She scrambles to keep up. “What’s going on–?” “Shhhh!” Bolin taps his pointer finger against his lips. He smiles reassuringly. Korra isn’t sure what that feeling is that’s rolling around in her stomach, but it isn’t reassurance. They skid to a halt, and take a sharp turn around the street corner. The clamor is upon them now, smoke and dust coughing out of a dark alleyway. In the murk, Korra can make out the shape of a small crowd, huddled together at the far end of the street. Fire surges in the darkness, silhouetting the figures before flickering out. Bolin can barely contain himself. He barrels down the alley with Korra in tow. He nearly burns his eyebrows off. “Hello!” he squeaks. His spine goes straight as a board, and just in time--the crowd scatters. A stray plume of fire roars past his face, licking harmlessly at the brick wall to his right. Korra pulls him back by his collar. But before the crowd can come crashing back together, she sees it: The makeshift pro-bending ring. They’ve commandeered an old ballcourt, outfitting it with stacks of earthen discs and rusty oil drums filled with water. Contestants and spectators are gathered all around, from the pit to the stairs of the fire escape. Some faces she recognizes, and others she doesn’t; the veterans wear their old dueling gear, while the newcomers wear whatever they can get their hands on. Six duelists light up the arena, meanwhile, dancing around the chalk boundaries that mark each of the eight zones. The lines are so scuffed, Korra can barely make them out. That doesn’t stop the referee from making calls. “Foul! Over the line. Kahi, to zone three.” “They’re still pro-bending,” Korra breathes. She feels herself smile. “Yeah!” Bolin clenches his fists. He can barely keep up with himself, his voice shakes with excitement and he has to yell just to hear himself speak. “I just--And I turned the corner--And I saw them--And I came back to tell you--And–!” “Hold on, big boy,” Korra laughs. “Let’s get out of the splash seats, first.” She pulls Bolin away by his shoulder, bumping into a few others as she goes. He shoots her a crestfallen look as they leave the front row. Korra cranes her head to see behind her as she backs out of the crowd. A little friendly fire has done nothing to dampen the spectators’ enthusiasm; they’re plastered to the action, and she has to duck and weave to weasel her way out of the thick of it. They make it to the fringes of the crowd without taking anyone else down with them. She lets out a sigh of relief. “Mmrgh–!” Korra winces. Something crunches under her heel. ‘Nevermind,’ she thinks. Called it too early. “Sorry!” Korra calls out, above the din. The two of them finally withdraw from the crowd. She wipes the soot stains off her pants, and opens her mouth to pick up where she and Bolin left off. “I’m wounded… I thought you liked the splash seats.” A familiar voice croons, before she can say anything. It buzzes in her ear like a mothsquito--equal parts dreary, monotone, and infuriating. Bolin’s face goes white as a sheet. Korra follows his eyes. A scrawny icepick of a man stands before them, nursing his foot. His bangs fall in loose, stringy curls over one eye. The other one is framed by sleepless dark circles and smudged eyeshadow. He lets his foot go, shifting his weight on it and pretending not to flinch when it hurts more than he expects it to. He cards his hand through his hair and flicks his bangs, but the movement falls short of its usual theatrics. Korra blinks. “Tahno?” “Nice to see you, too, uh-vatar.” “Wha…” Bolin struggles to form his mouth around the word. “What are you doing here?” “What do you think?” Tahno deadpans. “The last time we saw you, you were up in the arena, and…” Bolin trails off. He bites back the memory and tries again.	Private Lessons “Pssst. Korra. Come outside. You gotta see this!” Bolin pokes his head through the cloth dividers out front of Narook’s Seaweed Noodlery. He grins an enormous grin. Korra looks up from her bowl of noodles and raises a brow at him. He waves her over, grinning wider. Korra considers it for a moment, idly tapping her chopsticks against the lip of the bowl and studying her distorted reflection in the broth. Whatever it is, it must be pretty good for Bolin to even think of coming between her and a hot bowl of noodles. Bolin’s grin falters, wobbling like her reflection. He looks her up and down, and she must look as bad as she feels, because his whole face scrunches up with concern. “It’ll make you feel better. I promise.” Korra sighs, and gets up. They hear it long before they see it--the sound of rock screaming against metal, fire roaring in the night. ‘A fight,’ Korra realizes. Bolin grabs her wrist and bolts down the block, chasing after the noise. He looks like Naga, hot on the trail of a stoatfox--singular of purpose and giddy out of his mind. She hasn’t seen him this happy since their penultimate match at the Pro-Bending Arena. The corner of Korra’s mouth quirks. She scrambles to keep up. “What’s going on–?” “Shhhh!” Bolin taps his pointer finger against his lips. He smiles reassuringly. Korra isn’t sure what that feeling is that’s rolling around in her stomach, but it isn’t reassurance. They skid to a halt, and take a sharp turn around the street corner. The clamor is upon them now, smoke and dust coughing out of a dark alleyway. In the murk, Korra can make out the shape of a small crowd, huddled together at the far end of the street. Fire surges in the darkness, silhouetting the figures before flickering out. Bolin can barely contain himself. He barrels down the alley with Korra in tow. He nearly burns his eyebrows off. “Hello!” he squeaks. His spine goes straight as a board, and just in time--the crowd scatters. A stray plume of fire roars past his face, licking harmlessly at the brick wall to his right. Korra pulls him back by his collar. But before the crowd can come crashing back together, she sees it: The makeshift pro-bending ring. They’ve commandeered an old ballcourt, outfitting it with stacks of earthen discs and rusty oil drums filled with water. Contestants and spectators are gathered all around, from the pit to the stairs of the fire escape. Some faces she recognizes, and others she doesn’t; the veterans wear their old dueling gear, while the newcomers wear whatever they can get their hands on. Six duelists light up the arena, meanwhile, dancing around the chalk boundaries that mark each of the eight zones. The lines are so scuffed, Korra can barely make them out. That doesn’t stop the referee from making calls. “Foul! Over the line. Kahi, to zone three.” “They’re still pro-bending,” Korra breathes. She feels herself smile. “Yeah!” Bolin clenches his fists. He can barely keep up with himself, his voice shakes with excitement and he has to yell just to hear himself speak. “I just--And I turned the corner--And I saw them--And I came back to tell you--And–!” “Hold on, big boy,” Korra laughs. “Let’s get out of the splash seats, first.” She pulls Bolin away by his shoulder, bumping into a few others as she goes. He shoots her a crestfallen look as they leave the front row. Korra cranes her head to see behind her as she backs out of the crowd. A little friendly fire has done nothing to dampen the spectators’ enthusiasm; they’re plastered to the action, and she has to duck and weave to weasel her way out of the thick of it. They make it to the fringes of the crowd without taking anyone else down with them. She lets out a sigh of relief. “Mmrgh–!” Korra winces. Something crunches under her heel. ‘Nevermind,’ she thinks. Called it too early. “Sorry!” Korra calls out, above the din. The two of them finally withdraw from the crowd. She wipes the soot stains off her pants, and opens her mouth to pick up where she and Bolin left off. “I’m wounded… I thought you liked the splash seats.” A familiar voice croons, before she can say anything. It buzzes in her ear like a mothsquito--equal parts dreary, monotone, and infuriating. Bolin’s face goes white as a sheet. Korra follows his eyes. A scrawny icepick of a man stands before them, nursing his foot. His bangs fall in loose, stringy curls over one eye. The other one is framed by sleepless dark circles and smudged eyeshadow. He lets his foot go, shifting his weight on it and pretending not to flinch when it hurts more than he expects it to. He cards his hand through his hair and flicks his bangs, but the movement falls short of its usual theatrics. Korra blinks. “Tahno?” “Nice to see you, too, uh-vatar.” “Wha…” Bolin struggles to form his mouth around the word. “What are you doing here?” “What do you think?” Tahno deadpans. “The last time we saw you, you were up in the arena, and…” Bolin trails off. He bites back the memory and tries again. “You were in a really bad kind of way, man. And then you disappeared on us. I mean, I know we all hated your guts, but the teams were really worried about you.” Tahno is silent. His eyelashes flutter and he glances back and forth between Bolin, the ground, and the fire escape, like he can’t decide what to look at. He settles on the dirt that Korra kindly stomped into the toe of his boot. Bolin frowns. Korra does, too. Even now, she has a hard time reconciling this pale shadow of a man with the yowling wolfbat that tried to neg his way into her pants. And then something strange happens. The corners of his eyes crease, so slightly that Korra almost misses it. Tahno stares at Bolin out of his peripheries. He smirks. “Look, I know this is hard for you to understand, but… Those are called stage illusions, Bo. I don’t actually disappear when I leave the Arena.” “Ohhhhhh my–” Bolin drags his hands down his face. “Only Mako gets to call me that! You know that! How is it that we can wipe the floor with you and you’re still a jerk?!” Tahno feigns innocence. “Wipe the floor with me? That’s funny, I don’t remember anything like that. I’ll take your word for it, though. You had a pretty good view from the drink.” Bolin lets out a closed-mouth scream and strangles the air. Tahno laughs silently. His lips are curled with predatory delight, and he almost passes for the same conniving bastard who throws his weight around like he’s made of rockwater. Or at least, he would, if his face wasn’t so drawn and sunken-looking. ‘Big words for a guy whose grand prize was losing his bending,’ Korra thinks, humorlessly. “Wait. Unless…” She blinks. The words leap out of her mouth before she can think better of it. “Did you get your bending back?” Tahno looks away. Instantly, shame burns in the back of her throat. That wasn’t the right thing to say. That wasn’t the right thing to say at all. He stares at the ground through wide, white eyes, and for a split second, Korra recognizes him--Republic City’s last pro-bending champion, reduced to a scared little boy as he begs for mercy under Amon’s thumb. Even Bolin gawks at her like she just beat the man senseless. Tahno swallows. His voice is very quiet, almost inaudible under the racket of the ballcourt. “You know I… Didn’t realize you were the type to kick a man while he’s down.” Bolin frowns. “I never thought I would say this, but Tahno’s right, Korra. That was pretty messed up.” “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that! It was an honest question, I swear!” Korra lets out an inarticulate noise of frustration, raking a rough hand through her hair. “I thought since you were acting all high and mighty again, maybe you had…” Korra trails off. Tahno meets her gaze, now, and it’s as if no time had passed at all since she last saw him at the police headquarters. There’s nothing left in his eyes. He looks timid, sick, and broken, like a bone shattered into fine splinters. Mostly, he just looks tired. Tahno takes a deep breath and assumes a half-hearted waterboxing stance. He lurches forward, moving through the forms with a few quick jabs, but no water rises to meet him. Korra averts her eyes. “I’m sorry.” Tahno returns to his place. He folds his arms and leans against a nearby wall, looking out over the crowd. “It’s fine. I probably deserved that.” “A little,” Bolin says. His voice sounds hollow without its usual humor. “But not what Amon did to you. Nobody deserves that.” Korra echoes him. “Nobody.” Tahno sighs, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. He leans off the wall and sticks his hands in his coat pockets. He looks tired, yes, but something else crosses over his face. His eyes lid, and the corner of his mouth twitches before curling back over his teeth in a defensive smile. “I hate to disappoint my fans, but I think it’s time for me to get back to my party.” Tahno makes a good show of drawing out his words with his usual drawl, but Korra can tell he’s irritated. “... If you’ll excuse me.” The two of them watch Tahno go. He withdraws from the alleyway with slow, shuffling steps, before loping his way back to the street corner. He lingers there, for a while. He looks over his shoulder at the two of them, and for a moment, Korra almost thinks he’s going to pop a salute and croon ‘See you around, Team Uh-vatar.’ Instead, Tahno looks away. He turns the corner and disappears. Bolin covers his mouth, falling deep into thought. Korra chews the inside of her cheek. They watch the rest of the match in silence. They don’t speak again until they’re standing together under a street light, waiting to cross the street to Narook’s. “So I was thinking–” “Man, we really–” Bolin and Korra cut each other off. “You first,” Korra says. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s kinda weird.” Bolin hangs his head, looking up at her through sorry eyes. “Can’t be weirder than the day I’m having,” Korra mutters. “Okay, okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Bolin takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth to speak, but stops. He tries again, but nothing comes. He does this several times, starting and stopping, and each time he’s unable to figure out where to begin. Korra finds herself leaning in in anticipation. Finally, Bolin sighs. “I think we should do something nice for Tahno. To make it up to him.” Korra makes a face. “Alright. That’s pretty weird.” “I know. I know!” Bolin smacks his forehead. “I don’t know what it is! I feel like I’m going crazy.” “Ugh. No, I know what you mean.” Korra folds her arms and works new wrinkles into her cuffs. “He’s a creep, but…” Korra trails off. It’s not that she doesn’t have the words. Korra knows exactly how that sentence ends: ‘He’s a creep, but I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s going through.’ Her lungs just won’t let her say the rest of it. It’s as if there’s some kind of language barrier, some unpronounceable word that keeps getting caught in the back of her throat. But what is that something, really? Tahno? The Equalizers? Amon? The thought of losing her bending, too? She’s palpably aware of the risks, the unthinkable futures that could unfold if she doesn’t play her cards right. There’s no reason her voice should fail her now. “You good, Korra?” Bolin touches her shoulder. “What? Oh, yeah. It’s just--” She quickly continues to cover up her hiccup. “It’s like he wants to make it hard to feel bad for him.“ Bolin scrunches up his face as he thinks. “Right. When he was moping around, I was like, ‘What the heck? Why does it feel like I’m talking to my bro right now?’ And then he turns around and starts making fun of us.” Bolin falls silent, for a while. He looks troubled. “I think he’s lonely.” Korra snorts. “What gave you that idea? The ‘private lessons’?” Bolin sputters and laughs. “Not that kind of lonely! …Okay, maybe a little bit. But I think he’s also lonely lonely. Like, he doesn’t have his bending anymore. He’s nothing. Or at least he feels that way.” “Right…” Korra says, cautiously. Something about that makes her stomach turn to ice. She struggles not to make a face. “Probably all his friends are jerks, too.” “So…” “So they dropped him the moment he stopped being useful to them. So he’s–” Bolin gestures inarticulately at the air. “Lonely!” “I gotta say, Bolin, the idea of getting buddy-buddy with prettyboy doesn’t exactly thrill me.” Korra folds her arms. She and Bolin step under Narook’s awning, and linger just outside the front door. The restaurant is still open, even at this hour of the night, but the late spring air is crisp and it seems like such a waste to squander it. Korra breathes it in, along with the smell of the sea and noodles. “... I’m not sure he even wants that from us, anyway.” Korra continues. “Wouldn’t it be kind of… I don’t know… Patronizing?” “You do get to bend all four elements. And he gets to bend nada.” Bolin furrows his brow. “Maybe he’s just emasculated, not lonely.” Korra shakes her head. “I think he has a better relationship with femininity than I do.” Bolin squints at her, giving her the once-over. “That’s probably true, but… Hey, wait a minute! That’s it!” His eyes light up, sparkling in the lantern light. He grabs Korra’s shoulders and shakes her silly. “You and Asami can invite him over to do girl stuff! Paint his nails!” “Do you have to call it ‘girl stuff?’” Korra full-body cringes. Bolin stops shaking her. She finds her footing and huffs. “Besides, I am not painting Tahno’s nails.” “Aw…” Bolin deflates, and lets her go. “I thought it was a pretty good idea.” “If you really think it will work, you can ask him yourself.” Bolin stops. His eyebrows knit together tightly, his nose crinkles, and he stares, unseeing, at the boarded-up windows in the building across from Narook’s. Something seems to fall into place behind his eyes. “I could ask him myself… Korra, that’s genius! He’ll never see it coming!” She blinks. “Hold on, Bolin. We should wait until we get to know him. He’ll probably think you’re making fun of him.” “Hey, I’m a sincere guy! I would never make fun of Tahno!” Bolin protests in a voice so utterly and completely earnest that Korra coughs out a surprised laugh. “I’m--Just saying that the invitation can wait until you get to know him better.” Bolin sticks his lower lip out and snorts. “When has he ever invited us to do anything except eat rockwater and stroke his ego?” It’s a fair point. Korra thinks back on all of the interactions she’s had with the man--each one more unpleasant than the last. The back of her throat becomes slimy, and a chill crawls up her spine. Still, she racks her brain. When has Tahno ever expressed sincere interest in them? It seems like everything he says is made of veiled threats or mean-spirited “jokes” or both. Probably the only time he’s ever made an honest ask of her was at the police headquarters, or… ‘Oh.’ Korra blinks. ‘Oh.’ “I have an idea.” Korra ducks behind the noren hanging outside of Narook’s. She holds the front door open for Bolin, and the two of them step inside. “So first, we bribe him with food, and then when his guard is down, we–” Bolin stops in his tracks. Korra collides face-first with his back. She nurses her nose tenderly. “What are you–?” “Psst!” Bolin clenches his teeth. He’s stiff as a board, making a concentrated but excruciatingly obvious effort to act natural. “T-A-H-N-O in the B-O-O-T-H.” Korra’s eyes follow his to the booth seats. And then she sees him– the limp noodle of a man slumped over a bowl of sea prunes. He swirls them around the broth listlessly with his chopsticks. Korra breathes. She steps out from behind Bolin, and begins closing the gap between her and Tahno. “What are you doing?!” Bolin hisses through his teeth. He scrabbles to catch up with her. “I said I had an idea, didn’t I?” Korra whispers back. She grins a cocky grin and saunters up to Tahno’s booth. Tahno instinctively looks up when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and then looks away--and then, as if belatedly processing what he saw, he looks back at the two interlopers and rolls his eyes. “Thought I told you I was getting back to my party,” Tahno deadpans, picking a prune out of the broth. Korra looks between him and the booth. Completely empty. “Think you have room for two more?” Tahno sighs. “Fine. Anything for a fan.” Korra looks back at Bolin. He shrugs. They take their seats across from Tahno. “Look, I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier.” Korra says, as she sits down. “I really, really, really did not mean it like that. Just to be clear.” “Mm. Glad to hear you’re practicing using your words. Bolin never told me whether you smoothed it over with your little red boytoy or not.” Tahno studies his fingernails with disinterest. “Boytoy?!” Korra opens her mouth to protest, but stops. “You know what? Fine. I take it back. I did mean it that way.” “Ouch.” Tahno touches his chest, as if she had physically struck him. “Well, if we’re being honest with each other now, I’m just teasing you.” “Right, bub. I figured that out.” Korra blinks. “Wait--You’re being honest right now? Really?” Tahno lids his eyes and nods. His expression changes– softens, somehow, but in a way that’s impossible for Korra to read. He sets his chopsticks down and touches the rim of the bowl with a long, bony index finger. He circles it once, twice, three times, each more slowly than the last. He leans in, and croons. “After all… You and I both know you have better taste in men than that.” “Oh, ew, ew, ew ew ew.” Korra physically recoils and climbs up the back of her chair. “Ugh! I walked right into that.” “Hey! My bro’s not some boytoy!” Bolin smacks his hands down on the table, rattling the bowl in front of Tahno and flecking broth over his knuckles. “You know, we didn’t have to come back here. We’re trying to be nice to you, and you’re just making it hard, man.” Tahno laughs, and the sound makes Bolin flinch. This isn’t the low, cloyingly sweet laugh that they’re used to. It’s harsh and raspy, almost painful. “You’re trying to be nice?” “Yes! And you could at least work with us here!” Bolin braces the edge of the table. “No, no. I don’t think you understand. I know the game you’re playing. What do you want from me? Really? Because I know you didn’t go to the trouble of coming here just to laugh at me.” Tahno locks eyes with Bolin, and then Korra. She takes in a sharp breath. She’s never seen him like this before--His eyes burn with a cold fire. He’s completely sober, stone-faced and distant. “We don’t--want anything from you? And we’re not here to laugh at you, either.” Bolin makes frantic gestures at the air, like they might somehow drill some meaning through Tahno’s thick skull. “You looked like you were having a bad time, and we wanted to do something nice for you. For once.” “Actually…” Korra rubs her chin. “I might have a teeny, tiny, itty bitty ulterior motive.” “See? We’re not–” Bolin freezes. He whirls around to face Korra with such force that his chair screeches against the floor. “Wait, you do?” The fire in Tahno’s eyes flickers, and the ghost of a smile is back on his stupid, smarmy face. “Oh? What does the Avatar want with me?” Korra takes a deep breath. ‘Too late to go back now.’ She didn’t think she’d be dropping this on him so soon, and certainly not tonight. She isn’t even sure if this is a good idea or not. Still, she quirks her chin up and studies him impassively. He studies her back. She shifts her weight forward, folding her arms on the table and leaning in defiantly. Bolin blanches. Korra narrows her eyes. “Private lessons.” Tahno sputters. Korra’s blood freezes in her veins as she realizes that this is a very, very bad idea. But for an instant, at least, the look on Tahno’s face makes it all worth it. The series of expressions that follow are a messy cocktail of disbelief, intrigue, hurt, mistrust, and--Korra’s stomach churns--lurid fascination. The wolfish spark in Tahno’s eyes lingers long after he slips back into his usual armor. He smiles at her and laughs, but his back is pinned to his seat and he’s white-knuckling his chopsticks. “I never thought you’d ask.” Tahno reaches out, aiming to rest his hand over Korra’s. Korra sits back all the way in her chair and places her hands in her lap. Bolin’s jaw is on the table. Korra is stunned silent, too. She realizes, with another chill, that she didn’t think this through all the way. She has no idea how to follow that up in a way that will keep her lead on Tahno. “No, really. I never thought you’d ask.” Tahno laughs again, but this time it’s light and tittering, crackling with nervous energy. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, but I’ve taken a semi-permanent leave of absence from competing. Against my will.” “We were there,” Bolin keens through his teeth. He grips the table so hard that he leaves palm prints behind in the marble finish. “Korra, have you lost your mind?” She doubles down. “That doesn’t mean you can’t show me your–!” Korra stops. She takes pause as Tahno’s eyes widen with a mixture of morbid fascination and vulgar delight. They bore into her like the Arena skylights. ‘Yes,’ they say. ‘Finish that sentence. Dig your own grave. Walk right into my stupid one-liner that will make you feel like you need to take a shower with bleach water after this.’ “... Forms. Waterbending forms. The forms for waterbending.” Korra says. “Modern pro-bending waterbending forms. From the ring. And nothing else.” “Ohhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhh.” Relief washes over Bolin. His shoulders slack as he lets go of the edge of the table. “Now that’s not a metaphor for something, is it?” “No.” Korra says, more loudly than she means to. Tahno leans in like he’s going to say something. But before he can get in a word edgewise, Korra raises her voice and talks over him. “I am asking, as a fellow pro-bender and the Avatar, for you to show me some of the waterbending stances that you use in the ring, because no matter how many times Bolin and Mako try to walk me through them, it’s not the same as learning them from another waterbender. I want you to show me these forms, and nothing else. Do you hear me?” If Tahno is disappointed that she didn’t create an opening for him, he doesn’t show it. He just leans back, looking pleased with himself. “Loud and clear, Uh-vatar.” Korra stands up in her seat. “Alright. Tomorrow, 2 PM at the ferry to Air Temple Island. Be there.” “And don’t miss it!” Bolin adds, with a little fistbump for flair. Tahno just blinks at the two of them like a lazy cat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” “Korra, who is this… Individual that you’ve brought to visit?” Tenzin raises an eyebrow at the young man who is currently seated at the low wall that surrounds the training arena. The stranger idly bounces one leg, and has the other slung over his knee. He holds Bolin’s hand in his lap and paints his nails a lovely shade of moss green. Korra winces. She was hoping that she and Bolin could ferret Tahno in and out of the courtyard without attracting any attention, but her minds’ eye flashes with visions of the Air Temple Island census, which is starting to look more like a laundry list of White Lotus servicemen. She stops and turns. The water she was bending wobbles, and then splashes to the ground. She smiles an unconvincing smile. “Oh, uh oh. Did I forget to sign someone in again?” Bolin scratches the back of his neck and looks up at Tenzin apologetically. He takes care not to move too much, out of respect for Tahno’s delicate paint job. “It would seem so.” Tenzin shakes his head. “No matter. I can take care of that.“ Korra shoots Bolin a grateful look for sticking his neck out for her. She turns to face Tenzin fully and gestures off-handedly at Tahno. Did he recognize him? The slimy little punk who cheated and dunked her in the water during the Fire Ferrets’ last match? She couldn’t tell. “Tenzin, this is Tahno. He’s an old pro-bending… Acquaintance.” She turns, and tries to ignore the smarmy look on Tahno’s face as she gestures back at Tenzin. “Tahno, Tenzin.” Tenzin bows. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to Air Temple Island. Please, let us know if you need anything.” Tahno, to her surprise, dips his head respectfully. “Thank you, Councilman Tenzin.” With that, Tenzin turns to go. He climbs the stairwell that leads to the main temple complex, and disappears from sight. Korra lets out a sigh of relief. She picks up where she left off, working through the motions of a modified whip. “How was that?” Korra asks. Tahno dabs his brush into a jar of nail polish, and lifts Bolin’s wrist to take a closer look at his handiwork. “Again.” Korra lets the water stream around her, and then drops it. “You’re not even watching!” Tahno inhales deeply and sighs. “What is that they tell you in 101? Oh, right. Waterbending’s about using your opponent’s movements against them. And you’ll never find an opening if you can’t be… Patient.“ “Korra, you could learn a thing or two from this boy.” Korra wheels around and looks up at the stairwell in disbelief. Tenzin is still standing there, stroking his beard. Bolin almost chokes. Tahno just smiles pleasantly up at Tenzin, and then at her. He doesn’t have to say anything. Korra has to assume that the look on her face says it all. “You really are one nasty dude,” Bolin says, once the sound of Tenzin’s footfalls disappears under the waves crashing in the bay. “Mm?” Tahno doesn’t look up. Bolin waves at the empty space where Tenzin was standing. “You just did Korra dirty in front of her airbending master! Are you always looking for new ways to screw people over?“ He humors Bolin with a sidelong glance, and smirks. “Like I said. It’s about waiting for an opening. And she gives me a lot of openi–” Bolin nearly loses his balance and topples into the shrubby little loquat tree behind him, while Tahno takes a bad spill onto the grass. Icewater sloshes on the bannister. Korra grins smugly, seeing him sprawled out on the rough[...]	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75582136	{"authors": ["m0r1bund"], "language": "English", "title": "Private Lessons"}
The Duke (of Queenscove) and I Gentle reader, let it not be said that the rarest jewels in Tortall are mere stones, magical or otherwise. This social season proves already to be a veritable feast for hungry eyes and yearning hearts, the eligible lords and ladies as sparkling as an array of gems. Where exactly they will be set in the tiara of society remains to be seen, as rubies seek to cozy up to gold, amethysts seek to make jewels out of stones, and an emerald seeks a polished cabochon ready to share in responsibility and prestige. … The first ball of the season was to be held at the Corus home of the Baron and Baroness of Pirate’s Swoop and Olau. The Baron and Baroness had long enjoyed the King and Queen’s favor; it was an open secret that the King and the Baroness had been lovers in their youth, and a much better-kept secret that the Queen and Baron allowed them a continued dalliance in their middle age. All four paragons had a keen interest in the movements of the eligible youth of the realm, for the marriage mart had real consequences for the future of politics and diplomacy in Tortall. Alliances between houses improved the positions of some subjects while complicating those of others. The power and loyalty of each fiefdom waxed and waned with each match made, each heir born. And these things were delicate—feelings changed, passions raged, fortunes turned. The King and Queen had secured a betrothal for their son, Prince Roald of Conté, to Princess Chisakami of the Yamani Isles, only to have her perish in an earthquake. After an appropriate mourning period they had renegotiated an alliance with Princess Shinkokami of the Yamani Isles, and they expected the imminent arrival of the new princess and her retinue to have great effect on this year’s season. There would be new dance partners, new fashions, new political ideas; this match ushered in a new era for Tortall. The newly-minted Duke Nealan of Queenscove hoped that the Yamani delegation’s appearance would take eyes off of him. Though he was in need of a wife, he did not look forward to being descended upon by eligible young women and their mothers jockeying for position. He knew his title was enviable, and that he would be sought-after, but he would much rather be reading. Or even practicing sword-forms. Anything, really, other than attending every social function of the season in order to sell himself like a cut of beef at market. “You look as if you are attempting to find an escape route from this carriage,” Lord Cleon of Kennan said. He sat across from Neal in the luxuriously upholstered cab. His posture was easy and open, but the fact that he had freshly cut and styled his red curls betrayed his own anxiety about the ball. He sought a bride this season as well, though his reasons were different from Neal’s—Kennan was in dire need of coin after three straight years of flooding and crop failure. “I am simply reviewing the pertinent details of my situation,” Neal replied. “That now that you are a duke, you will likely be set upon by a rabid pack of ladies as soon as you enter the ballroom?” “That the arrival of the Yamani contingent might shake things up a bit; I know a little of the Tortallan women who are out this season, but I know nothing of the princess’s retinue. Perhaps there are more options than I am aware of.” Neal went to run his hand through his hair then jerked it away as he felt the hair oil his sister Jessamine had insisted he use. She had selected his suit and fussed with his hair for far too long before allowing him to leave. It was jealousy along with nerves; she longed to be out in society. “All the dressing and the dancing are a distraction from the purpose of these things. They are an opportunity to meet, evaluate, and select a partner for producing and heir and running Queenscove effectively, which is now my charge.” “The dressing and the dancing are supposed to be fun,” Cleon said. “If we have to marry for practical reasons rather than love, we can at least enjoy the parties.” Neal sighed. “I grant you that there are worse ways to spend an evening.” Cleon grinned. “We could be fighting Scanrans.” “Or mucking out stables.” The streets were brightly lit in this section of Corus, lamps winking on every corner. The homes were large, built expressly for entertaining. The Queenscoves had a home of this kind, but Neal hadn’t visited it in years. Lately he had been spending most of his time in Queenscove proper, trying to get his head around the paperwork and the geography of the place. When not in Queenscove he’d been in his father’s suite in the palace, going through his belongings and meeting with the king about the duchy’s obligations to the crown. There had hardly been any time to grieve, let alone really prepare for a social season. Neal had the sense that if he stood still for more than five minutes he would completely fall apart. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Cleon said, voice gentle. “You could take another year to…	The Duke (of Queenscove) and I Gentle reader, let it not be said that the rarest jewels in Tortall are mere stones, magical or otherwise. This social season proves already to be a veritable feast for hungry eyes and yearning hearts, the eligible lords and ladies as sparkling as an array of gems. Where exactly they will be set in the tiara of society remains to be seen, as rubies seek to cozy up to gold, amethysts seek to make jewels out of stones, and an emerald seeks a polished cabochon ready to share in responsibility and prestige. … The first ball of the season was to be held at the Corus home of the Baron and Baroness of Pirate’s Swoop and Olau. The Baron and Baroness had long enjoyed the King and Queen’s favor; it was an open secret that the King and the Baroness had been lovers in their youth, and a much better-kept secret that the Queen and Baron allowed them a continued dalliance in their middle age. All four paragons had a keen interest in the movements of the eligible youth of the realm, for the marriage mart had real consequences for the future of politics and diplomacy in Tortall. Alliances between houses improved the positions of some subjects while complicating those of others. The power and loyalty of each fiefdom waxed and waned with each match made, each heir born. And these things were delicate—feelings changed, passions raged, fortunes turned. The King and Queen had secured a betrothal for their son, Prince Roald of Conté, to Princess Chisakami of the Yamani Isles, only to have her perish in an earthquake. After an appropriate mourning period they had renegotiated an alliance with Princess Shinkokami of the Yamani Isles, and they expected the imminent arrival of the new princess and her retinue to have great effect on this year’s season. There would be new dance partners, new fashions, new political ideas; this match ushered in a new era for Tortall. The newly-minted Duke Nealan of Queenscove hoped that the Yamani delegation’s appearance would take eyes off of him. Though he was in need of a wife, he did not look forward to being descended upon by eligible young women and their mothers jockeying for position. He knew his title was enviable, and that he would be sought-after, but he would much rather be reading. Or even practicing sword-forms. Anything, really, other than attending every social function of the season in order to sell himself like a cut of beef at market. “You look as if you are attempting to find an escape route from this carriage,” Lord Cleon of Kennan said. He sat across from Neal in the luxuriously upholstered cab. His posture was easy and open, but the fact that he had freshly cut and styled his red curls betrayed his own anxiety about the ball. He sought a bride this season as well, though his reasons were different from Neal’s—Kennan was in dire need of coin after three straight years of flooding and crop failure. “I am simply reviewing the pertinent details of my situation,” Neal replied. “That now that you are a duke, you will likely be set upon by a rabid pack of ladies as soon as you enter the ballroom?” “That the arrival of the Yamani contingent might shake things up a bit; I know a little of the Tortallan women who are out this season, but I know nothing of the princess’s retinue. Perhaps there are more options than I am aware of.” Neal went to run his hand through his hair then jerked it away as he felt the hair oil his sister Jessamine had insisted he use. She had selected his suit and fussed with his hair for far too long before allowing him to leave. It was jealousy along with nerves; she longed to be out in society. “All the dressing and the dancing are a distraction from the purpose of these things. They are an opportunity to meet, evaluate, and select a partner for producing and heir and running Queenscove effectively, which is now my charge.” “The dressing and the dancing are supposed to be fun,” Cleon said. “If we have to marry for practical reasons rather than love, we can at least enjoy the parties.” Neal sighed. “I grant you that there are worse ways to spend an evening.” Cleon grinned. “We could be fighting Scanrans.” “Or mucking out stables.” The streets were brightly lit in this section of Corus, lamps winking on every corner. The homes were large, built expressly for entertaining. The Queenscoves had a home of this kind, but Neal hadn’t visited it in years. Lately he had been spending most of his time in Queenscove proper, trying to get his head around the paperwork and the geography of the place. When not in Queenscove he’d been in his father’s suite in the palace, going through his belongings and meeting with the king about the duchy’s obligations to the crown. There had hardly been any time to grieve, let alone really prepare for a social season. Neal had the sense that if he stood still for more than five minutes he would completely fall apart. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Cleon said, voice gentle. “You could take another year to… mourn.” Neal sighed. “I know. But I need an heir. And I need the help. Ancient noble estates don’t run themselves.” Neal’s mother, Lady Winnamine of Queenscove, had done much of the running of the fief while Duke Baird attended to his duties as Chief Healer. Now she was desolate without her husband, hardly able to leave her bed. Her lamentation was disturbing to Neal; he had always thought of his mother as a stalwart soldier, raised as she had been by a general. She had bustled through the deaths of her other sons, working herself to exhaustion to distract herself. But her love for Baird ran deep, and his death seemed to have cracked something open inside of her. When she tried to go over ledgers, she drifted to looking out the window, tears running down her cheeks. Jessamine had been keen to marry before their father’s death, and she still appeared to be, though she was still under age. She helped Neal as much as she could, as she had been studying under her mother all the arts she might need to make a good wife and partner for a nobleman, but when she inevitably did marry, she would be swept away from Queenscove to some other estate to help them. The clip-clopping of horse’s hooves slowed as the carriage stopped in front of the Corus residence of the Baron and Baroness of Pirate’s Swoop and Olau. Cleon exited the carriage first. Neal took the brief moment of solitude to fortify himself, closing his eyes and taking a breath—in, hold, out. When he emerged from the carriage, he saw the house’s handsome facade was decorated with flowering vines and glowing lanterns. There could be no doubt that a grand social event was being held within; the sound of music and laughter rang out to the street through the large front door. There were two people on the front steps. One was a servant, ready to admit guests. He stood perfectly still, the picture of a diligent attendant. The other was Lady Keladry of Mindelan, who was similarly straight-backed and poised. She wore a simple sky-blue gown over her powerful frame. Her hair was styled in its usual sleek brown bob. “Lady Keladry, my evening blossom, your placid presence is soothing to my stormy soul.” Cleon bowed dramatically to their mutual friend. “Hello Cleon,” Kel said. Neal was not quite sure whether Kel and Cleon wanted to be lovers, were actively lovers, or used to be lovers and were now trying once again to be friends. There was some feeling there, but it was uneven. Cleon was effusive; Kel was reserved. It was the kind of thing that Neal would usually enjoy spending energy to suss out, but lately… “When did you get here?” Neal asked. Kel shrugged. “I’ve been here. I thought you might benefit from seeing a friendly face first.” “Indeed. Thank you.” “Have you graced the party yet with your presence?” Cleon asked. “I said my hellos, noticed you weren’t here yet, then came outside to track down my comrades. Your absence is noted.” “Exactly what I want to hear,” groaned Neal. “I think you’ll get plenty of attention tonight.” “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Kel pursed her lips. “You’ll be alright. I’m here for you.” “Well, I am unfortunately not here for you,” joked Cleon. “I am here for the dancing and the selecting of my bride. But if it really gets horrid I will intervene.” Kel led them up the stairs to where the servant opened the doors onto a grand entryway. It was very warm inside compared to the chill of the evening; the nights were not yet warm as they would be in summer. A pair of servants opened a set of ornately carved doors right in front of them to reveal the ballroom. The room was filled with music, color, and courtiers. The far side of the room was made up of floor to ceiling windows that looked out upon a veranda. On the right there was a string quartet playing a spritely quadrille for the guests. A swirl of people was dancing in the center of the room, with others clustered at the edges of the dance floor. “They are all staring at us,” said Cleon. “They’ve never seen hair so red, or a lady so tall,” Neal joked weakly. “They’re looking at you,” Keladry murmured. It was true; Neal commanded many of the eyes in the room. He could hear his name repeated among the chatter that pecked above the music and clinking of glasses. “You could leave now, but it would be ridiculous,” Kel said. “I’m not going to leave now,” Neal said, swallowing. “I’m going to go pay my respects to the baron and baroness.” He tried to hold his head high as he strode over to where Alanna and George were doing their duty as hosts, mingling with guests. As soon as they noticed Neal, Cleon, and Kel approaching, the baron and baroness made their excuses and turned to the three young people. Alanna was wearing tails and a purple waistcoat, amethysts winking at her earlobes, short copper hair brushed to shining. It was strange to see her so presentable; the venerable Lioness was not often caught in her finest, preferring to muck around in riding clothes. George wore a simpler suit, but his mischievous smile dazzled. “Glad you came, Queenscove,” said Alanna. Neal winced. “I can’t honestly say the same, but I can tell you’ve put on a wonderful party.” “It had better be,” George said. “I’ve been planning for a month. Make sure you try the spun sugar bird’s nests; our cook’s mighty proud of ‘em.” “Oh we will,” said Cleon. “I am most surprised to see you, Lady Keladry,” Alanna said. “I didn’t think you were interested in marriage.” “I’m here to support Neal and Cleon. I’m not here to find a match.” “Just don’t discount it. There is joy to be had in your work, but there is also joy to be had in a marriage bed.” Alanna turned to kiss George, who grinned and put his arm around her waist. “And in friendship, and in physical activity, and in the natural world, all of which I revel in,” Kel retorted. “I am full of joy.” Alanna frowned. “You don’t look it.” “That’s just my face.” “I can’t allow you to impugn Lady Keladry’s face, Lady Alanna,” Cleon said. “And I’d rather not miss out on any more drinking and dancing. Thank you for the invitation, my lord, my lady.” He nodded at the baron and baroness, then held out his arm to Kel. “Spun sugar bird nest, my sparrow?” Kel rolled her eyes. “Coming, Neal?” she asked. “Go,” said Alanna. “Mingle. Fend off mamas. You’re the catch of the season, Gods help you.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75582146	{"authors": ["FireflyFoxtrot"], "language": "English", "title": "The Duke (of Queenscove) and I"}
Sharp Teeth Pretty Teeth "Come on Harrington, don't you want to get more of those shitty pop albums you listen to?" Eddie pleads with Steve to go to the new record shop opening up in town with him, Eddie doesn't want to go alone. He already tried to get Robin to go with him, but she would much rather spend time with this random girl named Vicky. Getting more desperate, he continues egging the brunette on. "Please Steve, we wouldn't be driving 90 miles like usual to the closest shop. Plus I'd look like a loser shopping by myself." Steve sighs, "Eds, I promised I'd hangout with Dustin today. The kid wants to go watch this stupid new horror movie coming out and I wouldn't hear the end of it if I ditched him. You're on your own for this one pal." With no success in getting his trusty companion to join him, he has no choice but to curse under his breath and hop in his van. "Fine Harrington, but you owe me a hangout!" He slams his door in defeat. At least it's not a 90 mile trip this time, he thinks to himself. Damn Hawkins for being in the middle of nowhere. - With his Ride the Lightning cassette playing, Eddie drives down to the shop. He hopes to replace his Master of Puppets record, he didn't think lending it out to Dustin for a bit would end up in it being snapped in half. Feeling the nice fall breeze hit his face, the van comes to a stop outside of the newly opened shop. He hops out, fixing his vest and wallet chain that got tangled in his belt. He always gets nervous going to new places with no one to accompany him, especially since the whole Chrissy thing and everyone thinking he's a killer even though its been proven hes innocent. Hes just gotten so much backlash going anywhere alone now makes him uneasy, at any moment it feels like someone's going to come kick the shit out of him. But he can't stay inside and smoke forever, so he figured this could be baby steps in the right direction. Walking into the shop, Eddie's nose is immediately hit with the smell of what he could only describe as 'someones dead grandmas perfume'. The shop is decorated with wooden shelves stacked with a wide selection of records, posters of mostly new wave bands cover the brick walls. He turns his head in the direction of a record player playing the album 'Forever Now' by the Psychedelic Furs, not his type of music but it's not bad he thinks. He continues to wander around the shop with the soft lyrics of Love My Way in the background, glancing from shelf to shelf to see if he can find a replacement for his broken record. While hopping from one shelf to another with no luck, he hears the rustling of bead curtains and footsteps. Looking away from the current shelf he's surfing through, he sees a boy with teased hair and dramatic eyeliner step out of the backroom approach the front counter. His cardigan covered in pins of bands hiding a pair of suspenders and a button up that's at least two sizes too big for him. He notices Eddie searching through one of the shelves haphazardly while taking quick glances at him.Maybe he needs help? the goth thinks. "Are you looking for anything specific?" Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin, for the amount of jewelry this guy has on he sure is quiet. The metal head turns to face the worker and lets out a shaky breath. "Uh yeah, do you happen to have the album Master of Puppets-?" Eddie now seeing eye to eye with the other stops mid sentence. He looks closely at the other male, taking in his dark makeup and interesting fashion sense. Eddie thinks it's interesting to say the least but he knows he isn't the most glorious looking either. "I don't think so, but we do take requests. Can I get a name? I want to make sure no one else buys it before you." The male says with almost zero emotion. "Yea it's Eddie Munson. Yours?" Eddie wishes he could shove his foot in his mouth, he was never good with social interactions before and with finding this guy to becute interesting, isn't helping one bit. The goth stares at him in a bit of confusion before answering, "Y/N, nice to meet you Munson." He writes down Eddies name and puts it on a stack of other requests before looking at Eddie once more. "Do you need anything else today?" Y/N asks the flustered metal head, Eddie looks around a bit more before answering. "I'm alright, when do you think the album will be here?" The goth responds, "About a week." Eddie thanks Y/N for helping him and walks out of the store empty handed and confused.What the hell was that?! Asking for his name that way?! God I am the dumbest man alive, he definitely thinks I'm a weirdo or something. Nice going Munson.... Eddie curses himself and his silly behavior while he hops into his van. - The drive home was pitiful, Eddie couldn't stop going over the whole interaction in his head over and over again. He flops onto his bed and groans, "I don't think I can show my face there ever again...but I also don't want to drive to hell and back to the next record store..". He fights with himself on if	Sharp Teeth Pretty Teeth "Come on Harrington, don't you want to get more of those shitty pop albums you listen to?" Eddie pleads with Steve to go to the new record shop opening up in town with him, Eddie doesn't want to go alone. He already tried to get Robin to go with him, but she would much rather spend time with this random girl named Vicky. Getting more desperate, he continues egging the brunette on. "Please Steve, we wouldn't be driving 90 miles like usual to the closest shop. Plus I'd look like a loser shopping by myself." Steve sighs, "Eds, I promised I'd hangout with Dustin today. The kid wants to go watch this stupid new horror movie coming out and I wouldn't hear the end of it if I ditched him. You're on your own for this one pal." With no success in getting his trusty companion to join him, he has no choice but to curse under his breath and hop in his van. "Fine Harrington, but you owe me a hangout!" He slams his door in defeat. At least it's not a 90 mile trip this time, he thinks to himself. Damn Hawkins for being in the middle of nowhere. - With his Ride the Lightning cassette playing, Eddie drives down to the shop. He hopes to replace his Master of Puppets record, he didn't think lending it out to Dustin for a bit would end up in it being snapped in half. Feeling the nice fall breeze hit his face, the van comes to a stop outside of the newly opened shop. He hops out, fixing his vest and wallet chain that got tangled in his belt. He always gets nervous going to new places with no one to accompany him, especially since the whole Chrissy thing and everyone thinking he's a killer even though its been proven hes innocent. Hes just gotten so much backlash going anywhere alone now makes him uneasy, at any moment it feels like someone's going to come kick the shit out of him. But he can't stay inside and smoke forever, so he figured this could be baby steps in the right direction. Walking into the shop, Eddie's nose is immediately hit with the smell of what he could only describe as 'someones dead grandmas perfume'. The shop is decorated with wooden shelves stacked with a wide selection of records, posters of mostly new wave bands cover the brick walls. He turns his head in the direction of a record player playing the album 'Forever Now' by the Psychedelic Furs, not his type of music but it's not bad he thinks. He continues to wander around the shop with the soft lyrics of Love My Way in the background, glancing from shelf to shelf to see if he can find a replacement for his broken record. While hopping from one shelf to another with no luck, he hears the rustling of bead curtains and footsteps. Looking away from the current shelf he's surfing through, he sees a boy with teased hair and dramatic eyeliner step out of the backroom approach the front counter. His cardigan covered in pins of bands hiding a pair of suspenders and a button up that's at least two sizes too big for him. He notices Eddie searching through one of the shelves haphazardly while taking quick glances at him.Maybe he needs help? the goth thinks. "Are you looking for anything specific?" Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin, for the amount of jewelry this guy has on he sure is quiet. The metal head turns to face the worker and lets out a shaky breath. "Uh yeah, do you happen to have the album Master of Puppets-?" Eddie now seeing eye to eye with the other stops mid sentence. He looks closely at the other male, taking in his dark makeup and interesting fashion sense. Eddie thinks it's interesting to say the least but he knows he isn't the most glorious looking either. "I don't think so, but we do take requests. Can I get a name? I want to make sure no one else buys it before you." The male says with almost zero emotion. "Yea it's Eddie Munson. Yours?" Eddie wishes he could shove his foot in his mouth, he was never good with social interactions before and with finding this guy to becute interesting, isn't helping one bit. The goth stares at him in a bit of confusion before answering, "Y/N, nice to meet you Munson." He writes down Eddies name and puts it on a stack of other requests before looking at Eddie once more. "Do you need anything else today?" Y/N asks the flustered metal head, Eddie looks around a bit more before answering. "I'm alright, when do you think the album will be here?" The goth responds, "About a week." Eddie thanks Y/N for helping him and walks out of the store empty handed and confused.What the hell was that?! Asking for his name that way?! God I am the dumbest man alive, he definitely thinks I'm a weirdo or something. Nice going Munson.... Eddie curses himself and his silly behavior while he hops into his van. - The drive home was pitiful, Eddie couldn't stop going over the whole interaction in his head over and over again. He flops onto his bed and groans, "I don't think I can show my face there ever again...but I also don't want to drive to hell and back to the next record store..". He fights with himself on if he should bite the bullet and drive to the next record shop or show his face again and be embarrassed until he falls asleep. He won't be embarrassed forever, right?	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586776/chapters/197656576	{"authors": ["k4st13l"], "language": "English", "title": "Sharp Teeth Pretty Teeth"}
Ad Astra It started, as most life-changing supernatural events do, with a desire to avoid an email marked "URGENT: PAYMENT DUE." Lyra had wanted to run away from her responsibilities so badly that she ended up running away from her body. The first time it happened, she had absolutely freaked out. She had seen Insidious. She knew the lore. You leave your body, and suddenly you’re an Airbnb for every demon with a grudge and a desire for a meat suit. She spent the first month terrifyingly convinced that if she wandered too far into the Further, she’d come back to find a creepy Victorian ghost living in her skin. But the demons never came. No lipstick-faced monsters, no fog machines, no creepy music. Just a weird quiet, like the world was on mute. After she begrudgingly accepted that nothing supernatural was going to come for her, she started exploring her abilities more. It turned into her little science project, usually conducted from her comfortable bed during the witching hours. First came the projection itself. She learned that if she lay very still in her bed, closed her eyes, and exhaled the entire weight of her day, she could step out and became a point of consciousness. Then came the travel. She discovered that she wasn't limited to floating around her apartment ceiling like a lost balloon. All she needed was a visual. A memory, a photograph, or even a Google Earth pin worked. If she looked at a picture of a place and focused on the feeling of being there, the world would dissolve and rebuild itself around her. She spent weeks scrolling through travel blogs, memorising landscapes so she could visit them while her physical body napped. Finally, there was the manifesting. That was the hardest part. Being a ghost was great for sightseeing, but terrible for interaction. But she learned that if she concentrated and took all that dispersed energy and condensed it into a tight, vibrating point, she could nudge the physical world. It started with flicking a piece of dust. Then a page of a book. Eventually, she could knock over a cup of coffee (which was a mistake, because she couldn't clean it up). It was exhausting, leaving her physical body with a migraine the next day, but it made her feel less like a spectator and more like a participant. (She occasionally haunted her noisy neighbours afterwards.) The Eiffel Tower was a special place for Lyra. When she first started projecting, it quickly became one of the spots from the postcards she frequently hung around. She sat on the very tip of the Eiffel Tower at 12 AM, dangling her invisible legs over Paris while the city slept, listening to the wind howl through the iron lattice, the bright moon shining down onto her. It was lonely, but in a good way. She loved coming here to ponder about life, or her lack thereof. Then, she went deeper. She drifted to the bottom of the North Atlantic, descending two miles down in absolute, crushing silence until she reached the rusticle-covered deck of the Titanic. She sat on the ruins of the grand staircase, watching bioluminescent fish swim through the ghost of the chandelier. She liked it there. It was quiet. No one could hurt her at the bottom of the ocean. She visited the sunken city of Heracleion off the coast of Egypt, floating through temples that hadn't felt sunlight in a thousand years. She even briefly popped into the International Space Station, though the lack of gravity made her feel weirdly dizzy, and she accidentally startled an astronaut by knocking over a floating pen, so she left before she caused an international incident. The last thing she wanted was to have a CIA file about her. But eventually, she wanted somewhere that wasn't just quiet. She wanted somewhere that felt... heavy. Like her. So she found the castle. It sat on a hill in Tuscany, radiating a strange, heavy magnetism. It was old, secret, and filled with monsters. Lyra liked that. Monsters were honest about what they were. They didn't smile at you while holding a knife behind their back like the guys she used to date. Lyra had been haunting the Volturi for three months. They were her secret reality show. Keeping Up with the Volturi. She knew the layout better than the architects. She had drifted into the Throne Room during "feeding time", watching from the ceiling as Heidi brought in a group of people. She didn't look away when the screaming started. She'd grown desensitised to the deaths. And it didn't help that Heidi fished in people who deserved it: scammers, criminals, pedophiles. It was just the way of the world, like how lions hunted gazelles. Weirdly, she respected it more than the corporate violence of her day job. She had also discovered some secrets. One afternoon, Lyra drifted through a heavy, locked door in the East Wing that no one ever entered. Inside was a studio that smelled of turpentine and oil paints, canvases neatly stacked against the walls. Caius was there. The angry, shouting King was silent, holding a brush with a delicacy	Ad Astra It started, as most life-changing supernatural events do, with a desire to avoid an email marked "URGENT: PAYMENT DUE." Lyra had wanted to run away from her responsibilities so badly that she ended up running away from her body. The first time it happened, she had absolutely freaked out. She had seen Insidious. She knew the lore. You leave your body, and suddenly you’re an Airbnb for every demon with a grudge and a desire for a meat suit. She spent the first month terrifyingly convinced that if she wandered too far into the Further, she’d come back to find a creepy Victorian ghost living in her skin. But the demons never came. No lipstick-faced monsters, no fog machines, no creepy music. Just a weird quiet, like the world was on mute. After she begrudgingly accepted that nothing supernatural was going to come for her, she started exploring her abilities more. It turned into her little science project, usually conducted from her comfortable bed during the witching hours. First came the projection itself. She learned that if she lay very still in her bed, closed her eyes, and exhaled the entire weight of her day, she could step out and became a point of consciousness. Then came the travel. She discovered that she wasn't limited to floating around her apartment ceiling like a lost balloon. All she needed was a visual. A memory, a photograph, or even a Google Earth pin worked. If she looked at a picture of a place and focused on the feeling of being there, the world would dissolve and rebuild itself around her. She spent weeks scrolling through travel blogs, memorising landscapes so she could visit them while her physical body napped. Finally, there was the manifesting. That was the hardest part. Being a ghost was great for sightseeing, but terrible for interaction. But she learned that if she concentrated and took all that dispersed energy and condensed it into a tight, vibrating point, she could nudge the physical world. It started with flicking a piece of dust. Then a page of a book. Eventually, she could knock over a cup of coffee (which was a mistake, because she couldn't clean it up). It was exhausting, leaving her physical body with a migraine the next day, but it made her feel less like a spectator and more like a participant. (She occasionally haunted her noisy neighbours afterwards.) The Eiffel Tower was a special place for Lyra. When she first started projecting, it quickly became one of the spots from the postcards she frequently hung around. She sat on the very tip of the Eiffel Tower at 12 AM, dangling her invisible legs over Paris while the city slept, listening to the wind howl through the iron lattice, the bright moon shining down onto her. It was lonely, but in a good way. She loved coming here to ponder about life, or her lack thereof. Then, she went deeper. She drifted to the bottom of the North Atlantic, descending two miles down in absolute, crushing silence until she reached the rusticle-covered deck of the Titanic. She sat on the ruins of the grand staircase, watching bioluminescent fish swim through the ghost of the chandelier. She liked it there. It was quiet. No one could hurt her at the bottom of the ocean. She visited the sunken city of Heracleion off the coast of Egypt, floating through temples that hadn't felt sunlight in a thousand years. She even briefly popped into the International Space Station, though the lack of gravity made her feel weirdly dizzy, and she accidentally startled an astronaut by knocking over a floating pen, so she left before she caused an international incident. The last thing she wanted was to have a CIA file about her. But eventually, she wanted somewhere that wasn't just quiet. She wanted somewhere that felt... heavy. Like her. So she found the castle. It sat on a hill in Tuscany, radiating a strange, heavy magnetism. It was old, secret, and filled with monsters. Lyra liked that. Monsters were honest about what they were. They didn't smile at you while holding a knife behind their back like the guys she used to date. Lyra had been haunting the Volturi for three months. They were her secret reality show. Keeping Up with the Volturi. She knew the layout better than the architects. She had drifted into the Throne Room during "feeding time", watching from the ceiling as Heidi brought in a group of people. She didn't look away when the screaming started. She'd grown desensitised to the deaths. And it didn't help that Heidi fished in people who deserved it: scammers, criminals, pedophiles. It was just the way of the world, like how lions hunted gazelles. Weirdly, she respected it more than the corporate violence of her day job. She had also discovered some secrets. One afternoon, Lyra drifted through a heavy, locked door in the East Wing that no one ever entered. Inside was a studio that smelled of turpentine and oil paints, canvases neatly stacked against the walls. Caius was there. The angry, shouting King was silent, holding a brush with a delicacy that touched her heart. He was painting a landscape, she assumed it was Volterra before the modern era, bathed in golden light. It was breathtaking and full of a longing she didn't think he was capable of. She stayed for a few more seconds, watching the dust motes dance in the light, and then she left. His private drawing room felt sacred, like she had interrupted a confession she was never supposed to witness. She never went back. Of course, not everything was sacred. There was the incident where she accidentally drifted through a wall into what she thought was a library, only to find two very beautiful, very naked vampires engaging in acts that defied standard anatomy. She learned two things that day: Firstly, Vampires have infinite stamina, and secondly, she really needed to be aware before walking through solid stone. She washed her spectral eyes with bleach and stayed in the real library for a week. It was a Monday night, and Lyra was currently hovering over the pool table in the Guard’s recreation room, feeling mischievous. The room was grander than her house, with vaulted ceilings and tapestries that belonged in a museum, but currently, it smelled of chalk and testosterone. Not sure how that worked when they were undead. Felix, the massive executioner who looked like a marble statue of a gladiator, was lining up a shot. In person - well, in ghost form - he was terrifyingly large, like a human tank made of flesh. Demetri, the tracker who looked like he belonged on a Milan runway, was leaning against the wall, scrolling on his phone. "If you miss this," Demetri drawled, "you owe me your Ferrari for the weekend. And I'm going to eat messy drive-thru in it. Literally." "I never miss," Felix grunted. He chalked his cue with aggressive precision. "And you are not eating in my car. You dirty dog." He pulled back his cue. It was a perfect practiced motion. Just as the cue ball rolled toward the pocket, Lyra reached out with a spectral finger. She’d gotten good at this - condensing her energy just enough to be a nuisance. Boop. The ball veered sharply left, hopped the rail, bounced off the felt, and rolled sadly under the sofa. The room went silent. Felix stared at the table. He looked at his cue. He looked at Demetri. He looked at the ceiling. "Physics..." Felix whispered, looking horrified. "Physics has abandoned me. The universe is broken." "Tragic," Demetri smirked, not looking up from his phone. "You choked. It's okay, big guy. Performance anxiety happens to the best of us." Felix roared, and a heavy oak chair was smashed into kindling against the stone wall. Lyra giggled, a ripple in the psychic air. It was funny. It was safe. Watching chaos she created from behind a wall of invisibility where no one could touch her. But the rec room was just for entertainment. Her real destination was the Throne Room, her favourite place in the whole castle. She drifted through the walls to the circular hall. It was silent here. The Sad Man was in his usual spot. Marcus. He was the reason she stayed. He never moved. He never fed. He just sat there, drowned in a grief so profound it felt like a physical weight on her chest. Looking at him closely, he was frightening. His skin was paper-thin, stretched tight over cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He looked hollowed out, as if he hadn't fed in months, maybe years. His robes hung off his frame, suggesting a body that was wasting away from sheer apathy. He looked like a beautiful, tragic corpse that someone had propped up in a chair. Lyra drifted down and sat on the armrest of his throne, dangling her spectral legs. "Rough day?" she whispered into the silence. "Me too. My boss called. He wants to give me more work. I'm thinking of haunting his computer." Marcus stared straight ahead, dead to the world. "I like you," she told him softly, leaning her head near his cold shoulder. "You're safe. You're the only man I know who doesn't want anything from me." Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors swung open. It wasn't just the brothers this time. Aro swept in, looking manic and delighted, his black hair flowing behind him. His wife, Sulpicia, glided beside him, her face a mask of porcelain perfection. Caius followed, looking like he’d just stepped in a wet puddle with fresh socks (as always), with the beautiful Athenodora on his arm. "The coven from Brazil," Caius snapped, leading his wife to her seat. "Insolent. Disrespectful. I vote we burn them." "Patience, brother," Aro soothed, patting Sulpicia's hand. Then, he stopped. He crept right in front of the thrones, ignoring the questioning looks from his company, tilting his head like a bird listening for a worm. "Curious," Aro whispered. "Do you feel that static, everyone?" Lyra froze. "I feel nothing," Marcus said, his voice like dry leaves scraping together. "No," Aro murmured, stepping closer. His eyes narrowed, scanning the air. "It is a mind. A consciousness. Hiding. Peeping." Sulpicia leaned forward, her eyes wide. "A spy, husband?" Aro reached out a hand, blindly groping at the air near Lyra's face. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest. The fear of being hunted by a predator took over, creating a visceral reaction. Her control slipped. Shit. She scrambled backwards, knocking into a heavy gold candelabra standing next to the throne. CLANG. The heavy metal fixture toppled over, hitting the stone floor with a deafening crash. "Assassin!" Caius hissed, blurring into a defensive crouch in front of Athenodora. "SHOW YOURSELF!" Aro commanded, his words driving into the air like a sledgehammer. Lyra's concentration shattered. She flickered into view - a translucent, glowing projection of a girl in an oversized hoodie with messy hair, eyes wide with terror, cowering on the stone floor. Marcus’s head snapped toward her. He looked right at her. For a second, the apathy cracked. He looked shocked. "Oops," Lyra squeaked. Then she slammed back into her body in her bed, waking up with a gasp, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She curled into a ball, pulling the blanket over her head. It's fine, she told herself, hyperventilating. They're in Italy. I'm in bed. Vampires don't have Google Maps. I'm safe. I'm anonymous. I'm- They found her in six hours. Lyra was in her kitchen, wearing an oversized hoodie and bunny slippers. She was stress-eating cheddar cheese slices at 6 AM. She knew they were coming, their presence steadily approaching her front door. When the knock came, she didn't answer. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, clutching the cheese slice like a holy relic. "Miss?" A smooth, velvety voice called out. "We know you're in there. We can hear your heartbeat. It's skipping adorably quickly, actually." Demetri. She looked at the knife block. Too close. She looked at her seasonings and grabbed the garlic powder shaker. It was the size of a small brick. She threw the door open. Demetri was standing there, looking like he just stepped out of a Gucci ad. Perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect predatory smile. "Hello," he began, "I believe we have busine-" "IN THE NAME OF JESUS, I REBUKE YOU!" Lyra screamed at the top of her lungs. She hurled the shaker at him. The plastic cap popped off mid-air. A massive, yellow, pungent cloud of garlic powder exploded over the world's greatest tracker. Garlic bits rained down into his shoes. It coated his hair. It coated his three-thousand-dollar Armani suit. It got in his eyelashes. Demetri stood there. He blinked slowly. He looked down at his lapels, which were now a dusty yellow. He looked back up at her. He didn't dissolve. He didn't scream. He just looked... incredibly disappointed. "Really?" he sighed, brushing a mound of garlic off his shoulder. "That's a myth, you know. And frankly, a waste of seasoning. I smell like a Breadstick Factory." Lyra backed up until she hit the refrigerator. She grabbed a magnet. It was pathetic. "Stay back!" she shouted, brandishing the metal magnet. "You... you can't come in! I haven't invited you in! I know the rules! You need permission to enter my residence!" Demetri chuckled, a soft, charming sound that made her stomach flip in a bad way. He stepped over the threshold without a moment's hesitation. "Ah, The Lost Boys," he mused, looking around her kitchen. "A classic film. But I'm afraid that's just Hollywood, darling. I can come in whenever I want. I'm just being polite." He looked at her bunny slippers. He looked at the half-eaten slice of cheese in her other hand. "The Masters are very intrigued by you," he said. "Please come willingly. If I have to carry you, I will, but I'm currently marinated in garlic and I'd hate to ruin your... elegant ensemble." Lyra lowered the magnet. She realised she was wearing an oversized hoodie, holding cheese, and fighting a vampire who smelled like a pizza parlour. "Fine," she whispered, defeated. "But let me put on pants." The flight was a blur of terror and luxury. But nothing prepared her for the reality of the castle. When Lyra projected, everything was slightly muted - colours were duller, sounds were quieter. In reality, the Volturi castle was an assault on the senses. The stone walls loomed impossibly high, smelling of ancient dust, beeswax, and blood. The gold leaf on the ceiling didn't just shine; it burned. The air was colder than a freezer, biting at her skin. It was grander, darker, and more terrifying than her ghostly visits had ever revealed. She stood in the centre of the circular throne room, shivering in her jeans and hoodie. The room was full. The entire coven was there. Aro sat with Sulpicia, who was looking at her with open curiosity, her hand resting delicately on Aro's arm. Caius sat with Athenodora, who looked bored but watchful, her blonde hair a sharp contrast to her black gown. And Marcus. In person, he was even more unsettling. He was slumped in his throne, his chin resting on his chest. He looked fragile, like a strong wind would scatter his bones. "Remarkable," Aro cooed, circling her inhumanely quickly. "She projects her consciousness! A spy? Or merely a voyeur?" "I liked the quiet," Lyra whispered, wrapping her arms around herself, creating a barrier. She felt small. She felt like prey. "She is a spy," Caius spat. "She knows too much. She's seen the castle. She knows about our inner workings. She's likely seen the art studio!" "I didn't see anything!" Lyra protested, her voice trembling. "And your art is beautiful, by the way. Very moody. Nice use of chiaroscuro." Caius paused. His scowl faltered for a fraction of a second. He looked slightly gratified, then remembered he was angry. "Dispose of her," he insisted. "She is a security risk." "She knows about the pool game," Felix grumbled from the shadows. "Marcus?" Aro turned to face him. "You have been silent. What say you? She was sitting on your throne, after all. Quite presumptuous." Lyra looked up. She met Marcus's eyes. He looked tired. He looked wrecked. But as he looked at her, standing there in her jeans and hoodie, the grey film over his eyes flickered away. He saw her. He saw the golden thread of the mate bond snap into place. "She stays," Marcus rasped. Caius groaned, throwing his hands up. "As a prisoner? We don't run a hotel, Marcus! We are not a Bed and Breakfast for random strangers!" Marcus stood up. The reaction was instantaneous. Sulpicia gasped softly. Athenodora sat up straighter. Jane took a sharp intake of breath. Aro stopped moving entirely. Marcus never stood up. And when he did... oh gods. The man was huge. As he uncoiled from the throne, the hollow man expanded. He unfolded like a dark banner, rising to a height that dwarfed everyone in the room. His shoulders, hidden by the hunch, were broad and powerful. Even though he was thin from starvation, his frame was massive, like a Titan waking from a nap. He glided down the dais steps, a tower of ancient black velvet and power, stopping directly in front of Lyra. She flinched. It was a small movement. A visceral recoil. Her shoulders hunched, her chin tucked, and she took a sharp, terrified step back. Her body betrayed her, reacting to the proximity of a man with power as if he were about to strike her. It was muscle memory from the past. Marcus froze. He saw the flinch. He saw the way her eyes went wide, not just with fear of death, but fear of him. A flash of red anger burned in his chest. Not at her, but at the invisible history that made her react that way. He realised instantly that she didn't need a King. She needed a shield. Marcus slowly, deliberately, lowered his hands. He didn't touch her. He sank down. The court gasped. The King was kneeling. He brought himself below her, making himself smaller, looking at her with an intensity that made her knees weak, but his face was open. Honest. "I am not going to hurt you," he said. His voice was low, rusty, but incredibly gentle. Lyra stared at him, her breath hitching. "You... you're a monster. You eat people. I saw you all." "Yes," Marcus agreed. "I am a monster. Which means I do not lie to my own." He looked at her, waiting for her to breathe. "You are mine," he said. She stepped back again, a shadow crossing her face. The cynical wall slammed down. "I'm not. I'm not anyone's toy. I'm not doing this again." "No," Marcus corrected softly. "You are not a toy. You are not a possession to be broken." He tilted his head, his red eyes burning into hers with a warmth she didn't think vampires were capable of. "You are my soulmate." "Soulmate?" Lyra squeaked. "We just met. You don't even know my name. I threw garlic at your employee. I watched your brother paint! I'm a mess!" "I know your soul, my dear," Marcus said simply. "I see it. It is tired. Like mine." He offered his hand, palm up. A request. Not a command. "I do not want to take from you," he murmured. "I want to stand between you and the world. I want to ensure that nothing ever frightens you again. Not even me." Something in her chest cracked. The armour she had welded shut for years couldn't find a foothold on his dead, honest face. He looked... exhausted. Just like her. And he was offering her the one thing she actually wanted, safety. "You promise?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "For eternity, my darling," he vowed. "Can you walk?" he asked. "No," Lyra admitted, her legs feeling like jelly. "I think I'm going to pass out. But in a cool way." "May I carry you?" he asked. Asking. Giving her the choice. She hesitated, searching his face for the trap. Finding none, she gave a tiny nod. He scooped her up in a fluid motion. He was cold, but the hold was secure. He shielded her, held her like she was treasure. He turned to the stunned court. "She is under my protection," Marcus snarled, his voice finally rising to its full, commanding volume. The sound echoed off the stone walls, shaking the dust from the tapestries. "If anyone touches her, I will end them." The silence held for exactly one second. Then, absolute chaos erupted. "OH, GLORIOUS DAY!" Aro shrieked, clapping his hands. "He speaks! He lives! Oh, Sulpicia, look! A sister!" Sulpicia beamed. "She is adorable, Aro! Look at her bunny shoes! We must find her something silk immediately." Aro blurred forward. "Welcome, sister! Do you like jewels? Ancient artefacts? We must get you out of these... jeans." "Get back, Aro," Marcus growled, clutching Lyra tighter. "Touchy, touchy!" Aro giggled. "Felix! Go tell the kitchen we need... what do humans eat again? Toast! The finest toast in Italy!" Caius slumped back, smirking. "Finally. Three thousand years of moping, over." He turned to Athenodora. "Ensure she doesn't accidentally impale herself on the furniture." Athenodora nodded. "I will have the sharp corners addressed." Down in the guard circle, Felix whispered, "The 8-ball that defied gravity. That was you, wasn't it?" Lyra buried her face in Marcus’s robes, mumbling, "I plead the fifth." "I knew it!" Felix crowed. "Demetri, you owe me an apology!" Demetri, still lint rolling garlic off his suit, looked at the ceiling. "I owe you nothing. I didn't have a spare suit on the jet, and I still taste like blasted garlic." Jane gave a small nod. "She's small. Like a kitten. We will keep her." "She is not a pet," Marcus corrected sharply, turning on his heel. "She is a Queen." Marcus didn't stop until he was deep within his private chambers. The room was dark, smelling of old paper, rain, and the faint metallic tang of ink. He sat on a velvet chaise, but he didn't put Lyra down. He kept her in his lap, his arms forming a cage of safety around her. "Breathe, my darling," he murmured against her hair. "You are safe." His voice was a rumble in his chest that she could feel against her own. Instinct took over. The terror of the last few hours crashed into the absolute security of his hold. Marcus lowered his head, his nose grazing the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. He inhaled deeply, a primal, animalistic sound. He was memorising her scent - garlic, fear, rain, and Lyra. "Mine," he growled softly, the sound vibrating against her skin. He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, a possessive, grooming gesture that was undeniably vampiric, claiming her as his. It was primal reassurance. He was marking her with his scent, covering the smell of the world with the smell of the King. Lyra didn't pull away. She shivered, but not from cold. The weight of him, the scent of him, the absolute claim he was laying on her... it silenced the noise in her brain. For the first time, she didn't have to be the strong one. She didn't have to be the witty one. She just had to exist. Her head felt heavy. She needed... something. Something to ground her. A tactile confirmation that she was allowed to be here. Without thinking, she nudged her head upward, bumping the top of her head against the palm of his hand, which was resting on her shoulder. A silent, instinctive demand. Pet me. Marcus froze for a millisecond, then understood. A low purr of satisfaction left his throat, a sound more animal than man. He brought his hand up and began to stroke her hair in long, rhythmic motions that went from her crown to the nape of her neck. "Good girl," he whispered, his lips brushing her temple, his voice thick with devotion. "I have you. I have you." The steady, rhythmic strokes of his hand against her hair were hypnotic, pulling at her heavy eyelids. Shifting in his lap, she buried her nose against his neck, taking in the safety of his scent. Warm in his cold embrace, Lyra finally succumbed to the darkness and fell into a peaceful slumber.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75586781/chapters/197656601	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "Ad Astra"}
What He Lost Across the Gate Roy moved faster down the road once he saw the car in the distance. The chilly wind whipped at his cheeks, stinging them red. Roy was grateful for the scarf around his neck. Once he reached the door, he pulled it open and climbed in. “How long has he been there?” Roy asked as he glanced out the window. “I took Al back to the inn hours ago. We had lunch and hung out a bit before I came back. He was still here and hasn't moved. I even tried calling out to him. Nothing.” Jean shook his head. “It started snowing almost an hour ago, and still nothing?” Roy asked. “Mmm-mm,” Jean shook his head once more. “Alright, I’ll be back.” Roy opened the car door and stepped back out into the cold. He rounded the car and headed into the cemetery and towards Ed. Roy watched Edward from a distance for a few minutes. His head was bowed, body rigid, barely moving at all. Ed never stood still, so seeing him unmoving felt wrong. Roy knew his automail was probably freezing as he wasn’t dressed for snow, considering he’d been there with Al since this morning. Roy pulled his pocket watch out and checked the time, 6:00 PM. The sun had been down for nearly an hour. He was thankful Jean had stayed. Who knows who would be crawling around in the dark at this hour? “Edward?” Roy asked as he took a step forward. Ed showed no signs that he’d even heard Roy. “Ed, it’s evening.” Roy glanced over Ed’s shoulder to look at the bouquet of flowers Ed and Al had bought with him this morning before Roy had to head into South Headquarters. Izumi Curtis was neatly inscribed on the headstone. Roy sighed, knowing it’d affect Ed, but not realizing just how much. He should have suspected that. Ed struggled with attachment issues if the incidents with his mom, Nina, and Hughes had anything to show. Roy lifted a hand and put it on Ed’s shoulder. “Edward. We need to go.” Ed’s body tensed suddenly before he turned to look toward Roy, but not really looking at him. His golden eyes were blank, but his head was the only thing that moved as he blinked in response. Roy had seen Ed angry, determined, broken, and stubborn, but never quiet. Never still like this. Stillness didn’t suit him. It felt like witnessing a flame that had forgotten how to burn. That was months ago, Roy knew how Edward felt. It reminded Roy of the months he’d spent up north, filled with long, quiet nights spent reflecting on everything he’d lost. Ed must have been doing the same all day… “You’ve been out here for hours,” Roy replied as he pushed the snow off Ed’s shoulders and fluffed his hair. A thin layer of frost clung to his automail arm, glittering under the weak moonlight. When Ed finally shifted, the metal gave a painful-sounding crack, like it had turned brittle. Roy removed his coat and wrapped it around Ed’s body. Ed looked down at Roy’s gloved hands and then back up at him. Roy smiled at him, only now realizing how much Ed had grown while on the other side of the gate. His 4’11” height had grown into 5’3”. Roy was still plenty taller than Ed, but the new perspective showed him how much time had passed while Ed was away. Roy frowned as he remembered their last conversation in the sunset. Ed was different. He held himself differently, schooled his face faster. Roy watched Ed look back down, and then his shoulders slumped as tears filled his eyes and dripped down his face. Ed looked back up at Roy. “I wasn’t here,” he voiced, a broken sound coming from his lips. “How could I not be here?” Edward was full on crying now as his body shook. Ed shook his head, hand coming to wipe at his eyes. Roy caught him as Ed stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Roy's neck, crying into his shoulder and holding Roy tight. Roy set his hands on Ed’s hips as he loosely hugged him back, comforting him and letting him grieve how he needed. Ed sobbed into his shoulder, babbling and rambling about Izumi and how he had missed out while he’d been away. Roy’s hand hesitated before setting a hand on the back of Ed’s neck, warm through the cold-stiff braid, a quiet, steadying anchor for the younger man. “You’re here now,” he said softly, like he could root Ed to the present with just the warmth of his palm. “Teacher was the first adult who demanded better of me. It was never a transaction with her.” Ed started once he calmed, arms still around Roy. “She gave Al and me everything we needed without asking for anything in return. I should have told her how I really felt about her. She…Teacher was almost like a second m-” Ed’s voice cracked over ‘mom’ as he rubbed his face against Roy’s military jacket. The cold clung to Ed, then to Roy as they stood together. “She needed us,” Ed choked out. “She- she was dying, and I was on the other side of the damned Gate pretending I could do something. I didn’t even know. I didn’t even know. Al got to say goodbye.” “Ed, you carry her in every damn step you take. Besides, Al was dealing with a lot of things on his own as well, but look at him	What He Lost Across the Gate Roy moved faster down the road once he saw the car in the distance. The chilly wind whipped at his cheeks, stinging them red. Roy was grateful for the scarf around his neck. Once he reached the door, he pulled it open and climbed in. “How long has he been there?” Roy asked as he glanced out the window. “I took Al back to the inn hours ago. We had lunch and hung out a bit before I came back. He was still here and hasn't moved. I even tried calling out to him. Nothing.” Jean shook his head. “It started snowing almost an hour ago, and still nothing?” Roy asked. “Mmm-mm,” Jean shook his head once more. “Alright, I’ll be back.” Roy opened the car door and stepped back out into the cold. He rounded the car and headed into the cemetery and towards Ed. Roy watched Edward from a distance for a few minutes. His head was bowed, body rigid, barely moving at all. Ed never stood still, so seeing him unmoving felt wrong. Roy knew his automail was probably freezing as he wasn’t dressed for snow, considering he’d been there with Al since this morning. Roy pulled his pocket watch out and checked the time, 6:00 PM. The sun had been down for nearly an hour. He was thankful Jean had stayed. Who knows who would be crawling around in the dark at this hour? “Edward?” Roy asked as he took a step forward. Ed showed no signs that he’d even heard Roy. “Ed, it’s evening.” Roy glanced over Ed’s shoulder to look at the bouquet of flowers Ed and Al had bought with him this morning before Roy had to head into South Headquarters. Izumi Curtis was neatly inscribed on the headstone. Roy sighed, knowing it’d affect Ed, but not realizing just how much. He should have suspected that. Ed struggled with attachment issues if the incidents with his mom, Nina, and Hughes had anything to show. Roy lifted a hand and put it on Ed’s shoulder. “Edward. We need to go.” Ed’s body tensed suddenly before he turned to look toward Roy, but not really looking at him. His golden eyes were blank, but his head was the only thing that moved as he blinked in response. Roy had seen Ed angry, determined, broken, and stubborn, but never quiet. Never still like this. Stillness didn’t suit him. It felt like witnessing a flame that had forgotten how to burn. That was months ago, Roy knew how Edward felt. It reminded Roy of the months he’d spent up north, filled with long, quiet nights spent reflecting on everything he’d lost. Ed must have been doing the same all day… “You’ve been out here for hours,” Roy replied as he pushed the snow off Ed’s shoulders and fluffed his hair. A thin layer of frost clung to his automail arm, glittering under the weak moonlight. When Ed finally shifted, the metal gave a painful-sounding crack, like it had turned brittle. Roy removed his coat and wrapped it around Ed’s body. Ed looked down at Roy’s gloved hands and then back up at him. Roy smiled at him, only now realizing how much Ed had grown while on the other side of the gate. His 4’11” height had grown into 5’3”. Roy was still plenty taller than Ed, but the new perspective showed him how much time had passed while Ed was away. Roy frowned as he remembered their last conversation in the sunset. Ed was different. He held himself differently, schooled his face faster. Roy watched Ed look back down, and then his shoulders slumped as tears filled his eyes and dripped down his face. Ed looked back up at Roy. “I wasn’t here,” he voiced, a broken sound coming from his lips. “How could I not be here?” Edward was full on crying now as his body shook. Ed shook his head, hand coming to wipe at his eyes. Roy caught him as Ed stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Roy's neck, crying into his shoulder and holding Roy tight. Roy set his hands on Ed’s hips as he loosely hugged him back, comforting him and letting him grieve how he needed. Ed sobbed into his shoulder, babbling and rambling about Izumi and how he had missed out while he’d been away. Roy’s hand hesitated before setting a hand on the back of Ed’s neck, warm through the cold-stiff braid, a quiet, steadying anchor for the younger man. “You’re here now,” he said softly, like he could root Ed to the present with just the warmth of his palm. “Teacher was the first adult who demanded better of me. It was never a transaction with her.” Ed started once he calmed, arms still around Roy. “She gave Al and me everything we needed without asking for anything in return. I should have told her how I really felt about her. She…Teacher was almost like a second m-” Ed’s voice cracked over ‘mom’ as he rubbed his face against Roy’s military jacket. The cold clung to Ed, then to Roy as they stood together. “She needed us,” Ed choked out. “She- she was dying, and I was on the other side of the damned Gate pretending I could do something. I didn’t even know. I didn’t even know. Al got to say goodbye.” “Ed, you carry her in every damn step you take. Besides, Al was dealing with a lot of things on his own as well, but look at him now. He loves you, idolizes you even.” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I should have been here for them.” Ed gripped Roy hard, his automail pressing bruises into Roy’s skin over his layers. Roy wished Ed could have been there for him, considering the amount of time he’d spent thinking about Ed while he was gone. But, he didn't dare say anything. Edward was here, back in Amestris, and that was all that mattered in this moment. Besides, this wasn’t the place, nor was it the time. Ed’s knees dipped suddenly mid-ramble, the weight of grief and cold pulling him downward. Roy caught him with a startled curse, one arm wrapping firmly around Ed’s waist. The cold and wind were needles against his face as he pulled Ed back against him to keep him up. The exhaustion finally seemed to take over his body. “We should go, Edward,” Roy whispered as he righted him. Ed ignored Roy, turning back to the headstone. He lifted a hand, reaching out to brush the snow from Izumi’s name with trembling fingers, leaving smears of warmth that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Ed sobbed once more, realizing he would never feel Izumi’s warmth again in a hug or a fist and tough love. Izumi was harsh and strict, yet loving and knowledgeable. Ed had appreciated having her in his life, Roy knew. He pushed himself up, not ready to say goodbye. Roy guided Ed toward the car, each step slow and reluctant. Ed didn’t let go of him, not even once. For the first time since Roy had met him, Edward Elric didn’t pretend he was okay.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75582161	{"authors": ["MomoMoon115"], "language": "English", "title": "What He Lost Across the Gate"}
Collateral “Open the fucking door.” His abrasive command beats through the cheap wood. You don’t move. You can’t, really, only feeling your heart pounding its way up your throat. Your ratty apartment doesn’t do you any favors. A little thing crammed high up over the city. The only place you can afford despite the type of clientele you usually service. The door you’re staring at won’t hold back a stiff breeze, let alone a pissed off DEA agent. You fucked up. Bad. Slipped some half-heard name, passed the wrong message along, and now the wrong people are dead because of it. You’ve had close calls before, but this one’s different. Because this time, it was at his expense. The man who showed up like the first hit of an uncut drug: euphoric and bound to ruin you the second you got hooked. He convinced you to open your legs and mouth for the good of the cause, whispering empty promises with his hand shoved between your thighs and making you come harder than any sicario ever bothered to try. He never promised you safety. Never promised anything tangible, either. The hinges rattle beneath his fists, causing you to swallow harshly, nails biting the soft skin of your palms. You think about pretending you’re not home, but you know better than to insult Javier’s intelligence like that. This is a completely different side from what you are used to. Usually, he’s a man of few words and even fewer feelings. When he shows up, it’s always the same routine: quiet knock, tired brown eyes, the scent of stale whiskey and gunpowder trailing in behind him like a shadow. No warm greeting. No small talk. Only the heavy scrape of his boots as he kicks the door shut behind him, and then he’s on you. Rough hands and a rougher mouth, always rushed and desperate. Like he’s trying to fuck something out of himself; indignation, repentance, the weight of whatever hell he crawled through that day. He never says your name. Not when he fucks you, at least. Just grabs, pulls, bends you over whatever’s closest—couch, counter, the damn windowsill if he’s in a mood—and drives his cock into you like he’s punishing both of you for something neither of you will acknowledge out loud. Cum paints your skin like a mark he never stays long enough to claim. He tucks himself back into his jeans with those calloused fingers and mutters a half-hearted thanks, fishing a crumpled wad of bills from his wallet, tossing it wherever like an afterthought. Sometimes, though, sometimes, he stays. Those nights are quieter. He’ll fuck you softer, deeper. His hands will cradle your face instead of your throat. His mouth will linger at your jaw, then your breastbone, like he’s memorizing the map of something he knows he can’t keep. That’s when you know he wants something. That he’s here for more than just your body. He wants intel—names, whispers, pillow talk from men who trust you too much. You give it to him. Every damn time. Why? Because it means he stays a little longer. Long enough for you to count the freckles on his shoulders with your fingers. Long enough to watch him light a cigarette by the window, tight jeans low on his hips, smoke curling around him, eyes lost in some far-off place. But this? This isn’t moody. This is a whole fucking storm. Another heavy blow slams into the door. The frame shudders. “I swear to God, if you don’t open this—” You step back, barefoot on the warped linoleum, voice brittle yet defiant. “We don’t have anything to talk about, Peña. Just go.” Silence. For a flicker of a second, you think… maybe he’s gone. Maybe this time, he’ll do what he always does—leave it all behind, choking on his own rage and regret, too proud to bleed in front of anyone else. Then a brutal, splintering sound as his boot crashes against the flimsy door. It swings open with a shriek, slamming into the wall as dust kicks up into the air. You stumble back with a choked gasp, eyes wide as he crosses the threshold. His chest is heaving like he’s run miles to get to you, sweat clinging to his neck, glistening along the sharp line of his jaw, trickling down his temple. His nostrils flare, jaw grinding so tight you can almost hear the tension crack in his teeth. But his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—sweep the room until they lock on you. When they do, something inside you curdles. He charges without a word. Your feet move on instinct, backing into the clutter of your shitty living room, knocking into the corner of the couch. “Javier—Stop—” You spin away, trying to duck out, but you’re not fast enough. His large hand clamps around your arm firmly and drags you with him like you weigh nothing. You cry out when his fingers dig into the meat of your bicep, and then he slams you against the wall, hard enough that your breath rattles in your lungs and your vision swims for a second, body pinned between the cracked plaster and his broad chest. “Let me go!” you bark, thrashing against him, but there’s no space to move. He cages you in with his body and the fury that led him	Collateral “Open the fucking door.” His abrasive command beats through the cheap wood. You don’t move. You can’t, really, only feeling your heart pounding its way up your throat. Your ratty apartment doesn’t do you any favors. A little thing crammed high up over the city. The only place you can afford despite the type of clientele you usually service. The door you’re staring at won’t hold back a stiff breeze, let alone a pissed off DEA agent. You fucked up. Bad. Slipped some half-heard name, passed the wrong message along, and now the wrong people are dead because of it. You’ve had close calls before, but this one’s different. Because this time, it was at his expense. The man who showed up like the first hit of an uncut drug: euphoric and bound to ruin you the second you got hooked. He convinced you to open your legs and mouth for the good of the cause, whispering empty promises with his hand shoved between your thighs and making you come harder than any sicario ever bothered to try. He never promised you safety. Never promised anything tangible, either. The hinges rattle beneath his fists, causing you to swallow harshly, nails biting the soft skin of your palms. You think about pretending you’re not home, but you know better than to insult Javier’s intelligence like that. This is a completely different side from what you are used to. Usually, he’s a man of few words and even fewer feelings. When he shows up, it’s always the same routine: quiet knock, tired brown eyes, the scent of stale whiskey and gunpowder trailing in behind him like a shadow. No warm greeting. No small talk. Only the heavy scrape of his boots as he kicks the door shut behind him, and then he’s on you. Rough hands and a rougher mouth, always rushed and desperate. Like he’s trying to fuck something out of himself; indignation, repentance, the weight of whatever hell he crawled through that day. He never says your name. Not when he fucks you, at least. Just grabs, pulls, bends you over whatever’s closest—couch, counter, the damn windowsill if he’s in a mood—and drives his cock into you like he’s punishing both of you for something neither of you will acknowledge out loud. Cum paints your skin like a mark he never stays long enough to claim. He tucks himself back into his jeans with those calloused fingers and mutters a half-hearted thanks, fishing a crumpled wad of bills from his wallet, tossing it wherever like an afterthought. Sometimes, though, sometimes, he stays. Those nights are quieter. He’ll fuck you softer, deeper. His hands will cradle your face instead of your throat. His mouth will linger at your jaw, then your breastbone, like he’s memorizing the map of something he knows he can’t keep. That’s when you know he wants something. That he’s here for more than just your body. He wants intel—names, whispers, pillow talk from men who trust you too much. You give it to him. Every damn time. Why? Because it means he stays a little longer. Long enough for you to count the freckles on his shoulders with your fingers. Long enough to watch him light a cigarette by the window, tight jeans low on his hips, smoke curling around him, eyes lost in some far-off place. But this? This isn’t moody. This is a whole fucking storm. Another heavy blow slams into the door. The frame shudders. “I swear to God, if you don’t open this—” You step back, barefoot on the warped linoleum, voice brittle yet defiant. “We don’t have anything to talk about, Peña. Just go.” Silence. For a flicker of a second, you think… maybe he’s gone. Maybe this time, he’ll do what he always does—leave it all behind, choking on his own rage and regret, too proud to bleed in front of anyone else. Then a brutal, splintering sound as his boot crashes against the flimsy door. It swings open with a shriek, slamming into the wall as dust kicks up into the air. You stumble back with a choked gasp, eyes wide as he crosses the threshold. His chest is heaving like he’s run miles to get to you, sweat clinging to his neck, glistening along the sharp line of his jaw, trickling down his temple. His nostrils flare, jaw grinding so tight you can almost hear the tension crack in his teeth. But his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—sweep the room until they lock on you. When they do, something inside you curdles. He charges without a word. Your feet move on instinct, backing into the clutter of your shitty living room, knocking into the corner of the couch. “Javier—Stop—” You spin away, trying to duck out, but you’re not fast enough. His large hand clamps around your arm firmly and drags you with him like you weigh nothing. You cry out when his fingers dig into the meat of your bicep, and then he slams you against the wall, hard enough that your breath rattles in your lungs and your vision swims for a second, body pinned between the cracked plaster and his broad chest. “Let me go!” you bark, thrashing against him, but there’s no space to move. He cages you in with his body and the fury that led him here. That hardened expression, the one that usually stays buried behind cigarettes and casual fucks, is out in full force and inches from your face. Tension bleeds from every pore, betrayal burning in his stare. His breath hits your cheek, soaked in liquor and ash. “After that shit you just pulled…” he scowls, voice low and grim, fingers moving to wrap tightly around your throat, complicating your ability to breathe. “Tienes suerte que fui yo el que apareció en tu puerta. Si hubieran sido ellos, ya estarías muerta.” (You’re lucky I was the one who showed up at your door. Had it been them, you’d already be dead) You claw at his forearms, face growing hot from the lack of oxygen, nails dragging across thick veins and taut brown skin. Your legs kick out, attempting to get your balance—to do something, but he yanks you forward just to throw you aside, hip bumping into the side table as you fall harshly. The lamp topples and shatters, trinkets scattering across the floor. Something nicks your arm, the cut blooming red. You choke on your own breath when it comes rushing back, eyes blinking through the watery haze as you try to sit up. Javier stands over you intimidatingly, broad shoulders eating up the skewed light from the fallen lamp, the angles of his face more defined than usual in the shadows. His jaw is clenched, lips drawn tight beneath that stern mustache, brows pulled into a frown. “It’s my fault,” he mutters, half to himself. “Should’ve never gone soft on you. If I’d treated you like every other whore, maybe you wouldn’t’ve fucked me over.” You flinch at the words, but your mouth works faster than your pride. “Eres igual que los demás.” (You’re just like the rest of them) In two steps he’s on you again, grabbing and maneuvering you onto your stomach, uncaring of the mess around you. One knee pins your legs down, and your arms are wrenched behind your back. Metal bites into your wrists—cuffs, real ones. You can’t tell if it’s panic or arousal that crawls up your spine. Then he yanks you up by where the restraints join, hard enough to make you yelp, no doubt leaving bruises and marks in their wake. You know then—it’s both. Pain and lust, twined tight. You’re back against the wall before you can further irritate him, hands subdued behind you. The chill of the cuffs contrasts with the burn on your skin, and every tug sends a throb straight between your legs. You can feel the tension rolling off him, agitation coiled in every part of his body. “Sayin’ I’m just like them. The fuck is wrong with you?” The slap lands clean across your cheek, immediate and punishing. Your head jerks to the side, heat pooling under your skin. It shouldn’t make your pussy flutter and drool, but it does. The sound of it echoes, followed by a quiet, needy sigh that escapes you before you’re able to swallow it down. He seizes your jaw with the same hand that struck you. The other presses hard into your hip, anchoring you to the wall. Tilting your pretty face toward him, his eyes rake over every flicker of desire—how your lips part, your tongue catching the swell of your bottom lip, tasting your own hunger. “You like that?” He rasps, almost in amusement, pulling you apart with a look alone. “Is that what you want? For me to slap you around? Treat you like those motherfuckers do?” You’re too breathless to speak. Too dizzy from all the overwhelming sensations. You feel his shaky exhale on your lips, the coarse brush of his mustache against your skin, the ghost of his mouth over yours. “Answer me.” He adjusts his grip. You don’t even see it coming when the second slap lands—same cheek, same burst of heat. Tears spring to your eyes, unbidden and humbling. “Yes. Please.” It comes out cracked and pitiful, a desperate little whine that doesn’t sound like you. But you barely know who you are when the air is this thick with peril. Javier sucks at his teeth. A mirthless sound paired with a smug grin that barely reaches his eyes. His fingers stay locked around your jaw, thumb pressed into your cheek like he’s testing the depth of your obedience. His other hand slides away from your hip, reaching behind him. Then it returns—holding his Beretta. You’ve seen it before, tucked at his back, half-hidden beneath his jacket. But never this close. Never like this. “I should finish the job.” He cocks his head as he trains the muzzle right between your brows. “Feed you this fucking bullet and be done with it.” The pistol gleams under the flickering light, silver and sleek and heavy-looking in his palm. It’s so close you can smell the faint tang of oil and steel. The gun clicks and your eyes widen, joints going numb from how they’ve been pinned behind you. Would he actually do it? Kill you for fucking up his operation? It’d be a more merciful death than the other fate that’d await you. He drags the barrel along your cheekbone, slowly as if it were his fingertip, then down, lower, tracing the shape of your mouth. Your lips tremble under the weight of it. That clean metal taste hovers just out of reach. Your thighs press together, slick pooling between them so fast it’s humiliating. The gun’s not shaking. His hand is steady as he watches you like he’s cataloging every twitch or flutter of your lashes. The weapon is right there, dancing over your lips like it were the leaking tip of his cock. He pushes it just slightly into your mouth. Not enough to gag. Just enough to taste. Gunpowder. The phantom taste of his precum. You don’t bother swallowing your moan and he sees what it does to you. How you shiver, how your eyes roll back, how your tongue grazes the steel sloppily as you deepthroat it, wetting it with your saliva. “Fucking hell…” he mutters, voice growing thick with disbelief, like he hadn’t expected you to like it this much. His fingers twitch against your face. Then, just as you start to sink into it, to let the tension twist into something lecherous—he pulls it away, a thin trail of spit clinging to the underside. Javier moves with a precision that’s practiced: popping the mag free with one fluid motion, tucking the full clip into the back pocket of his jeans then pulling the barrel back to eject the chambered round. All without breaking eye contact. The disarmed pistol returns, brushing along the curve of your jaw. It traces a path beneath your ear, gliding down the side of your neck. You shiver hard, the kind that starts in your spine and rolls outward, tugging your nipples into stiff, aching points. Your breath leaves in a shaky puff, and your back arches ever so slightly. “You make me think about shit that I shouldn’t,” he mutters, eyes tracing over your chest. The gun shifts, grazing your collarbone before settling at your shoulder. He uses the tip to toy with the thin strap of your top, nudging it down inch by inch until it slips from your skin. You can’t speak. You wouldn’t know what to say even if you could. Your body’s burning, pulse screaming, mouth parted and aching for him, for the weight of that gun again, for the way this entire situation just shifted into something so crude. Your tit spills free and his mustache twitches at the sight. The gun dips again, this time over the slope of your breast, the weight of it featherlight but unignorable. He circles your areola slowly and you keen, hips jolting, wrists twitching against the unforgiving cuffs. Neither of you utter a word, both lost in your own lust to do anything but pant and yearn. Your own spit is left on the sensitive flesh as he brushes the gun over your stiff nipple, rimming the muzzle with it. A whimper cracks through your throat, slick already smearing your inner thighs. His whole body shifts closer like he can smell your arousal in the air. “Fuck,” it’s as if the word’s been ripped from somewhere deep. He drags the other strap down with the back of his fingers, baring your tits fully. Your other nipple is teased with the edge of the tip, eliciting the same reaction, if not more intense from how worked up he got you with the previous tease. Broken moans tumble out of you with each flick against your breasts as he alternates. You’re a mess against the wall, pussy dripping. You’re not even ashamed. “More, Javier—give me more.” The plea is covered in a sob. A couple of tears slip free, tracing warm lines down your cheeks. You’d take anything from him right now—pain, pleasure, punishment. Whatever he’s willing to give. “Turn around.” He takes a step back, pistol hanging loose at his side, his fingers twitching against the grip. You obey, turning and pressing your flushed cheek against the sticky wall. Your top is already bunched at your waist, spine curving, legs wobbly. Javier’s right behind you, pressing a steady palm between your shoulder blades, forcing your arch deeper. Then he kicks your ankles apart unceremoniously with the toe of his boot. The scrape of leather on your bare skin has you biting your lip to hold in a moan. Your bound wrists thud behind you, matching the chaotic beat at your cunt. “Stay like this.” Smack! His palm cracks on the meat of your right ass cheek, followed by your sharp cry. The spanks that follow are heavier, feeling like fire licking at your skin. You love how good it hurts, vocalizing as much. Your flimsy sleep shorts cling to you now, the outline of your pussy marked by a dark, wet patch. Tears trickle freely down your cheeks, mascara streaking onto the wall as you brace yourself for the next hit—only this time, it doesn’t come. Instead, his hand grips your ass roughly, kneading the sore flesh like he’s half-soothing, half-claiming it. You whimper when his fingers slip lower, not even trying to hide the way they press into the soaked fabric covering you. He groans, the sound full of want. “You’d let me do anything to you. So fuckin’ easy.” You barely have time to brace before the pistol returns, pressed directly to your clothed cunt. Right against your swollen clit. You lurch upright with a gasp, but his forearm presses across the back of your neck, shoving you against the wall, holding you exactly where he wants you. “Don’t go runnin’ on me now, baby,” he snaps. “Keep still.” He moves the muzzle in slow, tight circles over the damp fabric, coaxing a helpless mewl from your lips. The sensation is maddening—too much and not enough. You’re writhing in place, tears still falling, lips parted and wavering as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, hips instinctively chasing every calculated stroke against your clit. He tilts the weapon at an angle, then a dense slap of impact lands square over your covered pussy. You wail, back arching from the unexpected pain. “¿Qué te dije? Quédate quieta.” (What did I tell you? Stay still) “F-Feels so good,” you struggle to articulate and he does it again, harder this time. The pain outweighs the pleasure which triggers more tears and an attempt at squeezing your legs shut, but his knee is already between them, keeping you exposed and compliant. He goes back to circling over the soaked fabric clinging to your pussy lips. Then you feel the gusset being pushed aside, the press of cold metal against bare, sensitive flesh. You suck in a breath, trying to keep still like he ordered you to. You wish to see him, feeling his eyes studying the way your pussy reacts, wet and wanting, aching for him to defile you using the same gun that’s taken lives. The same one that has the potential to take yours. He’s still in the clothes he arrived in—creased cream shirt unbuttoned at the neck and clinging to his frame, sleeves pushed up over strong forearms, dark jeans tight against his thighs, boots heavy where they cage your feet. Javier steps in closer, his hard cock dragging against your hip, a steady throb under rough jeans. Then comes a flick as the muzzle taps your bare clit a few times, thighs twitching as the buzz rockets through your spine. You’re coming undone, right there against the wall. Your fingers fidget uselessly behind your back, skin sore and slick with sweat. Every breath is a sob, every whimper submission to him. He hears it all—and it pleases him. You can tell by the low grunt he lets out, by the way his hips subtly grind forward like he can’t help it. The pistol trails through your slit, nudging between your folds, slow and steady as your spine curves to offer yourself up, to spread wider, ready for what he decides comes next. “If you come, I will leave you here naked and cuffed, door wide open so they can just come in and take whatever the fuck they want.” He punctuates the last word by sinking the Beretta inside you. The unfamiliar shape parts you with a stretch that borders on too much—but your body welcomes it anyway, a broken wail slipping from your lips. “Oh fuck, Javier.” The thrill is unlike anything else. The textured surface teasing every muscle inside you. With each ardent pump, slickness gathers and coats the weapon, your body pulsating around it, greedy for more, globs of your creamy arousal catching on the divots. “So hot, god damn.” He groans against your hair, flexing his forearm against you as he thoroughly begins fucking your cunt with the pistol. “Just like that. Oh god—more.” Drool leaks from the corner of your mouth, eyes crossing as your pussy clenches around the object. He obliges, intrigued, rotating his wrist slightly, drawing out another pornographic sound from your throat. The graze of his shirt against your back only adds to the sensory overload—rough against bare skin, almost intimate in a way. “You better not fucking come.” His voice is low, dangerous, grinding the threat into you as surely as he grinds the gun deeper inside. Your body jerks, a pinch making your breath catch—but it only fuels the heat spreading through your core. That orgasm you were so close to before? It’s back with a vengeance, knees threatening to give. “F-Fuck, stop, Javi, I’m—” The words spill out in a whimper, pleading for him to slow down, to show you just a shred of mercy. “You’re what?” he growls against your ear, not letting up for a second. “I already told you what’s going to happen if you don’t listen.” You squeeze your eyes close, as if that’s going to keep you in check. You attempt to think of anything to take you out of this moment and keep you from covering his pistol in the evidence of your pleasure. Nothing helps since the only thing that currently occupies your mind is him. You can’t stop trembling, can’t stop the slick sounds of your folds clinging to the steel as he works you over. He’s making this impossible. “Nonono, Javi—No puedo—I need to come, please,” you beg, voice cracking as your knees buckle. “Let me come, baby, please.” He snarls under his breath, pushing the weapon deep and holding it there. The hand on the back of your neck knots into your hair, yanking back until your throat is bared, your breath caught somewhere between throe and want. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice grates low in your ear, teeth sinking into your earlobe rough enough to make you flinch. A few more deep, deliberate thrusts of the barrel, and suddenly you’re left empty—your body shudders, whining at the loss. The sticky web of your juices still clings to the metal as he pulls it away. You feel it press to the middle of your back, slimy from being in your cunt, and it sends a fresh shiver skimming across your skin. Behind you, there’s the frantic sound of a belt being unfastened, a zipper dragged down in haste. Javier hisses through his teeth when the cooler air caresses his cock. You feel him rubbing along the tender curve of your ass, ardent and pulsing. He strokes himself with sure, rough fingers, guiding the slick crown along your entrance, dragging it through the mess already there. With a single greedy push, he’s buried inside you—thick, unrelenting, and infinitely more tender than the weapon. Your walls stretch around him in relief and bliss. The gun remains where it is while his hips begin to snap into yours. Each thrust finds your deepest, most sensitive places with precision, the angle devastating. His grip shifts; first to your hip, then your shoulder—using your body as leverage to deepen every stroke. He guides your movement, grinding you back onto him, groaning at how easily you yield. Your legs feel inflamed and weak, finally giving out. He catches you mid-fall, following you down until both of you are on your knees, his cock still buried inside you, locked in tight. “Not yet,” he grits, a cruel reminder of his earlier command. He hauls you flush against his chest, three thick fingers push past your lips, thumb pressing under your chin to hold you open. You whimper, helpless, your jaw aching slightly from the stretch. The hand holding the pistol snakes forward now, dragging across your stomach before lowering with intent. When the messy tip presses between your thighs again, brushing against your puffy clit, your whole body tenses in his hold. “Fuck!” You exclaim, though it comes out in a gag, his fingers hooked against your tongue. Your throat tightens reflexively, but it only seems to please him, and he grinds the Baretta to match the rhythm of his cock. It’s fucked up how good it feels, the clash of steel and skin triggering your delirium with tenacious pressure against a frantic beat. You can feel every inch of him inside you, hitting so deep your vision blurs. Your lips stretch wide around his fingers as drool slips down to his wrist, catching on the face of his silver watch. It turns him on like nothing else. The squelching coming from where you’re joined is obscene. Each breath is a desperate whimper, and your body betrays you—tightening around him with a grip that gives you away. “Oh baby,” he hisses through clenched teeth, forehead falling against your shoulder. “Pussy can’t help it, huh?” “Javi—ah, Javier—” It’s a broken, spluttered cry, the only warning you manage before your orgasm breaks. Your body seizes with it, your walls flutter violently around him, and your moans pitch upward into something helpless and keening. You sob madly, teeth on his fingers, not even aware of how hard you’re biting down until you taste the faint tang of his blood. It fuels his carnal desires. His body tightens behind you, movements growing wild and urgent. He tosses the weapon aside and slides his fingers from your mouth, freeing his hands to grasp your hips, your shaky thighs, your breasts—groping everywhere at once. He fucks you through the wave of your orgasm, chasing his own release until he spills into you with a low Fuck and a groan. All you can do is let yourself fall limp in his strong arms—pliant and dazed. The bristle of his mustache scratches the sensitive skin of your neck. Tears continue steadily down your cheeks from the overstimulation, body wracking with the aftershocks. You hurt all over, shoulders burning from being restrained so long, wrists injured from the jagged grip of the cuffs. Your knees are raw where they rubbed against the floor, and your lips are chapped and swollen. You’re ruined—chest rising and falling with shallow, exhausted breaths. He pulls out without so much of a word, only the sound of his own deep breaths filling the space. You feel the sudden emptiness like a hollow echo deep inside, followed by the warm, slow trickle of his spend dripping from you. It smears against the fabric of your sleep shorts, already damp and clinging to your used cunt. Each throb is a lingering reminder you’ll have to live with for the days to come. Only when the cuffs ease off your joints do your arms drop and instinct pulls you inward. You collapse into yourself on the floor, shivering despite the perspiration on your skin. You fold your arms over your bare chest, trying to shield whatever vulnerability you have left. Your apartment is a mess, you feel lost. Weeping quietly as reality catches up. Javier doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. He just stands there, adjusting his belt and flexing his jaw. His detached and cool persona adding salt to injury. “Leave the city tonight. Lay low, don’t come back for a few months.” His voice strains, the rasp curling at the edges. Your lips quiver as you lift your head, blinking against the sting in your eyes when you turn to look at him. “W-Where am I supposed to go?” You croak out, throat tight and sore. “I have no one. Medellín is all I know.” There’s a pause. Just enough for a sliver of hope to cut through the fog. Maybe he’ll look at you, maybe he’ll change his mind, maybe he’ll— “You’ll figure it out.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75577886	{"authors": ["gothcsz"], "language": "English", "title": "Collateral"}
All For One: The Gluttony Hero My Hero Academia, a manga he'd read over and over countless times, and it finally ended. He of course was saddened by its ending, but per usual his inability to stop rereading it erased that feeling for him all over again. "Man, some of these villains are straight idiots." He had just finished his fourth reread of the book that week, being even more irritated by AFO's childish goal to become a demon lord than he usually was. "All that damn potential, down the drain. Like damn, I know he had the urge from birth, but once you hit 100 years old don't you fucking mature?!" He threw his phone at the wall in anger, watching the phone bounce off the wall and land on his bed harmlessly. "Just stupid." He shifted in bed, burying himself in his blankets. "If it was me? I'd be on top of the world AND save people. Doing both isn't that hard." As the words slipped from his lips, he suddenly felt a drowsiness overtake him. Not even noticing the sudden but silent rift being torn open above him in his room. ~~~ He yawned as he felt the sun brightly shine down on him. Sitting up peacefully from atop the trash can he was sleeping on top of. "Damn, I slept in...might've missed my bus. Where's my phone?" He tapped around, at first feeling his blankets and then feeling a very hard material, like thick plastic. "Hm?" He tapped again and felt it was even under his blankets, his eyes opening and adjusting to the sudden light, just as the rest of his senses kicked in. "HUH?" He looked around, finding himself in an alleyway in a place he did not recognize. His breath picked up, and he felt around his blankets hoping to find his phone. After a second of rummaging he heard a clatter, and saw his phone fall off the dumpster. He jumped down after it, landing hard since his legs were still wrapped up in the covers. After pulling himself out of the covers he saw he was dressed in a black tracksuit, clearly designer based on the material, and it had some strange lettering here and there. "When did I even...?" He ignored that and grabbed his phone, attempting to turn it on, but it didn't come on at all. "Well, shit.." He looked around, hoping that someone was around to hopefully help him out, but not a soul was in sight, besides what seemed to be a hobo further into the alley. He sighed, pocketing his hopefully not broken phone, walking over to the man in the alley. He stood over the man, feeling a strange pull on his hands. "Uh, excuse me.." No response. Not much seemed to be going on with the man besides the mumbles he let out in his sleep. Now that he looked at him, the man was quite dirty, his skin was grey and there seemed to be some rocks stuck to or in his skin. Oddly enough, it looked so natural he didn't even gag at it. He leaned down and tapped the man. "Yo wake up!" And wake up the man did, punching him in his chest, knocking the wind out of him, and sending him flying into the same dump he originally woke up on. He tried to breathe for a solid ten seconds before air finally found its way back into his lungs. Coughing as he caught his breath, he got up, leaning on the dumpster. The homeless man got up and shambled his way over to him, slamming into the walls and cracking them. "That's..a...hell of a...skin condition...you got there." His sentence came out choppy, his lungs betraying them On his way over, his phone vibrated as he backed up with some effort. He took a glance at it as the homeless guy tripped over his own feet and hit the ground. On his phone the screen was pure white and in the middle was a text. (Use your quirk, All For One) "Nig--MY WHAT?" He looked up at the homeless man, and suddenly the pieces began to connect in his head. "No fucking way." Not quite sure of himself, he shot his hand out towards the man and tried to grab at him, almost pathetic in the way his arm shook. At first, nothing, and it seemed sure that the old man was about to send him flying once more, but then they came. The spikes with red lines shot out of each of his fingertips digging and piercing through the rock hobo's skin. A large smile spread on his face as he started laughing. "There's no way! I have a quirk!" He slammed the hobo into the wall, then the ground, and then the opposing wall. "And not just any quirk, I HAVE ALL FOR FUCKING ONE!" He pulled the hobo close and caught him by the throat, a weird numbness in his arm appearing as the rocks on the man began to fade and sink back into his skin, which was slowly losing its grey hue. Then his arm was coated with stone and turned grey, he could feel it become significantly stronger. He chokeslammed the hobo into the ground and cracked the ground, likely giving him a concussion. He smiled flexing his arm as he thought of pushing the quirk away and his arm turned back. "And I'm in a world where quirks exist." He spread his arms wide as he looked up at the sky, the glare of the sun beaming down on his face. "I gotta see if this place's legit!" He swiftly	All For One: The Gluttony Hero My Hero Academia, a manga he'd read over and over countless times, and it finally ended. He of course was saddened by its ending, but per usual his inability to stop rereading it erased that feeling for him all over again. "Man, some of these villains are straight idiots." He had just finished his fourth reread of the book that week, being even more irritated by AFO's childish goal to become a demon lord than he usually was. "All that damn potential, down the drain. Like damn, I know he had the urge from birth, but once you hit 100 years old don't you fucking mature?!" He threw his phone at the wall in anger, watching the phone bounce off the wall and land on his bed harmlessly. "Just stupid." He shifted in bed, burying himself in his blankets. "If it was me? I'd be on top of the world AND save people. Doing both isn't that hard." As the words slipped from his lips, he suddenly felt a drowsiness overtake him. Not even noticing the sudden but silent rift being torn open above him in his room. ~~~ He yawned as he felt the sun brightly shine down on him. Sitting up peacefully from atop the trash can he was sleeping on top of. "Damn, I slept in...might've missed my bus. Where's my phone?" He tapped around, at first feeling his blankets and then feeling a very hard material, like thick plastic. "Hm?" He tapped again and felt it was even under his blankets, his eyes opening and adjusting to the sudden light, just as the rest of his senses kicked in. "HUH?" He looked around, finding himself in an alleyway in a place he did not recognize. His breath picked up, and he felt around his blankets hoping to find his phone. After a second of rummaging he heard a clatter, and saw his phone fall off the dumpster. He jumped down after it, landing hard since his legs were still wrapped up in the covers. After pulling himself out of the covers he saw he was dressed in a black tracksuit, clearly designer based on the material, and it had some strange lettering here and there. "When did I even...?" He ignored that and grabbed his phone, attempting to turn it on, but it didn't come on at all. "Well, shit.." He looked around, hoping that someone was around to hopefully help him out, but not a soul was in sight, besides what seemed to be a hobo further into the alley. He sighed, pocketing his hopefully not broken phone, walking over to the man in the alley. He stood over the man, feeling a strange pull on his hands. "Uh, excuse me.." No response. Not much seemed to be going on with the man besides the mumbles he let out in his sleep. Now that he looked at him, the man was quite dirty, his skin was grey and there seemed to be some rocks stuck to or in his skin. Oddly enough, it looked so natural he didn't even gag at it. He leaned down and tapped the man. "Yo wake up!" And wake up the man did, punching him in his chest, knocking the wind out of him, and sending him flying into the same dump he originally woke up on. He tried to breathe for a solid ten seconds before air finally found its way back into his lungs. Coughing as he caught his breath, he got up, leaning on the dumpster. The homeless man got up and shambled his way over to him, slamming into the walls and cracking them. "That's..a...hell of a...skin condition...you got there." His sentence came out choppy, his lungs betraying them On his way over, his phone vibrated as he backed up with some effort. He took a glance at it as the homeless guy tripped over his own feet and hit the ground. On his phone the screen was pure white and in the middle was a text. (Use your quirk, All For One) "Nig--MY WHAT?" He looked up at the homeless man, and suddenly the pieces began to connect in his head. "No fucking way." Not quite sure of himself, he shot his hand out towards the man and tried to grab at him, almost pathetic in the way his arm shook. At first, nothing, and it seemed sure that the old man was about to send him flying once more, but then they came. The spikes with red lines shot out of each of his fingertips digging and piercing through the rock hobo's skin. A large smile spread on his face as he started laughing. "There's no way! I have a quirk!" He slammed the hobo into the wall, then the ground, and then the opposing wall. "And not just any quirk, I HAVE ALL FOR FUCKING ONE!" He pulled the hobo close and caught him by the throat, a weird numbness in his arm appearing as the rocks on the man began to fade and sink back into his skin, which was slowly losing its grey hue. Then his arm was coated with stone and turned grey, he could feel it become significantly stronger. He chokeslammed the hobo into the ground and cracked the ground, likely giving him a concussion. He smiled flexing his arm as he thought of pushing the quirk away and his arm turned back. "And I'm in a world where quirks exist." He spread his arms wide as he looked up at the sky, the glare of the sun beaming down on his face. "I gotta see if this place's legit!" He swiftly turned about-face, offering a weak apology to the hobo, and left the alleyway. He stepped onto a street that he most certainly did not recognize in any way and happily began to strut down the sidewalk. He wasn't searching for anything in particular, but he did want to see what it was like in this world. After all, he couldn't be sure where he was exactly, or when he was. "I doubt they'd place me back when quirks first started..., but it would mess a lot of stuff up if they placed me in the original timeli--" His words caught in his throat as something extremely large slammed down in front of him. It was some giant villain with an ugly face that he couldn't even make out. He took a step back as the building the villain began to fall under the weight of the villain, but just as the debris began to fall wooden branches shot out from underneath the villain and caught all of the rubble before it touched the ground. He then looked at the villain and made a noise of understanding. Seems he was in the original timeline, and at the very beginning at that. He looked at the villain and thought about taking his quirk. But the wooden tendrils that slithered around and displaced anybody too close told him to think otherwise. Then the man himself dropped down on the villain's chest, making the poor guy groan at the impact. "All right, all civilians need to be at least 30 paces away!" Kamui Woods advised, making a perimeter with his tendrils. Then a shadow was cast over the street as a smiling Mount Lady waved down at everyone. "Yup! 30 paces people, let's have a clean finish for my big debut!" She blew a kiss, and he groaned as every male on the street had a different, but no less disgusting, response. He simply turned around and left the scene, after all, now that he knew where he was, he knew he had to go secure himself a few good quirks to compete with the powerhouses of 1A. "Hm, now that I think about it...do I have papers? Like registration for existing?" His phone pinged. (...) "Cause of course you cut corners while inter-dimensionally kidnapping somebody, don't trip, I'll do it myself." He sighed and put his phone back into a pocket on his tracksuit. Then he started walking, dipping in and out of alleyways, hoping to run into a villain or two. But, he unfortunately did not run into a villain. Sighing to himself, he left the dirty alleys and went out into the open. He needed so many things, quirks were at the top of that list, and money was right under it. "But where the hell do I start?" "Just start, stop being lazy kid." Someone said as they passed by him, causing him to whip his head around to say something. But he stopped, shocked at who it was. En-fucking-deavour. He froze, what more was there to do as the hero stomped past casually in his civilian clothes. The hero strutted down the street, turning a corner. ¨He has a point..." He then glanced back at the corner, an odd feeling filling his heart, an urge so strong he almost walked around that corner and lined the man up to take his quirk. He was standing there for a minute, nearly as if he was in a trance, like a vampire high off the scent of blood. A small tap on his left leg pulled him out of his daydream, returning him to reality. He turned to see who had tapped him, but there was no one there, so he looked down and was surprised to see a small child, one he recognized. It would've been impossible to notice before but that red cap with horns was all he needed to know this was Kota. Yet, last he checked, Kota was 6 during the story, and this one looked like he was a little younger than that, just barely reaching his knee in height. The small boy was sipping from a juice box and looking at him with a blank stare. "Um, what's up kid?" The small boy shrugged. "I dunno, you looked like you were lost Mister, I wanted to help." That ran a flag through his mind, Kota wanting to help random people. This couldn't be the main timeline. He chuckled and shook his head, dropping down to Kota's level and meeting him with a playful glare. "So, you're playing hero huh? What if I was a villain? Do you think it'd be smart to walk up to a villain so carelessly? Never heard of stranger danger?" He pelted the smaller boy with questions, who didn't even budge for a second. The challenge sat in the air while Kota sipped his juice box, the small boy raised his hand slowly, and from his palm, a small burst of water hit the older teen. Barely even a cup full, but effective in proving his point. Kota pulled the straw to his juice box out of his mouth. "I can fight a villain, and if I can't beat you..." Two hands went under the boy's arms and ripped him into the air, making both his juice box and his hat fall straight into the hands of the older boy. He looked up surprised to see two people in front of him now with Kota on the taller one's shoulders looking triumphant as he high-fived the slightly smaller one. One who blatantly looked like an older version of Kota with a mustache that didn't connect in the middle, and an older woman who had brown hair with a long bang in the front. "Then his parents will!" The feminine voice of the woman rang like a bell in his ears, Kota's obvious parents staring him down with a smile as he stood up. "Okay, okay. I don't want any beef with the Water Hoses, you win this time little dude." He passed the juice box and hat back to Kota, Kota's father giving him a quick thank you. However, Kota's mother looked at him with a slightly worried look. "We won't get you this time, after all, you kept our little Kota in one spot when he ran off, but we should get your parents for letting you be out all alone. My goodness, you don't look much older than twelve, maybe ten?" Kota's father nodded along to his wife's statements. "Yeah, now that my wife's mentioned it, where are your parents' kid?" The teen faltered for a moment, before coming up with a decent lie. "Oh um, they're out on vacation, my grandparent's home is close by that store over there, so I came to get snacks." He pointed to a random store he only spotted ten seconds ago down the street. Kota's parents turned to see the store and both had a synchronized "Ah." come from their lips. Kota's mom looked back at him, slightly skeptical, but let it slide for now. "Well okay young man, we should be getting Kota to his aunt's house so we can go and patrol. You go get your snacks and head home safely, you hear?" He nodded, stepping out of the way of the parents, Kota's father slipping a few yen notes into one of his pockets in his tracksuit. "See ya kid, be safe." That small comment marked the end of their interaction as the happy family walked down the street. Surprisingly, no urge to steal their quirks came from him, making him wonder if it was because he knew their quirks weren't strong. He shrugged off his slightly dark thoughts and pulled out his phone because now he seriously had questions. He didn't know what happened during his small trance but the streets around him had changed completely now, looking cleaner and less aged than they already were before. New signs he hadn't seen before, and even a few new buildings had taken up some of the space he originally saw the city had reserved for parks and monuments. He likely would've inspected them had his surroundings not so suddenly changed. He turned the phone on and instantly the screen changed from a pure white one that only showed notifications, to a chat log he had with who he could only assume was his kidnapper. He typed into the chat and leaned on a wall, keeping a better eye on his surroundings this time. Greed: Hello? X: Sup. He rolled his eyes at the nonchalant message. Greed: What did you do while I was salivating for power over there? X: Oh ya, that's my b, realized dropping you there was a bit messed up, no prep time could've sent you into a world of pain. Greed: Huh? You thought I'd fold, or did you do something? X: Nah, I don't know if you'd fold or not, after all, that's why you're here. However, it seems I forgot that your other, was a bit more active during that time. While you were over there "salivating" one of his goons snuck up on you in an attempt to steal you away for his purposes. P.S.: Slamming solid rock into concrete surfaces is not subtle. He face palmed as he realized what that entailed, meaning his little trance was far worse than a trance, literally making him oblivious. He sighed, irritated by the setback but going along with it. Greed: I fucked up one route... X: So I had to start you from another. Your life is just as real as it was in your homeworld, cherish and handle it wisely. The first time was my mistake, the second time is on you. There are no special catches to your situation, I just want to see if you can live up to your claims. Prove to me you can handle the pressure of this situation, and break out to the top of this world. He sighed and nodded, not a doubt in his heart he couldn't handle this. Greed: You gave me the strongest quirk available, if I lose, send my soul to oblivion. He slid his phone into his pocket, feeling it ping but ignoring it. He decided he might as well make use of the money Kota's dad gave him and headed over to that store from before. So, he had been placed two years back in time as a result of his earlier blunder. Unfortunate for him, but gave nothing but opportunity as prep time was a bitch, and two years worth of it would damn sure give him an edge. He walked over to the store and went to enter, but a small clatter in the alleyway near the building drew his attention. He let go of the door handle and walked over to the alley, shaking his head as he betrayed all the senses his culture was known for and investigated. Upon looking into the alleyway, the first thing he saw was a large puddle of blood. It seemed oddly contained though, as if something had tried to scoop it up. When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the source of it came from a clerk, possibly from the store, he looked like he had been stabbed all over, and his stomach almost couldn't handle the image. But the dead clerk wasn't the most concerning thing at the moment, it was the small blonde girl in a school uniform sitting over the body happily drinking the blood. He put his hands in his pockets as he watched the girl who couldn't be anybody else but Toga. Her quirk didn't set off his trance, which was good for him, since if it did when she pinpoint tossed a knife at his forehead after spotting him, he wouldn't have been able to activate his newly acquired rock quirk. The knife harmlessly bounced off his skin, the girl looking angry as she stood up and scurried off without a word, like a cat caught rummaging through a dumpster. He thought about chasing her, acting like he could save her as if this was some fanfiction where he could just take her to All Might and explain her situation and she'd be pardoned. However, he shut those stupid thoughts out in an instant. He knew that wouldn't work, he'd just get her arrested and locked up forever. He probably wouldn't be able to land visiting rights since he technically wasn't even a citizen, and when he was asked how the hell he got here or where he came from, how was he supposed to explain that? He crouched and picked up the knife she tossed at him, it wasn't a kitchen knife, pretty expensive looking too. It was double-sided and had some strange cat symbol in the middle where he assumed you were supposed to hold it. He spun it on his finger for a moment, before pocketing it. It could come in handy later, he knew they would meet again, and when that time came, by then he'd be sure to help. He then glanced at the dead person in front of him, sticking a finger out and stealing his quirk. He'd figure out what it did later. He walked over to the store, it was unmanned, since the person who should be manning it was outside in the form of a cup for vampires. So he politely walked over to the counter and jumped over it, using the phone and reporting a murder. Then he walked around the store stealing whatever looked appetizing before looking at the sole camera in the corner of the store and putting a spike through it, destroying it and simultaneously ripping it from the wall. He tossed it into one of his pockets and bagged his stuff before leaving. He could hear sirens already coming, so he hit a turn and left the scene. "Okay, back on track." His walk was silent and without purpose, he got lucky seeing two characters back to back like this, and he highly doubted he'd keep being lucky. So for now, he was subjected to walking aimlessly until he found something of use to him, or someone important. Then suddenly he stopped, realizing something, Kota's parents were going to die soon. He didn't know when, or where, but they would. This...troubled him. To follow the canon properly, he should let them die. However, he was human too, handling an already dead person was easier than enabling another person's death. Even worse he'd smile in Kota's face years later as if he didn't let it happen. He slammed his face into his hand, rubbing his eyes as he mulled it over. It felt like a path in a game, turn around and try and find them, or...walk away to keep things going in a way that would make things easier for him. "Fuuuuuuuu--- ~~~ "Hey there!" A male hero called out to a civilian as he walked past, his female counterpart waving to the civilian who happily waved back. This hero duo was so in sync that the only things different about them were their gender and height. They were Water Hose, a hero duo that also happened to be married, A hero duo, a teen transported into another world and subsequently, the past of that world, was watching intently. Just as he had been for the past two months. It irked him to no avail, the timeline of this universe could be so very specific, so how was it that these two hadn't met the catalyst to their end yet? He had thought about giving up, but unfortunately, he was the type that if they had even an inkling of a feeling about something, they'd try and see it through. This unfortunate stakeout hadn't been completely unfruitful though, as while he watched and waited he worked hard on understanding his surroundings. He took his eyes off the duo Water Hose for a minute, as they were helping some random villain attack and they were proactive in the cleanup process, which meant he'd be on this roof for a while. This happened often on their patrols, often showing that they were genuine people, who were true heroes. If his resolve to save them was low before, it had probably raised to that of a mountain by now. Their genuine kindness was something he never saw often in his homeworld. So, during the little bit of free time he had while they worked, he studied. He had found out shortly after trying to buy groceries for the first time that he was already somehow fluent in perfect Japanese, and any other language on the planet. He questioned his kidnapper on the phone, but he was promptly told to can it, and X said that it was a "handy gift". That raised plenty of alarms in his head after all free handouts like this aren't ever "free". Besides that, he had been getting familiar with how Japan and its locations are, this world's Japan was similar to his world's but it had a few changes that could throw him off here and there. Such as the lack of care for the numerous other hero schools, U.A was top dog for sure, but there were PLENTY of other crazy picks out there. After that, he tried to run into the show's main characters, which was extremely difficult cause they were only a few handfuls of people compared to the millions who lived here. So, he set his eyes on easier achievements. His pen marked a general area on a map, in a city that never existed before MHA did. Musutafu. Home of U.A and home to most of those who would attend the school. He had done a little tracking and narrowed down the location of the person that mattered the most, his boy Izuku. The centerpiece of the story, and currently getting his handled in Aldera he assumed. He wanted to enroll there, maybe even get Inko to adopt him, as he had seen done in all those fanfics he had read. It 9/10 wouldn't happen, but perhaps if he...nah, he wouldn't manipulate things like that. The people here were real, not figments of his imagination, he had to be smart, subtle, and swift in every action. Any attention to him that wasn't warranted was like throwing himself in a pot of boiling water. He threw the map into the satchel he had bought and then brought out a book. Specifically, his "Quirk Catalog". All the book was, was a way to track quirks he had and quirks he may want, and where those quirks were. Now although he loved the idea of getting a whole bunch of powers and running rampant, he also had to remember that taking a quirk was like literally taking a piece of a soul. And if his quirk ever evolved he didn't want to deal with some random villain he stole from, nagging in his ear. Right now there were only a few he had listed. He had only three quirks, his base one, and 'Rock Body' as he called it, the one he stole from the hobo. Then, there was the mystery quirk he stole from that poor store clerk. He looked at his hand and flexed the muscles in it. The limb grew strange new muscles within that he could feel significantly increase his grip strength. The new muscles grew deep and thick, even his fingernails grew long and were extremely claw-like. He had already used it to climb onto this building and found it extremely useful in combination with Rock Body to throw heavy things farther than regularly humanly possible. "Rip Claw. The claws are eerily similar to that of a cat's, which must be why the clerk thought it was smart to approach Toga...poor guy. If you're in there, I'll make great use of this quirk. Probably doesn't help at all, but better than nothing, right?" He let go of the quirk and stared up at the bright blue sky. He slid a hand under his tracksuit and scratched his stomach. The tracksuit he didn't even have to wash for some odd reason, while he could communicate with X like all conversations over the phone, it was completely consensual. He couldn't count how many times he had been left on seen by the guy. Luckily, he had been able to coax out why one day he was in the shower and caught his tracksuit on the hangar steaming and smelling fresh after he got out, the guy put a quirk on his clothes. Showing off their serious obsession with anime and having someone wear the same outfit all the time. That wasn't the only quirk he put into his tracksuit either. He had put a quirk that allowed it to change modes depending on what he was doing, or where he was. Which he didn't know how to trigger yet, and it also self-repaired. Even better it perfectly fits his whole role, the lettering on it saying "Gluttony or Greed" over and over. He stared at the sky some more, noting that the position of the sun had changed while he was thinking, he took the time to look over the edge of the building to see what Water Hose had been up to. Only to find no one there at all. He smacked his lips in irritation. "Great." He threw his satchel over his shoulder and pulled himself over the ledge, gripping his hand into the concrete exterior of the building to slide down the alley he originally climbed up from. Once ground level, he left the alley and walked down the street. They weren't hard to find, but they weren't exactly the type that fans swarmed either. He didn't have to search long, eventually hearing something very concerning. "HEY PUT HER DOWN!" The voice of the male in the Water Hose duo yelled out. "Ah fuck.." He ran into a sprint, Rock Body spreading, increasing his speed and making him heavier, meaning the ground was cracking and most definitely shaking as he approached the scene. Which only meant the element of surprise was completely unavailable to him. If this was Muscular, he had to hope he could at least match OFA a little. His phone pinged, and he pulled it out of his pocket to see a message on his lock screen. (Say Battle.) He looked at his phone confused. "Battle?" At a moment's notice, his tracksuit switched. The original comfy vibe switched to a tougher material he could barely describe, it now completely covered his body head to toe, even augmenting the simple sports shoes he had bought and transforming them to fit the design. He now had a hood and a strange mask. There were gloves on his hands, and boots on his feet. His original zip-up tracksuit was replaced with a leather jacket purely for the design based on the way it loosely clung to his body. The pants were now a bit looser and more flexible, but tougher, they had pockets near the calf that weren't there before. "NOW YOU TELL ME!" He huffed at the almost magical girl-like transformation, throwing his satchel on top of a nearby building with his new strength, it'd be bad if he lost it in the middle of this fight. He rounded the corner, finding the big man himself covered in bulging muscles choke slamming a poor civilian into the ground, for probably the third time judging by the ragdoll state of the poor woman. Muscular smiled proudly, turning his attention to the Water Hose duo, both eyes still intact, meaning he had come just in time. "Hah? Want me to put her down?! Sure, but if you're gonna make me drop my toy, then taKE HER PLACE!" Muscular tossed the woman straight at him, right over the Water Hose duo and into his waiting arms. He deactivated his quirk and caught the poor woman, struggling to breathe as she coughed up her own blood. "Shit, Ma'am can you heal?" She shook her head. Of course she didn't have that type of quirk, they were one in a hundred thousand. He looked around frantically, seeing a fallen hero that clearly tried to help before he and the other hero duo got here. If the red cross on their back was anything to go by, then perhaps their quirk was what was needed. He whipped his hand forward, shooting a spike into the fallen hero and then dragging them over to him. He set the woman down next to a wall, and then put the hero's hand on the woman just in case it was touch activated, and forcefully activated their quirk. Watching carefully as the woman's wounds and broken bones were mended, slowly but surely. If not at the cost of the fallen hero's hand slowly turning black from the point of contact. Once the woman seemed well enough to at least breathe through her injuries, he pulled the hero's hand off of her and stood up. His eyes latched onto Muscular just in the nick of time to see the Water Hose duo, both out of breath and already hurt, get ready to put him down. The male Water Hose had the female Water Hose in his arms, both their arms outstretched the male Water Hose's arms lining the females. Both of them called out with all their might. "HIGH PRESSURE!" Materialized water shot from the female Water Hose's hands, and the male Water Hose seemed to confine that water as if he were a hose nozzle. The water shot at high speeds as it ripped clean through Musculars face and eye giving him his iconic scar. "ARGH! YOU LITTLE SHITS!" The bigger man cupped his face and recoiled back as the hero duo was now out of breath and recovering from such a big attack. They both looked up in fear as the man raised his hand over his head while cupping the wounded side of his face. His surviving eye glared down as he had a rage-filled smile on his face. "I wanted to play with you two a little longer, but I don't like it when my toys ACTUALLY hurt me." He brought his hand down and a sickening crunch was heard. As the new and true AFO user found out the limit of Rock Body is a few tons of force. He grits his teeth as the bones in his arm shatter, and his arm itself pops out of the socket and Muscular looks down at him confused. "Another toy huh? I guess I can play with you before I break them?" The bigger man smiled gripped the smaller teen by his other arm and threw him into a wall close by. The smaller teen had no choice but to follow the movement, as he slammed into the wall hard. Using his good arm, he activated Rip Claw and pulled himself out of the dent in the wall before Muscular's follow-up could put a hole in him. Latched onto the side of the wall he stared the villain down as he kicked his elbow in while his arm was still stuck in the wall, jumping off of the arm and into the air to try and gain momentum for his next attack. "Jeez, what's up with all the toys hurting me today?" Muscular carelessly whipped his arm out of the wall, ripping a good chunk of the wall out in the process. He then whipped it right, popping his elbow back into place, just in time to catch the new "toy" that clearly wanted to play trust fall with him. "Hey, you're a little small to be an adult, so I'll assume you're either a midget or some dumb kid wanting to play hero." He slammed the AFO user into the ground by his leg, placing his foot on the kid's chest and clicking his tongue. "Let's see if you're any good at catch?" He slammed the AFO user into the wall opposite of him until decent chunks of the building were exposed, and he could even peer inside to see an apartment building, a few tenants checking in, quivering in fear inside. He then tossed the boy into a dumpster nearby, grabbing a chunk off the wall that fell and getting ready to test his fastball. "HIGH PRESSURE!" Not before a torrent of water struck him hard in his side, piercing his muscles and stomach. He spit out blood and grimaced as he looked over to the Water Hose duo, to see them ready to keep fighting. Increasing their distance from him so they could keep taking their famous HIgh-Pressure shots. "Fuck, these toys are relentless." He lazily lobbed the assortment of bricks and concrete in his hand at the hero duo, making them both hit the ground to dodge. He went to go and crush them for good, but a boot hit him directly in his nose as he moved, throwing off his balance. He swung at the AFO user but found his strength had decreased incredibly as the teen caught the strike and even tossed his arm aside before giving him a hard one to the body. His eye tracked the kid's actions as this proceeded for a bit longer, him swinging, losing strength, and then getting punished. He then saw it, the kid's bad arm kept shooting out some spike, that was fucking with his quirk somehow. He took this into note and made a 'bad move' that the kid tried to capitalize on and instantly lurched backward, using his foot to do it as he kicked the kid's shoulder. The AFO user yelled out expletives as Muscular tumbled back, catching his plot in action. The villain rolled on his back and instantly reformed his muscles, fingers piercing the ground as he lunged forward catching the AFO user by his throat, and dragged him across the ground and into the air. Muscular jumped up, grabbing him and staring him in the eyes as he charged up his left and brought it back to finish the teen. "You were fun, but as always, Playtime's come to an end!" He punched the AFO user directly in the chest and sent him down to the ground faster than gravity could. The teen cratering the ground as the wind was knocked out of him once again and his vision blurred. "Goddamnit...Izuku...you made this look...doable." He whispered under his breath as he haphazardly stood on his feet. Muscular audibly surprised as he slowly walked the boy down. The AFO user with all his might gripped as hard as he could with his bad arm, Rip Claw activating. Then the moment Muscular was in striking range, he used his good arm to deactivate Muscular's quirk again and turned and whipped his bad arm upward, albeit painfully. The effect was immediate, deep gashes being dug up the man's torso, through his neck, and out of his jaw. The man gargled on his blood as he in outrage grabbed the boy again, buffing up tenfold and slamming him down on the ground. The pressure from the chokeslam didn't even get the chance to become too much, as another High-Pressure beam shot through Muscular's shoulder. Muscular grit his teeth, going to just toss the AFO user aside and kill the duo, but it was already too late. He could hear it, the footsteps of other heroes approaching the scene. His fun was ruined, and he was pissed, and equally petty. "God damn it, fine, it's FUCKING FINE. I know you three, I won't forget this. Well, at least those two...you on the other hand kid?" Muscular leaped into the air, onto one of the buildings nearby, bringing the AFO user close as he stared him down through the mask. "You better not survive this fucking fall." The villain winded up the boy, spinning him around over and over until he just tossed him in any given direction. The boy was given a beautiful view as he was tossed over what felt like ten blocks before finally breaking his fall through the use of a rooftop and eventually a park bench and then another park bench that surprisingly didn't break on impact. Rock Body blocked most of it, but, if the man could jump that distance his little journey was sure to end here. The AFO user sighed and coughed up what was sure to be blood through his mask. "That was educational." "Was it now?" A smaller voice but extremely calm spoke up as he looked to his right to find someone else on the bench with him. Just his luck, someone he needed to talk to much later. The teacher known as Eraserhead had a steady glare on the AFO user as he gripped his capture cloth. It was clear by the voice this was a kid, maybe if it was just him he could get the kid out of there and let the police handle him because nothing legal would send you flying through a park like a falling star. However, his boss, a chimera who was still somehow enjoying his tea, had a dangerous gleam in his eye. "Eraserhead, please apprehend him, and let's get him to Recovery Girl, this young man...is sure to be an interesting find, don't you think?" Aizawa sighed, cuffing the poor kid who was too tired and hurt to fight, and shook his head as he grabbed him. The other teachers who were on duty in other sections of the park also appeared. "Something always happens on Fridays." Snipe spoke out shaking his head as he turned to round up his set of students. Ectoplasm nodded. "A joint exercise with nature, and I was looking forward to this one." A hand landed on his shoulder as a seductive woman shook her head sadly for the man. "I feel your pain, and if there's anyone to blame it's sure to be Mic, he started this dumb superstition." Midnight sighed as she watched Eraserhead haul whatever dumb villain decided to interrupt a U.A "field trip". Her boss calmly followed at a distance on the shoulder of a robot. "Ah Nemuri please make sure there are no straggling student's in the park please, I was going to let them have their fun, but a few did veer off towards the sections closer to the middle, I'd hate to see them left behind due to our unexpected visitor." Midnight nodded and smiled. "Okay! A few lost children to herd, and maybe an early release today?" She added in the last part with high hopes. Nezu simply smiled as he directed his robot forward. "Not a chance!" Midnight smacked her lips and grumbled as she walked away hurt. Ectoplasm watched the exchange and sighed, left alone. In his frustration and solitude, he kicked a rock. "Something always happens on Fridays..."	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75577876	{"authors": ["Zerokaza"], "language": "English", "title": "All For One: The Gluttony Hero"}
Before the Project Downtown Akina,Fujiwara Tofu Shop,3:27 The moonlight shonebehind the curtain of the window on the second floor ofanunassuminglittle tofu shopin downtown Akina.The room wasdark and silent, save forthe light snoring coming from the bed.Deep asleep and wrapped in asoft blanket was abrown-haired teenager, his relaxed face sporting a fading bruise on the cheek. Some noises were coming from the workroomdownstairs where his father waspreparing the tofu for today’sdelivery.But it was not enough to wake the boystillsleepingblissfully,unaware that he was enjoying his last few minutes of rest before another day began. The clockthenstruck 3:30and erupted into air-shattering beeps.A hand shot out from the blankets, slapped it blindly, and retreated. The alarm kept screaming. Downstairs, a chair scraped across the floor.Heavy footsteps took the stairs, slow and deliberate.A moment later, the door creaked open, letting in a slice of yellow light from the hallway. “Takumi.” The voicewasn’tloud. It never needed to be. Even half-asleep, the boy tensed a little under the blanket. Bunta Fujiwara stepped into the room, a faint smell of cigarettes and fresh tofu clinging to his clothes. He crossed his arms, staring at the lump in the bed that very clearly refused to acknowledge reality. “It’s three-thirty,” he said, tone flat. “You’regonnabe late.” A muffled groan answered him.And a head full of wild hairemergedfrom the blanket. Bunta’s eyes shifted to theslightly yellowbruise on his son’s cheek. The irritated sigh that escaped himwasn’tabout the alarm, or the deliveries,noteven the boy’s stubbornness. “…You still haven’t told me whathappened,” he muttered. Takumi’s breath hitched. He focused on the alarm clock’s blinkingnumbers, a tiny, frantic heartbeat in the dark.Anywhere but his father knowing eyes. Buntadidn’tpush further. Pushing never worked on Takumi. Instead, he walked over and tapped the alarm button properly, silencing the shrill noise. “Get dressed,” he said, gentler this time. “Breakfast is ready. Andyou’retaking the86today.” That finally made Takumi move. He sat up abruptly,eyes wide, blanket falling off his shoulders. “The86?” he repeated, blinking. Bunta shrugged, already heading for the door. “The Trueno needs a run. And… you drive it better than me these days.” The door closed behind him with a soft thud. Takumi stayed frozen for a moment, the bruise on his cheek throbbing faintly, his pride and nerves twisting even more. Hedidn’tknow what scared him more: the idea ofgoingback toschool again… …or the fact his father had just said thatout loud. Lower Akina,3:40 The road was empty at this hour, wrapped in cold mountain air and silver moonlight. A white FC glided through the gentle curves with the quiet confidence of a predator thatdidn’tneed to roar. Behind it, a yellow FD followed, impatient with every throttle blip. Inside the FC, Ryosuke Takahashi watched the road with that calm, calculating gaze that gave him his reputation. Soon theywere parked side-by-side on the edge of a small turnout overlooking the base of Mount Akina. The forest was silent, except for the soft ticking of cooling engines. A blond-haired man stretched his arms, exhaling sharply. “Aniki… remind me why we’re checking out this mountain before sunrise?” Ryosukestood apart, a silhouette of calm againsthis brother’s restlessness.Hewasn’tjust looking at the road, he was absorbing it-the gradient of the slope,the way moonlight caught the guardrails,the silence that spoke of traction and temperature. Forhima road was an equation before it became a battlefield. “Because preparation wins battles. If theRedSunswant to dominate the region, we start by understanding the home turf of every teamwe’llface.” Keisuke scoffed, his blond hair spikier than usual. “Akina, huh… I heardthey’vegot a local team. Not exactly famous.” “No,” The older brother agreed softly. “Butthey’restable. Consistent. They know their mountain. Youdon’tunderestimate drivers like that.” Keisuke leaned back on the guardrail, arms crossed. “SoAkina Speed Stars are our first target?” “Our first step,”Ryosuke corrected, his voice a quiet blade in the night. “We’llchallenge them publicly. Cleanly.That’sthe foundation ofourphilosophy.” Keisuke smirked. “Publicly, huh? Means I get the first race.” Ryosuke allowed himself the hint of a smile. “If you want Akina, take it. But remember,every victory shapes our image.Don’twin with brute force. Win with precision.” The younger Takahashiclicked his tongue butdidn’targue.He’dheard the theory enough times. “Akina’s downhill is longer than most,” heheard his brothermurmur, half to himself. “And the switchbacks are narrow.” Keisuke grinned. “Good. I was getting bored on Akagi.” Ryosuke finally glanced at him, a mix of pride and amusementmade his eyes kinder thanusual. “You can have Akina. Butdon’tunderestimate it. Rhythm is everything here.” A gust ofcold windrushed down the slope, rustling the leaves. Keisuke shoved his hands	Before the Project Downtown Akina,Fujiwara Tofu Shop,3:27 The moonlight shonebehind the curtain of the window on the second floor ofanunassuminglittle tofu shopin downtown Akina.The room wasdark and silent, save forthe light snoring coming from the bed.Deep asleep and wrapped in asoft blanket was abrown-haired teenager, his relaxed face sporting a fading bruise on the cheek. Some noises were coming from the workroomdownstairs where his father waspreparing the tofu for today’sdelivery.But it was not enough to wake the boystillsleepingblissfully,unaware that he was enjoying his last few minutes of rest before another day began. The clockthenstruck 3:30and erupted into air-shattering beeps.A hand shot out from the blankets, slapped it blindly, and retreated. The alarm kept screaming. Downstairs, a chair scraped across the floor.Heavy footsteps took the stairs, slow and deliberate.A moment later, the door creaked open, letting in a slice of yellow light from the hallway. “Takumi.” The voicewasn’tloud. It never needed to be. Even half-asleep, the boy tensed a little under the blanket. Bunta Fujiwara stepped into the room, a faint smell of cigarettes and fresh tofu clinging to his clothes. He crossed his arms, staring at the lump in the bed that very clearly refused to acknowledge reality. “It’s three-thirty,” he said, tone flat. “You’regonnabe late.” A muffled groan answered him.And a head full of wild hairemergedfrom the blanket. Bunta’s eyes shifted to theslightly yellowbruise on his son’s cheek. The irritated sigh that escaped himwasn’tabout the alarm, or the deliveries,noteven the boy’s stubbornness. “…You still haven’t told me whathappened,” he muttered. Takumi’s breath hitched. He focused on the alarm clock’s blinkingnumbers, a tiny, frantic heartbeat in the dark.Anywhere but his father knowing eyes. Buntadidn’tpush further. Pushing never worked on Takumi. Instead, he walked over and tapped the alarm button properly, silencing the shrill noise. “Get dressed,” he said, gentler this time. “Breakfast is ready. Andyou’retaking the86today.” That finally made Takumi move. He sat up abruptly,eyes wide, blanket falling off his shoulders. “The86?” he repeated, blinking. Bunta shrugged, already heading for the door. “The Trueno needs a run. And… you drive it better than me these days.” The door closed behind him with a soft thud. Takumi stayed frozen for a moment, the bruise on his cheek throbbing faintly, his pride and nerves twisting even more. Hedidn’tknow what scared him more: the idea ofgoingback toschool again… …or the fact his father had just said thatout loud. Lower Akina,3:40 The road was empty at this hour, wrapped in cold mountain air and silver moonlight. A white FC glided through the gentle curves with the quiet confidence of a predator thatdidn’tneed to roar. Behind it, a yellow FD followed, impatient with every throttle blip. Inside the FC, Ryosuke Takahashi watched the road with that calm, calculating gaze that gave him his reputation. Soon theywere parked side-by-side on the edge of a small turnout overlooking the base of Mount Akina. The forest was silent, except for the soft ticking of cooling engines. A blond-haired man stretched his arms, exhaling sharply. “Aniki… remind me why we’re checking out this mountain before sunrise?” Ryosukestood apart, a silhouette of calm againsthis brother’s restlessness.Hewasn’tjust looking at the road, he was absorbing it-the gradient of the slope,the way moonlight caught the guardrails,the silence that spoke of traction and temperature. Forhima road was an equation before it became a battlefield. “Because preparation wins battles. If theRedSunswant to dominate the region, we start by understanding the home turf of every teamwe’llface.” Keisuke scoffed, his blond hair spikier than usual. “Akina, huh… I heardthey’vegot a local team. Not exactly famous.” “No,” The older brother agreed softly. “Butthey’restable. Consistent. They know their mountain. Youdon’tunderestimate drivers like that.” Keisuke leaned back on the guardrail, arms crossed. “SoAkina Speed Stars are our first target?” “Our first step,”Ryosuke corrected, his voice a quiet blade in the night. “We’llchallenge them publicly. Cleanly.That’sthe foundation ofourphilosophy.” Keisuke smirked. “Publicly, huh? Means I get the first race.” Ryosuke allowed himself the hint of a smile. “If you want Akina, take it. But remember,every victory shapes our image.Don’twin with brute force. Win with precision.” The younger Takahashiclicked his tongue butdidn’targue.He’dheard the theory enough times. “Akina’s downhill is longer than most,” heheard his brothermurmur, half to himself. “And the switchbacks are narrow.” Keisuke grinned. “Good. I was getting bored on Akagi.” Ryosuke finally glanced at him, a mix of pride and amusementmade his eyes kinder thanusual. “You can have Akina. Butdon’tunderestimate it. Rhythm is everything here.” A gust ofcold windrushed down the slope, rustling the leaves. Keisuke shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Sowe challenge them soon?” “Very soon,” Ryosuke replied. “But before that, I want to understand the mountain. No hunches. No surprises.” He turned back toward the cars. “You will drive the course slowly once. To feel the temperature. Note the pavement changes.Don’trace. Justobserve. Especially the downhill.” Keisuke rolled his eyes but nodded. “Fine, fine. You and your damn ‘data.’” Ryosuke’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “Data keeps you alive.” The brothers headed toward their cars. Engines ignited-one smooth and controlled, the other impatient and sharp. As the two rotaries rumbled back onto the dark road, none of them had any idea that, at that exact moment, on the other side of the mountain, a tofu shop door was opening with a quiet creak. Not yet. Fujiwara Tofu Shop, 3:50 The front door of the tofu shop slid open with a soft clack, letting Takumi step into the crisp pre-dawn air. The sky was still pitch-black, the town asleep, the only sound the faint hum of cicadas buried somewhere in the trees. Parked under the small awning beside the shop, the AE86 waited, a thin layer of night dew on its hood. Its black-and-white paint glimmered faintly under the lone streetlamp, like a quiet guardian ready for another run. Takumi approached it with the slow gait of someone not fully awake yet,pulling his jacket closer. Bunta stood beside the driver’s door, a cigarette resting between two fingers-or rather, burning and forgotten-while the otherhand helda small paper cup of water. Hedidn’tsay anything at first. He simply offered the cup. Takumi blinked. It had become such a routine part of their mornings that he rarely questioned it anymore. A full cup. Never a drop spilled. His father’s first lesson was now his daily, silent test. Takumi took the cup, settled behind the wheel, and placed it carefully inside the holder. Bunta watched him adjust the mirrors and fasten his seatbelt with the quiet precision of someone far older than his years.Itboth reassured andsaddenedhim. Finally, he exhaled, the cigarette tip glowing briefly in the dark. “Takumi.” The boy paused, hand on the ignition. “Yeah?” Bunta scratched his cheek, choosing his words like someone unused to showing concern openly. “…These roadsaren’ta game. I know you thinkyou’vegot ’emfigured out.” He nodded toward the mountain beyond the garage. “Butyou’restill young. Too young for some of the things out there.” Takumi looked down, fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. “I’mjust doing the delivery. Same as every day.” Bunta’s eyes softened. “I know.” A beat of silence. “Just keep your head clear.Don’ttake risks. Anddon’tlet anyone pull you into their stupidity.” Takumi frowned, unsure why his father was suddenly saying all this. But Buntawasn’tdone. “…You’ve got a future, kid.” A rare admission. “Don’t waste it on the wrong people.” Takumi swallowed, startled-but the moment passed as Bunta stepped back and tapped the hood twice. “Go.” Takumi turned the key. The 4A-GE awoke with its familiar rasping purr, the kind that vibrated all the way up the steering column. He eased the86out ofitsrestingplace, tires crunching softly over the gravel. Bunta stood in the doorway, arms crossed, cigarette smoke drifting around him. He watched the taillights disappear into the dark street, a slender red streak swallowed by the mountain. For a moment, he stayed there alone, listening to the faint echo of the engine climbing Akina’s slope. And in the back of his mind, a single uneasy thought lingered: “He’s growing too fast… and the world doesn’t slow down for kids.” The wind rustled the trees. Somewhere far above, two unfamiliar rotary engines were beginning their quiet ascent of the mountain. And Takumi Fujiwara drove upward,the water cup heldperfectly steadyin its holder.His mind drifted- to the dull ache of the bruise, to the weight of his father’s rare praise, to the simple, familiar curves of the road ahead. Hedidnot dream about racing legends. He did not think ofprojects.He could not yet imaginethe two pairs ofpredatory headlights that had just begun their slow, methodical climb upthe other side ofhismountain.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75582126/chapters/197642826	{"authors": ["revaan"], "language": "English", "title": "Before the Project"}
Snow Angels "Okay, now you just move your arms and legs" It was the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of December on Earth, or Terra as your galaxy 'friend' liked to call it.You had left your planet to go to space after meeting him unexpectedly a couple of months ago. Everytime you remember your first introduction, the feeling of complete confusion seems to come back. Most people on Earth didn't really know about space life. If they DID know about it, they were a bunch of privileged motherfuckers, to say the least. Well, you definitely weren't the latter. You couldn't even imagine you'd be talking to a cybernetically modified raccoon until that day. His passive, and very obviously, aggressive voice pulled you out of the memory."This is so flarkin' stupid. I look like a dying bug." You sat up, feeling the snow, fresh from last night, crack under you. All of that was to look at him, all snuggled in winter clothes, laying on the ground's white natural coat. Of course, it was you who insisted for him to cover up. And, of course, he put up a fight. You were used to the harsh cold, and you didn't want him to feel uncomfortable or hurt himself just by being careless. "Well, a cute dying bug" you snicker, already able to imagine the lazer of his red glare on you. A microsecond later, you found out how right you were. It was like they were acting as little machineguns, piercing through you. It only made you smile more, thinking about how similar he was to his own creations. Quick, ready to fire, polished and all arranged in their own way. There were no guns or bombs similar to the ones created from his own two hands, and there was no creature like him either. "You are not allowed to say that. Not any more than Quill or those other jackasses," he blurted out, crossing his arms over his chest. For a minute, you couldn't see his unique, jewel-like eyes as he had closed them, probably as a way to commit to his annoyed bit. Being snatched away from such a beautiful sight made a part of your brain shut off, as it was left needing more. "Jackasses? Someone's annoyed today," you couldn't help but tease, wanting to get as many reactions out of him as you could. His face creased for a moment, his pout tightening, before he relaxed every muscle in a defeated sigh. "Nah, it's just… Agh, not in the mood." "Okay…" you said, stretching the final syllable. A part of his lack of enthusiasm about 'humie' activities made you sad. He probably prefers being indoors, then, you just convinced yourself. "So, no snow angels?" His eyes opened vividly but closed just as fast as he crashed one of his covered hands against his face. "Ah, shit, forgot about that already." Even though that's literally what we've been trying to do for the past 10 minutes? you asked him with your inside voice, though your poker face went through on its own. He probably had something in mind; there was no other explanation. He was way too bright to get distracted by such an easy task. Your sour face quickly faded into another smirk and soft eyes as you watched him lay his arms to his sides again. He looked like a fat sea star with that thick coat and all. At this point, you'd give up the snow angels to tackle him and hold him tight. But, he was FINALLY about to make the freaking snow angel. You had spent so long trying to convince him to go outside, persuade him to put on winterwear with you, climb up the hill to find the best snow, lay down on the cold ground, and imitate your movements. And even then, he hadn't done the last step yet. He WAS going to do it, but he HAD to look up at you, as you were still sitting and observing him like some creep. "HEY! You don't get to look while I do your stupid terrian mark thing!" he snapped, pointing at your face. "Free stuff to make fun of me about…" he mumbled, dropping his arm again with a faint thump. You sighed, raising your arms as a peace offering. He calmed down a bit, but continued to glare at you with a severe face until you layed down next to him again. The snow still held the mold of your silhouette, making you feel like you had your own little cold coffin… uh, in a comforting and cozy way. "I'll do it first then," you said, starting to move your arms and legs through the snow, shaping it all around you. As you did, you felt little chilly sparkles hitting your face, melting upon contact. This sensation, the scent of the cold air, the swirling powder around you, all brought a smile to your face. The only thing missing was the rare warmth of the sun's rays. But that could be replaced by another source of energy, one you loved so much more. You saw a multitude of suns as you navigated whole galaxies, but you never saw someone as powerful and resourceful as him throughout your travels. God, I'm such a simp… But if he were a sun, I do wish I were a solar panel. You finally heard some shuffling next to you, indicating he was doing his first snow angel. When the noise stopped, you got up to your feet in a hurry,	Snow Angels "Okay, now you just move your arms and legs" It was the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of December on Earth, or Terra as your galaxy 'friend' liked to call it.You had left your planet to go to space after meeting him unexpectedly a couple of months ago. Everytime you remember your first introduction, the feeling of complete confusion seems to come back. Most people on Earth didn't really know about space life. If they DID know about it, they were a bunch of privileged motherfuckers, to say the least. Well, you definitely weren't the latter. You couldn't even imagine you'd be talking to a cybernetically modified raccoon until that day. His passive, and very obviously, aggressive voice pulled you out of the memory."This is so flarkin' stupid. I look like a dying bug." You sat up, feeling the snow, fresh from last night, crack under you. All of that was to look at him, all snuggled in winter clothes, laying on the ground's white natural coat. Of course, it was you who insisted for him to cover up. And, of course, he put up a fight. You were used to the harsh cold, and you didn't want him to feel uncomfortable or hurt himself just by being careless. "Well, a cute dying bug" you snicker, already able to imagine the lazer of his red glare on you. A microsecond later, you found out how right you were. It was like they were acting as little machineguns, piercing through you. It only made you smile more, thinking about how similar he was to his own creations. Quick, ready to fire, polished and all arranged in their own way. There were no guns or bombs similar to the ones created from his own two hands, and there was no creature like him either. "You are not allowed to say that. Not any more than Quill or those other jackasses," he blurted out, crossing his arms over his chest. For a minute, you couldn't see his unique, jewel-like eyes as he had closed them, probably as a way to commit to his annoyed bit. Being snatched away from such a beautiful sight made a part of your brain shut off, as it was left needing more. "Jackasses? Someone's annoyed today," you couldn't help but tease, wanting to get as many reactions out of him as you could. His face creased for a moment, his pout tightening, before he relaxed every muscle in a defeated sigh. "Nah, it's just… Agh, not in the mood." "Okay…" you said, stretching the final syllable. A part of his lack of enthusiasm about 'humie' activities made you sad. He probably prefers being indoors, then, you just convinced yourself. "So, no snow angels?" His eyes opened vividly but closed just as fast as he crashed one of his covered hands against his face. "Ah, shit, forgot about that already." Even though that's literally what we've been trying to do for the past 10 minutes? you asked him with your inside voice, though your poker face went through on its own. He probably had something in mind; there was no other explanation. He was way too bright to get distracted by such an easy task. Your sour face quickly faded into another smirk and soft eyes as you watched him lay his arms to his sides again. He looked like a fat sea star with that thick coat and all. At this point, you'd give up the snow angels to tackle him and hold him tight. But, he was FINALLY about to make the freaking snow angel. You had spent so long trying to convince him to go outside, persuade him to put on winterwear with you, climb up the hill to find the best snow, lay down on the cold ground, and imitate your movements. And even then, he hadn't done the last step yet. He WAS going to do it, but he HAD to look up at you, as you were still sitting and observing him like some creep. "HEY! You don't get to look while I do your stupid terrian mark thing!" he snapped, pointing at your face. "Free stuff to make fun of me about…" he mumbled, dropping his arm again with a faint thump. You sighed, raising your arms as a peace offering. He calmed down a bit, but continued to glare at you with a severe face until you layed down next to him again. The snow still held the mold of your silhouette, making you feel like you had your own little cold coffin… uh, in a comforting and cozy way. "I'll do it first then," you said, starting to move your arms and legs through the snow, shaping it all around you. As you did, you felt little chilly sparkles hitting your face, melting upon contact. This sensation, the scent of the cold air, the swirling powder around you, all brought a smile to your face. The only thing missing was the rare warmth of the sun's rays. But that could be replaced by another source of energy, one you loved so much more. You saw a multitude of suns as you navigated whole galaxies, but you never saw someone as powerful and resourceful as him throughout your travels. God, I'm such a simp… But if he were a sun, I do wish I were a solar panel. You finally heard some shuffling next to you, indicating he was doing his first snow angel. When the noise stopped, you got up to your feet in a hurry, excited to see his creation. His first step into terrian culture. He had stood up too, again crossing his arms in front of his chest, with a midly bored expression, as if he had done the act a million times before. As you gazed upon his snow figure, you had to repress a little squeak of emotion. Your snow angels were right next to eachother, and his was… well, just too cute not to make you blush. "Awwwh, Rocket! You did it!" you finally exclaimed, holding a gloved hand up to your mouth, happy that he had participated in your little fantasy. "Geez, why's it such a big deal…" He tried to make his voice annoyed, but you heard no real bite in it as it progressively faded when he talked. Embarrassed, probably? Still, you had to make things clear with him. "Rocket, you've been acting weird ever since we left the house. Are you okay? Did you really not want to do it? I'm sorry." You tried to make it sound as empathetic as possible, not wanting to bring his mood down even more. "No, no, don't apologize." He always hated when you did, especially when it was to him. "It's uh, yeah, it's cute. I'm not mad." He just looked down at your creations. "But clearly, you're not happy about something, so… Spit it out. Anyway, you know I always make you talk." You heard a sigh coming from his nose, creating a slightly visible condensation as he exhaled. "Fine. Uh… I didn't wanna go outside." You nodded. At least it's going somewhere. "Yes, and?" "I just wanted to stay in. Y'know… Don't make me say it." You could feel your lips turn into an upside down smile, trying not to gush over how adorably freaking bashful he looked. You knew what he was going to say, but you still wanted to push your luck. "Say what?" you asked in the most innocent voice you could manage , and he knew damn well it was bullshit. "I wanted to stay in bed, happy? That's all. And uh, well, with you." If he didn't have a thick beanie over his smaller head, maybe you would've seen how twitchy his furry ears were, and his trembling hands under his mittens. Of annoyance, of course, he WAS NOT cold AT ALL. You decided you really didn't want to push your luck by teasing him and testing his patience at this point. It was a miracle he was even this honest with you right now. "Awh, Rocky…" You gently placed your hand on his interlocked arms, causing him to release them at your touch. 'It's RockeT,' you heard him mumble, so low that the wind almost carried it away from your ears. When he looked up at you and saw the soft redness of your nose and cheeks, a melting and sweet feeling washed over him. A warmth grew between his heart and lungs, causing his skin to heat up and his fur to ruffle from a shiver. He had an unsure look in his eyes that you couldn't quite decipher. You couldn't know yet, but at this exact moment he had realised why he travelled so far and wide throughout the galaxy with you. You were special to him. You felt his body relax under your gentle grip and were lucky enough to gaze upon his brows as they unfurrowed. "Whatever, let's go back." He pulled his forearm away from your hold, only to grab your hand and confine it in his. He walked away, bringing you with him. You followed him with guilty enthusiam. As you both descended the snowy hill, you had to make sure you didn't slip and fall. "Careful!" you tried to warn, but he was impatient and was really fighting the urge to be lovey-dovey with you. You deserved this kindness, but he couldn't bring himself to it. Yet. If he knew about the wonderful things you tell yourself, just about him… Maybe he wouldn't be so stuck up.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75577926	{"authors": ["coffinwhiteheart"], "language": "English", "title": "Snow Angels"}
"let me tell you a story" “Let me tell you a story.” The room is silent as Caleb speaks, his dull eyes trained on the ground as their own bore into him. The tale that falls from the wizards lips is not a kind one. Fjord looks away when Caleb tells them how he had been accepted to the academy, about how his parents had been so proud, how he had left his home with such high hopes. Beau clenches her fists as the wizard tells them of how he had been singled out by his teacher, handpicked for a training that had seemed so innocent at first, until it suddenly wasn’t. Jester muffles her sobs as he tells them how he had learnt to tear secrets from his targets until they begged him for the sweet release of death. Of how he had hunted and hurt people, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake simply because the man he had trusted most in the world had told him they were traitors, that they were enemies to the Empire. Nott scuttles closer, reaching out to thread her fingers through his even as Caleb tries to pull away, as the ragged man recounts that awful night eleven years ago, of how he had he watched his parents burn alive in a fire he set alight and felt his mind warp and scream until he broke. Mollymauks ever present grin fades away, his face going horrifically blank as Caleb tells them of being locked away in the sanitarium, feeble minded with his memories splintered until a woman that the world had dismissed as raving mad had reached out and put him back together. How he had run because he hadn’t know much, but he did know that he would slit his own throat before he let himself be dragged back. When Caleb finally trails off, no one moves for a long moment. Caleb simply waits, his head hung low as he waits for their reaction. For their condemnation. Eventually, it is Beau who breaks the silence. “I don’t trust you.” She said simply, holding up a hand when Nott went to protest. “No I think you need to hear this. I do not trust you. I do not trust any of you and not just because I’ve only known you a couple of days. But from the sounds of it, this Ikithon guy is probably the one who was responsible for the situation at the border?” It took a moment for Caleb to realise that she was waiting on him to respond, his head nodding shakily. “Ja, it is quite possible. He’s the Archmage of Civil Influence now, which makes him all the more dangerous and makes it all the more important that I leave right now. If he finds you all here with me…” “Absolutely not!” Nott and Beau both snapped, shooting each other annoyed looks before Nott clambered up on Caleb’s lap with a stern look on her face. “If you think that you are going anywhere without me, then you’ve got another thing coming mister!” The goblin girl shrieked, waving a finger in her companion's face. “You do not just get to tell me all of this and then just run off! I won’t allow it!” “You can’t leave us Caleb.” Jester protested, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes and stepping forward to hover behind Nott. “What if one of those nasty striker people come back? What if you go off and get lost and eaten by wolves? What if we go off and get eaten by wolves? What if… what if we…” Fjord stood up as Jester trailed off, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know about these fellas, but from what you have told us, it seems to me that we should be more worried about this Ikithon fellow than about you. I mean, no offence Caleb.” Fjord said wryly, eyeing him up and down before raising an eyebrow. “But I’ve seen kittens that are scarier than you are. And if you say that you are trying to put it behind you, to be a good man, then I’m happy to take you at your word.” “I burnt someone alive yesterday.” Caleb retorted, his voice raising slightly as he turned to look at them all. “I tortured her simply because she wouldn’t give me the information I wanted. I froze you all because I knew you would stop me and I did not want to be stopped. The moment I had the choice, I chose the wrong one and did exactly what I swore I would not do again. I am a disgusting person and it would be best if I simply just left now. Before anyone else gets hurt.” “You know magic man, for someone so smart you sure can be stupid.” Molly said cheerfully, shuffling his cards from one hand to the other. “I think the others have already made our stance on you leaving quite clear.” “You do not understand-“ “Oh we understand.” Molly continued on, his cheerful grin never wavering. “Your former mentor is a massive dick who fucked you up, used you to hurt people and then dropped you the moment you couldn’t be useful anymore. The question is, what are you going to do about it?” “I don’t-“ Caleb swallowed, looking down at Nott who still hadn’t made a move to climb off of his lap, to Jester who was inching closer and closer with a determined look on her face as Beau and Fjord watched her not so subtle attempts to block Caleb's escape routes with badly hidden amusement. Looking back up at Beau, he	"let me tell you a story" “Let me tell you a story.” The room is silent as Caleb speaks, his dull eyes trained on the ground as their own bore into him. The tale that falls from the wizards lips is not a kind one. Fjord looks away when Caleb tells them how he had been accepted to the academy, about how his parents had been so proud, how he had left his home with such high hopes. Beau clenches her fists as the wizard tells them of how he had been singled out by his teacher, handpicked for a training that had seemed so innocent at first, until it suddenly wasn’t. Jester muffles her sobs as he tells them how he had learnt to tear secrets from his targets until they begged him for the sweet release of death. Of how he had hunted and hurt people, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake simply because the man he had trusted most in the world had told him they were traitors, that they were enemies to the Empire. Nott scuttles closer, reaching out to thread her fingers through his even as Caleb tries to pull away, as the ragged man recounts that awful night eleven years ago, of how he had he watched his parents burn alive in a fire he set alight and felt his mind warp and scream until he broke. Mollymauks ever present grin fades away, his face going horrifically blank as Caleb tells them of being locked away in the sanitarium, feeble minded with his memories splintered until a woman that the world had dismissed as raving mad had reached out and put him back together. How he had run because he hadn’t know much, but he did know that he would slit his own throat before he let himself be dragged back. When Caleb finally trails off, no one moves for a long moment. Caleb simply waits, his head hung low as he waits for their reaction. For their condemnation. Eventually, it is Beau who breaks the silence. “I don’t trust you.” She said simply, holding up a hand when Nott went to protest. “No I think you need to hear this. I do not trust you. I do not trust any of you and not just because I’ve only known you a couple of days. But from the sounds of it, this Ikithon guy is probably the one who was responsible for the situation at the border?” It took a moment for Caleb to realise that she was waiting on him to respond, his head nodding shakily. “Ja, it is quite possible. He’s the Archmage of Civil Influence now, which makes him all the more dangerous and makes it all the more important that I leave right now. If he finds you all here with me…” “Absolutely not!” Nott and Beau both snapped, shooting each other annoyed looks before Nott clambered up on Caleb’s lap with a stern look on her face. “If you think that you are going anywhere without me, then you’ve got another thing coming mister!” The goblin girl shrieked, waving a finger in her companion's face. “You do not just get to tell me all of this and then just run off! I won’t allow it!” “You can’t leave us Caleb.” Jester protested, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes and stepping forward to hover behind Nott. “What if one of those nasty striker people come back? What if you go off and get lost and eaten by wolves? What if we go off and get eaten by wolves? What if… what if we…” Fjord stood up as Jester trailed off, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know about these fellas, but from what you have told us, it seems to me that we should be more worried about this Ikithon fellow than about you. I mean, no offence Caleb.” Fjord said wryly, eyeing him up and down before raising an eyebrow. “But I’ve seen kittens that are scarier than you are. And if you say that you are trying to put it behind you, to be a good man, then I’m happy to take you at your word.” “I burnt someone alive yesterday.” Caleb retorted, his voice raising slightly as he turned to look at them all. “I tortured her simply because she wouldn’t give me the information I wanted. I froze you all because I knew you would stop me and I did not want to be stopped. The moment I had the choice, I chose the wrong one and did exactly what I swore I would not do again. I am a disgusting person and it would be best if I simply just left now. Before anyone else gets hurt.” “You know magic man, for someone so smart you sure can be stupid.” Molly said cheerfully, shuffling his cards from one hand to the other. “I think the others have already made our stance on you leaving quite clear.” “You do not understand-“ “Oh we understand.” Molly continued on, his cheerful grin never wavering. “Your former mentor is a massive dick who fucked you up, used you to hurt people and then dropped you the moment you couldn’t be useful anymore. The question is, what are you going to do about it?” “I don’t-“ Caleb swallowed, looking down at Nott who still hadn’t made a move to climb off of his lap, to Jester who was inching closer and closer with a determined look on her face as Beau and Fjord watched her not so subtle attempts to block Caleb's escape routes with badly hidden amusement. Looking back up at Beau, he sighed. “Owelia got a message to him. He knows I am alive and those he will send for me will not hesitate to kill you if you stand in their way.” “Let them come.” Beau scoffed, a cocky smirk spreading across her face. “We will be ready for them.” “You are foolishly brave, but evidently I cannot deter any of you.” The wizard sighed, eyeing them all in resignation. “I suppose I will stay with you, for now.” Jester shrieked happily, abandoning her attempts to be subtle and throwing her arms around both Caleb and Nott. Both of them wheezed as she squeezed, Nott hitting her arm until Jester allowed the goblin girl to wriggle her way out. Molly laughed in delight when the tiefling refused to allow Caleb the same escape, maneuvering herself so that she had taken Notts place on the pyromancers knee. Fjord and Beau couldn’t help but burst out laughing as Jester decided that she wasn’t quite pleased with that position, opting instead to sweep a now protesting Caleb into her arms and head for the stairs. The rest of the Mighty Nein followed behind them, still snickering as Caleb seemed to reluctantly submit to his fate. The wizard was asleep within moments of his head hitting the pillow though, the rest of his companions settling down around him, though none of them were quite tired enough to join Caleb in his slumber. “So,” Molly started, still shuffling his cards, unfazed as everyone turned to look at him. “We’re going to do something about this Ikithon guy right?” “Absolutely!” Nott declared, clambering up onto a chair and waving her crossbow around with a determined look. “No one messes with Caleb and gets away with it, not on my watch!” “Yeah! We’ll help as well, won’t we Fjord?” Jester said, turning a wide eyed look onto the half orc. “This guy sounds like the ultimate dick. Perfect for a handsome captain and his stunningly good looking first mate to take on!” “I don’t know about taking him on ourselves.” Fjord hedged, looking hesitantly between Jester and Caleb. “But I’m not opposed to doing what we can. Especially if we are going to be travelling together.” Beau just raised an eyebrow when they all turned to her, scowling when they all just continued to stare. “What? I’ve already said I’d help, didn’t I?” She said defensively, glaring at them. “Sure.” Nott muttered, shrugging when the monk turned on her. “And we totally believe you.” “This is literally what I was sent to do, asshole.” Beau snapped, throwing her hands up as the others just snickered. Ducking her head, Beau fought to keep her scowl from twitching upwards as she settled down next to Molly, the purple tiefling holding out an apple in a peace offering. This group really was fucking wild, she decided, plucking the apple out of Mollys grasp. Hopefully they were wild enough that not even Trent Ikithon would be able to stop them. Yeah that asshole didn’t stand a chance.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75577946	{"authors": ["Idkhowtodothis"], "language": "English", "title": "\"let me tell you a story\""}
In the upper room You and I. Harley Joseph Kent and Colton Theodore Kent. I wasn't here your whole life, but I was here for most of it. You told me. We have only two things alike; blond hair and our father. I've loved you since I saw the strange woman take your newborn form and hold you fast to her chest. Our father was watching you, reached out and stroked his fingers over your head. Soft and pink. Soft and pink. I thought it would be forever. Little baby Harley. When I came home from school, when I was 9, you weren't pressed to your mother's breast anymore. You walked up to me, still fresh and wide-eyed, and asked me if I wanted to play with you. Your smile could've lit up the entire world, back then. Still little Harley. When I was 10, you were 7, when I was 11, you were 8, and when I was 12, you were 9 and so on and so forth. You were my baby brother, and then my little brother, and by the time I was learning calculus, you had already waded past the soft waves of boyhood. Into the warm waters with me. I was 17 when I noticed it; how beautiful you were. You were an alien compared to me, so forgiving. Or was I an alien to you? Either way, you showed me salvation. In the laundry room when our father was stolen away by a bottle of Jack and his stacks of papers. He couldn't hear us. He couldn't hear me, pressing you to the dryer, running my hands through your hair after you had cut it short again. The same hair I had. He couldn't hear me whispering to you, my hands running under your shirt to feel the feverish skin. The same skin I had. Harley, did you know then, that none of it would end well? But you were so desperate, your lips still untouched by anything but the cross that hung at your neck. You kissed like you wanted it as much as I did, and you clawed at my skin like you wanted to break it open, tear my ribs wide apart to make room for yourself to live beside my heart forever. You did, that day. I told you, then, when the heat had worn off but my fingers were still moving against your back, memorizing it as if I would never touch it again, that I was proud to show you how to kiss. You were better than most, younger brother, the whole entire being of you. And that I was glad you hadn't wasted it on any whore. Maybe I wanted it too much then, your attention. Maybe I wanted nothing more than to burrow myself into your hot mouth, teeth warm and lips slick. I still remember how you kissed me, like I didn't taste the same as you. Like you had something to prove by watching myself give into you and for giving me what I had wanted. Like the sweet devotion I had tasted on your lips was a gift. I still remember how our father didn't notice me sliding my foot under the cuff of your jeans from under the table, because he was too busy signing papers at dinner. He wouldn't even look at us. I knew then, and I know the same thing now, that he had left your mother. Just as he had left mine. It still went on, didn't it? Nothing was really different when your 15th birthday passed, and I had given you my mother's old watch to you in your room. I sat beside you when you put it on and smiled at me. I thought you said something, but the heat in my chest distracted me. You were everything. I must've told you so one million times that night, when I felt you so bare and so fiery against me. You must've told me one million times that God wouldn't forgive you. God didn't watch us when we did it again, though. Seven times after that night. And He didn't watch us when I kissed you thousands of times more. In the trees outside of school when I had begged you to come to the lake our father had told us to stay away from, because it was too deep. In the laundry room again and again. Under my covers, under yours. Your lips, your neck, your back and chest, your stomach. How hadn't our father seen it? You left my room with wild hair and swollen lips one night, and I felt it. All over me. Was it love? Family? Whatever it was, there was something over my heart now, it felt like your hand, with your long fingers and sharp nails. That scar from when you dropped the knife when you cut the turkey at Thanksgiving because our father was too busy on a phone call to do it. I had to drive you to the hospital, too. And you were scared and pale and I could do nothing but hold you while you waited in the ER. I was your big brother, and you were my little brother. Then, I enlisted along with my friends the year I turned 18. You cried when you saw me in my uniform. I was beginning to hope that you'd miss me when I was sent overseas. But I knew you were just afraid. Afraid of not having my warmth beside you when you needed it, words whispered into your ear when you needed a grounding force. Our father wouldn't give it to you. He never would. You weren't a son to	In the upper room You and I. Harley Joseph Kent and Colton Theodore Kent. I wasn't here your whole life, but I was here for most of it. You told me. We have only two things alike; blond hair and our father. I've loved you since I saw the strange woman take your newborn form and hold you fast to her chest. Our father was watching you, reached out and stroked his fingers over your head. Soft and pink. Soft and pink. I thought it would be forever. Little baby Harley. When I came home from school, when I was 9, you weren't pressed to your mother's breast anymore. You walked up to me, still fresh and wide-eyed, and asked me if I wanted to play with you. Your smile could've lit up the entire world, back then. Still little Harley. When I was 10, you were 7, when I was 11, you were 8, and when I was 12, you were 9 and so on and so forth. You were my baby brother, and then my little brother, and by the time I was learning calculus, you had already waded past the soft waves of boyhood. Into the warm waters with me. I was 17 when I noticed it; how beautiful you were. You were an alien compared to me, so forgiving. Or was I an alien to you? Either way, you showed me salvation. In the laundry room when our father was stolen away by a bottle of Jack and his stacks of papers. He couldn't hear us. He couldn't hear me, pressing you to the dryer, running my hands through your hair after you had cut it short again. The same hair I had. He couldn't hear me whispering to you, my hands running under your shirt to feel the feverish skin. The same skin I had. Harley, did you know then, that none of it would end well? But you were so desperate, your lips still untouched by anything but the cross that hung at your neck. You kissed like you wanted it as much as I did, and you clawed at my skin like you wanted to break it open, tear my ribs wide apart to make room for yourself to live beside my heart forever. You did, that day. I told you, then, when the heat had worn off but my fingers were still moving against your back, memorizing it as if I would never touch it again, that I was proud to show you how to kiss. You were better than most, younger brother, the whole entire being of you. And that I was glad you hadn't wasted it on any whore. Maybe I wanted it too much then, your attention. Maybe I wanted nothing more than to burrow myself into your hot mouth, teeth warm and lips slick. I still remember how you kissed me, like I didn't taste the same as you. Like you had something to prove by watching myself give into you and for giving me what I had wanted. Like the sweet devotion I had tasted on your lips was a gift. I still remember how our father didn't notice me sliding my foot under the cuff of your jeans from under the table, because he was too busy signing papers at dinner. He wouldn't even look at us. I knew then, and I know the same thing now, that he had left your mother. Just as he had left mine. It still went on, didn't it? Nothing was really different when your 15th birthday passed, and I had given you my mother's old watch to you in your room. I sat beside you when you put it on and smiled at me. I thought you said something, but the heat in my chest distracted me. You were everything. I must've told you so one million times that night, when I felt you so bare and so fiery against me. You must've told me one million times that God wouldn't forgive you. God didn't watch us when we did it again, though. Seven times after that night. And He didn't watch us when I kissed you thousands of times more. In the trees outside of school when I had begged you to come to the lake our father had told us to stay away from, because it was too deep. In the laundry room again and again. Under my covers, under yours. Your lips, your neck, your back and chest, your stomach. How hadn't our father seen it? You left my room with wild hair and swollen lips one night, and I felt it. All over me. Was it love? Family? Whatever it was, there was something over my heart now, it felt like your hand, with your long fingers and sharp nails. That scar from when you dropped the knife when you cut the turkey at Thanksgiving because our father was too busy on a phone call to do it. I had to drive you to the hospital, too. And you were scared and pale and I could do nothing but hold you while you waited in the ER. I was your big brother, and you were my little brother. Then, I enlisted along with my friends the year I turned 18. You cried when you saw me in my uniform. I was beginning to hope that you'd miss me when I was sent overseas. But I knew you were just afraid. Afraid of not having my warmth beside you when you needed it, words whispered into your ear when you needed a grounding force. Our father wouldn't give it to you. He never would. You weren't a son to him, just another body the walls of the house had closed around. And I was just him, just angrier. He knew that you would disappear after me, and me after your mother, and your mother after mine, and my mother after our father’s father. So, I left you. For nine years. It felt like death without you. I kept your picture in my helmet, I would show it to anyone who asked about it. Who's that? They would say. My little brother. I would always say it with a smile, as if you were just a reminder of what's waiting at home for me. But I knew they thought it was strange. Not a girlfriend, not a wife, but your brother? I thought they thought that. But they understood I was young and foolish, and I knew it as well as they did. Our father called me during my deployment to tell me that he had officially and legally left your mother. He was allowed to. But I didn't care what I thought, no, I cared how you felt. Did you feel how I felt when our father, great father, told me my mother was leaving for good? I couldn't call you. He told me not to. It was like hell. My insides boiled up and through my mouth when I was on my bunk. My bunkmate woke me up in the morning to find blood on my pillow and on my fingers. I told him not to tell anyone about it, and he agreed to if I gave him the last of my cocaine. The same thing happened to him. But it was different, because unlike me, he wasn't trying to forget about you. You were still buried in my chest when I got shot for the first time, right in the arm. I was in the military hospital, and that had been the first time in years I had seen you. You looked different from the long ratty picture in my helmet; you looked like a normal man. You had tanned, and I supposed it was summer so it made sense, and your blond hair was even lighter than mine from the sun dying it, and in that moment we were two separate men, and we didn't know each other, and when our father led you into the room, you stood by me and took my hand in yours and it looked so different from when we were children but the same scar was still there so I knew you still loved me, and I wanted to kiss you, but I couldn't because our father was standing at the foot of the bed, watching my chest shake with sobs as I tried to pull you closer, but you wouldn't give in because he was standing right there and I noticed how you had grown stubble over your jaw, and how your shoulders were wider and how your muscles moved under your arms, and through my tears I saw how the way you looked at me didn't change, only the eyes that held the look. That was a month before you joined the Air Force, and 2 years and 3 weeks before I got shot again. You called me when you started in the Air Force because you wanted to hear my voice again and you wanted to tell me that your friend's dad was a navy lieutenant, so he could let you bring your cellphone around and not get penalized for it. And you talked about how every shadow at the door made your blood run hot and your heart beat faster because you thought it was me returning home to you, and in those moments I realized you were addicted to me because your voice was quiet and scared as if you didn't want to admit it, and that I should've returned when you begged God to bring me back to you but I couldn't hear your prayers over the sounds of gunshots and children crying. I apologized to you. It wasn't the first or last time. It went so fast I couldn't see it. The first bullet zipped right past my head. My fellow soldier was grabbing my arm and pulling me back behind the cemetery wall, but he wasn't fast enough, and the bullet hit my vest just under my ribs, and I felt a cold, white spike of fear and pain shock me, and then my blood was spilled by a second bullet in the same place. The doctors said if it went half an inch to the right, it could've killed me. Only our father was there when I woke up. He said I needed to stop distracting you from your career and that I needed to stop slipping up before I got myself killed. Maybe I did, but I couldn't hear anything, because knowing I was alone in the hospital for the next few months while I recovered enough to return to duty made my head throb in pain. He left to go back to Texas. My friends visited me and told me that I'd be back better than ever, that three bullets wasn't going to hold someone like me down. Then I started to puke blood, and my friend Michael, who would visit me almost everyday and sneak me cocaine, which I stuffed under my pillow and lied to him about snorting, confessed his love for me. I wasn't supposed to be so shocked. I knew what he was. I just wasn't like him. And that I only loved you and I didn't love the women I slept with and I didn't even love them when I whispered your name under my breath when I came in them, and when I imagined your hair in my hands and I imagined your body, your muscles working under your skin which barely kept you inside, and your light hair which always felt like it was sliding out of my grip, and the way you used to hold back made your breathing just more than ragged pants as you kept your eyes open the entire time. You wanted to watch me, to see how your brother fell apart when you whispered a prayer to him, one that you memorized far too well from being with our father at church every Sunday, but that was just a memory to me, like a faded melody from someone's mind, but every time, the song just felt too good on your lips, like it was giving me new life every time you recited it... Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our tresspasses... Then I wouldn't be able to hear you, as you were just mouthing the words now, as if speaking the Lord's prayer was poison to your lungs. Michael encouraged me to return his feelings, as he could tell I didn't like women as much as I said so. I disagreed with him. You were still everything. But I loved you and I couldn't love Michael so I gave him the cocaine I had stolen from my bunkmate. It's realgood, alright? Purest shit out there. Cost me a fuckin' fortune. It was a lie, but the truth was I was sorry for him because I didn't love him, and he took it and his hand stayed on mine, flexing as if he wanted to pull me into him, but he just left and I never saw him again, and then rules were stricter and if your pupils were even a little blown out, they would test your piss and if it was even a trace, you were discharged. Then came the day when you called me from your cellphone from almost 40,000 feet in the air, you were crying and you said you couldn't do it anymore, and you said you needed me, but I was across a whole ocean from you so I took a leave and even though my superiors wouldn't like it, I flew back to America the next week and I drove 8 hours from the airport and waited at your base. It was so cold I was shivering, and I wondered how long you had to deal with this, the cold hallways, and the chilled air, and I wondered if you even cared if it was so cold, or if you were used to it now. You were so hot bodied when you were a child, you would sleep with just your bedsheet on in early spring and you wouldn't sleep with anything on during the summer, and you would complain to our father that it was still too hot even with all of the air conditioning on. Then I would run you cold baths in the evenings and I could never get in with you, because it was too cold and I had always hated the cold because my mother had always hated the cold, so I would wait on the windowsill for you if you didn't want me to help wash your hair, and the air outside was humid, but you would splash me with a little water to keep me cool, but our father would get angry at us for getting water on the bathroom floor because it leaked through the ceiling to the kitchen sometimes, but you wouldn't care, you just wanted me to stay by your side until you got out. I watched you walk down the hallway in your uniform. You hadn't seen me yet, because I had put on my hat and jacket and you didn't recognize me, and you looked so hardened, like you couldn't let a single emotion slip through or else it would kill you. And the man walking beside you was trying to talk to you, but you weren't listening. You had that faraway look in your eyes and I knew then you were thinking about a place other than this, maybe somewhere where you couldn't see your breath in the air, and then you caught my eye and you froze in the middle of the hallway and you were either trying not to cry or scream, because you recognized my eyes and then I stood up and you ran to me, and you dropped your helmet and you hugged me so tight I thought my wound under my rib would open and spill blood onto the cold hallway floor, but I didn't think about anything but being close to you in that moment; your big brother was back to protect you and the man that had been walking next to you was staring at us. I could feel you crying against me. Then he picked up your helmet and continued on because you said my name, when you were sobbing, and he must've heard about me. You told them about me, didn't you? You were clawing at me again, as if I wasn't close enough, and I held you tighter and I could feel your hair against my cheek and the warmth of your tears through my jacket and it felt like forever and it felt like our hearts had become one at a point, because when I held my hand to your neck to soothe you, your heart was beating at the same time as mine. I wondered if that happened when I was across the ocean from you. Maybe when my heart raced when I plunged myself into danger everyday, bullets raining down on me, and when you flew your jet, racing through the skies like a zealous bird, our hearts were one at some point, beating at the same time from adrenaline, each pounding in our ears another reminder of what we put ourselves through. Then after maybe thirty minutes, your arms got tired from squeezing me so tight and you pulled away. Your eyes were red and that stony look was gone completely, leaving only the flushed face of my baby brother. Suddenly, all the waiting and the driving and the flying was worth it, if it wasn't before, and I wanted to kiss you again and you loved me and I loved you and I was back and you were here with me. And I did, and after a moment, I tried to taste you again, but you wouldn't open your lips, which were slick with tears, and you felt like a corpse in my arms and then everything was cold and the hallway was empty and you took a deep breath and let it out against my mouth, and then I pulled away and we weren't connected anymore but you were still looking at me the same and I wanted cocaine so I wouldn't be so cold. Then you connected us again, and you tasted me and I nearly started crying, too. But I knew we couldn't do it in a hallway so I pulled away and you were trying to speak and I could tell because your mouth was moving and nothing came out until something did; Colt, why are you here? I laughed because I thought I didn't know the answer, but I did. For you, you fuckin' idiot. And I saw something in your eyes, and then I felt your real hand press into my chest, not the ghost of the pressure I had been living with for all these years and if time stopped in that moment, I wouldn't care to spend an eternity with you. You shouldn't be here... you got... better things to be doin'. I knew you wanted an excuse. Maybe because the thought of me doing so much for you was overwhelming, or you just didn't want to get caught by your fellow pilots. Hal, please. You said... you said you needed me, right? I'm here. C'mon, you're a big boy, don't cry now. I'll stay around a little longer. You were obviously reluctant, but you stepped away from me, it wasn't so cold that time, and you wiped your face with your gloves, and you led me down the hallway to introduce me to the others. A week later, I left you again. I didn't want to, but my superiors didn't want me to leave for long. You didn't cry when you watched me drive away from your base for the last time, but I did, and it felt so cold in my car I nearly died. Well, that and the powder in my nose. You didn't know then, but I was an addict, too. My head felt out of shape and the road in front of me was covered in little black dots until the high wore off. And I took the last of it to the thought of you when I got to the airport. I really should've said grace, because when I was wiping my nose in the bathroom mirror, a little bit of blood came out and it all went black when I finally realized it was too much and it was too little and everything was gone. It was supposed to be you and me forever, but I had ruined it, and I had killed your brother and I'm so sorry, Harley. From, Colton.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75577901	{"authors": ["jamesin"], "language": "English", "title": "In the upper room"}
I want it outside, inside There'd been a strange, piercing affliction which seemed to tear through Robert's soul. It was anomalous; he avenged his father, killing Shroud and fulfilling his promise he made to himself so many moons ago. He won. Z-Team won. Yet, somehow, the emotions of dread and disquietude still rushed through his being, even as months had elapsed him. Hence why he often found himself downstairs in the gymnasium, the health club ample with gym equipment made for normies, and custom-made appliances to better serve the supers. Although he was Mecha Man within his robust suit, outside of it, he was simply Robert Robertson the Third, a normie. With an incredibly unserious name. Instead of being able to lift with the gravity variable bench press, or the time-dilated treadmill, Robert was unfortunately limited to the regular treadmill and the regular, normal bench press machine. His workout routine was rather normal; he'd stretch for five minutes, start off on the treadmill with a nice walk, escalating to a light jog, before busting out into a full sprint. Depending on how he felt, Robert typically preferred to follow up with some vigorous boxing, or bench pressing a strenuous amount of weights. Today, he opted to push his muscles, to force himself to onerously bench press two-hundred and twenty-five pounds worth of weights. It was understandably risky; his sinewy, scarred arms lightly shook with every push taken away from his chest. The barbell could've easily collapse onto his sternum, rendering another extended trip to the nurse's office. Regardless of the peril his body could potentially face, embarrassment seemed to wash over Robert the most. There'd been a point in time where the cocoa-brown haired man used to bench two-hundred and fifty pounds effortlessly, when he used to terminate close to one-hundred bandits and crooks a week in hot pursuit of Shroud. However, these days sung an abundantly different tune. He wasn't a hero currently, wasn't Mecha Man presently. He was a dispatcher, and he loves his job. "Fuck," Robert puffed as small gasps of air escaped his peach-toned lips. He was dragging it, pushing himself to the highest extreme. Having been the sixth-day in a row in which he forced himself to undergo strength-training, his arms and fibrous torso had been begging him to take a breather. His nervous system had nothing to stress about. Shroud's dead. Game over. Yet, a nagging, horrific feeling had refused to leave from his chest. Robert's overthinking had prevented him from realizing that his strength had faltered, and the bar which rested in his palms were fated to collide with his chest. It would've sinked into him, but suddenly, an unexpected grasp managed to effortlessly raise the bar away from not only Robert's body, but higher away from the rack as well. "Mecha Bitch," a familiar, cool voice above him called, as the bar was eventually placed back onto the rack. "What have I told you, hm? No lifting without a spotter. Idiot." Although grateful, Robert found himself simultaneously annoyed by the guest's fiery presence. Still lying flat against the machine's padded board, the dispatcher allowed his eyes to flutter shut as his battered hands came to rest on his chest. Robert could feel the pronounced dip in his trunk whenever an exhale was performed, the feeling somewhat comforting and grounding to the young man. "Thanks, Flambae," Robert responded in his typical, nonchalant tone. "I'm well aware of that suggestion." "It's not a suggestion, Robbo. We need you behind that desk to help, you know, the real superheros." Robert rolled his eyes behind his closed eyelids. "I am a real superhero. The Mecha Man suit wasn't just for decoration, you know." "Well, you're not in that suit right now, are you?" Robert cracked an eyelid open, a slight wince escaping his lips as the overhead lights pierced into his pupil. He decided to raise his upper-body up, his eyes now able to locate where Flambae was. The flaming asshole was across the tiny gym, his vast muscles flexing as he effortlessly hit the squat-rack machine. Squinting his eyes, Robert noticed the amount of weight which rested calmly on Flambae's shoulders. Four-hundred and fifty pounds. 'Showoff', Robert scoffed internally, yet an air of captivation influenced the youngest Mecha Man to trail his eyes along Flambae’s rugged form. He observed how the raven-black brunet's stocky thighs flexed with every squat he took. Flambae's carved-face refused to moisten, his ivory-toned face without the glistening effect of sweat. Flambae’s amber-tinted eyes penetrated deep within Robert’s own puppy-dog eyes; a skittish simper quickly grew upon the arson-committing man’s narrow lips. “What is it?" Flambae questioned, a tone of arrogance laced within his words. "What's got you drooling like that, Robbo?" "I'm not drooling," Robert replied, his eyes rolling lightheartedly. "I'm just impressed, that's impressive." Flambae ceased his squats, the blazing	I want it outside, inside There'd been a strange, piercing affliction which seemed to tear through Robert's soul. It was anomalous; he avenged his father, killing Shroud and fulfilling his promise he made to himself so many moons ago. He won. Z-Team won. Yet, somehow, the emotions of dread and disquietude still rushed through his being, even as months had elapsed him. Hence why he often found himself downstairs in the gymnasium, the health club ample with gym equipment made for normies, and custom-made appliances to better serve the supers. Although he was Mecha Man within his robust suit, outside of it, he was simply Robert Robertson the Third, a normie. With an incredibly unserious name. Instead of being able to lift with the gravity variable bench press, or the time-dilated treadmill, Robert was unfortunately limited to the regular treadmill and the regular, normal bench press machine. His workout routine was rather normal; he'd stretch for five minutes, start off on the treadmill with a nice walk, escalating to a light jog, before busting out into a full sprint. Depending on how he felt, Robert typically preferred to follow up with some vigorous boxing, or bench pressing a strenuous amount of weights. Today, he opted to push his muscles, to force himself to onerously bench press two-hundred and twenty-five pounds worth of weights. It was understandably risky; his sinewy, scarred arms lightly shook with every push taken away from his chest. The barbell could've easily collapse onto his sternum, rendering another extended trip to the nurse's office. Regardless of the peril his body could potentially face, embarrassment seemed to wash over Robert the most. There'd been a point in time where the cocoa-brown haired man used to bench two-hundred and fifty pounds effortlessly, when he used to terminate close to one-hundred bandits and crooks a week in hot pursuit of Shroud. However, these days sung an abundantly different tune. He wasn't a hero currently, wasn't Mecha Man presently. He was a dispatcher, and he loves his job. "Fuck," Robert puffed as small gasps of air escaped his peach-toned lips. He was dragging it, pushing himself to the highest extreme. Having been the sixth-day in a row in which he forced himself to undergo strength-training, his arms and fibrous torso had been begging him to take a breather. His nervous system had nothing to stress about. Shroud's dead. Game over. Yet, a nagging, horrific feeling had refused to leave from his chest. Robert's overthinking had prevented him from realizing that his strength had faltered, and the bar which rested in his palms were fated to collide with his chest. It would've sinked into him, but suddenly, an unexpected grasp managed to effortlessly raise the bar away from not only Robert's body, but higher away from the rack as well. "Mecha Bitch," a familiar, cool voice above him called, as the bar was eventually placed back onto the rack. "What have I told you, hm? No lifting without a spotter. Idiot." Although grateful, Robert found himself simultaneously annoyed by the guest's fiery presence. Still lying flat against the machine's padded board, the dispatcher allowed his eyes to flutter shut as his battered hands came to rest on his chest. Robert could feel the pronounced dip in his trunk whenever an exhale was performed, the feeling somewhat comforting and grounding to the young man. "Thanks, Flambae," Robert responded in his typical, nonchalant tone. "I'm well aware of that suggestion." "It's not a suggestion, Robbo. We need you behind that desk to help, you know, the real superheros." Robert rolled his eyes behind his closed eyelids. "I am a real superhero. The Mecha Man suit wasn't just for decoration, you know." "Well, you're not in that suit right now, are you?" Robert cracked an eyelid open, a slight wince escaping his lips as the overhead lights pierced into his pupil. He decided to raise his upper-body up, his eyes now able to locate where Flambae was. The flaming asshole was across the tiny gym, his vast muscles flexing as he effortlessly hit the squat-rack machine. Squinting his eyes, Robert noticed the amount of weight which rested calmly on Flambae's shoulders. Four-hundred and fifty pounds. 'Showoff', Robert scoffed internally, yet an air of captivation influenced the youngest Mecha Man to trail his eyes along Flambae’s rugged form. He observed how the raven-black brunet's stocky thighs flexed with every squat he took. Flambae's carved-face refused to moisten, his ivory-toned face without the glistening effect of sweat. Flambae’s amber-tinted eyes penetrated deep within Robert’s own puppy-dog eyes; a skittish simper quickly grew upon the arson-committing man’s narrow lips. “What is it?" Flambae questioned, a tone of arrogance laced within his words. "What's got you drooling like that, Robbo?" "I'm not drooling," Robert replied, his eyes rolling lightheartedly. "I'm just impressed, that's impressive." Flambae ceased his squats, the blazing superhero rising to his full, six-foot-four form while the heavy barbell rested still on his broad shoulders. "What's impressive?" He asked Robert; the arrogance seemed to be dimmed by an added element of genuine confusion. Robert waved his right, bandaged hand casually towards Flambae's direction. "If I lifted that much..." he began, his voice deadpanned and relaxed. "...I'd probably be back in the nurses's room, again. You don't even break a sweat, either. Must be nice." Flambae's lips parted to release a chuckle, revealing the missing tooth Robert had claimed many moons ago. Placing the barbell back on its rack, the taller man sauntered towards the still-seated, slightly younger man. His ample, left-hand degradingly petted Robert's head, a closed-mouth smile present on the standing man's lips. "Don't even try it either, Bob Bob," Flambae responded, his fingers lightly grasping onto Robert's chestnut-brown tresses. "We don't need you getting hurt again." Robert's stout lips autonomously curled into a smile, matching the one on Flambae's smug face. "I don't plan on it. You guys like me now, or something?" Flambae scoffed, before his softened-eyes landed back upon Robert's own pair. "You're still a bitch," he retorted Robert's question, "but we prefer you to any other dispatcher." "Aww," Robert returns, his smile subconsciously rising even wider. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Flambae." "Shut up." That should've been the last of the conversation, the moment in which Flambae's fingers release from Robert, and Robert himself leaves, or gets kicked out, and takes a well-needed, warm shower. Strangely, however, the departure fails to arrive. The men engage in an ardent eye-lock; the hues of their amber-orange and chocolate-brown eyes gazed into each other. While Flambae's eyes straitened, Robert's eyes broadened. He was cute, Flambae couldn't help but to muse. He was only joking about Robert's puppy-eyes, but with Mecha Man's big, sparkling eyes, his tranquil smile, the faint pink-hue on his warm-ivory pigmented cheeks... It was getting serious. Flambae knew he had to depart before the situation got hectic; he felt the fingers intermeshed within Robert's hair unclench, the man preparing to be brash and kick Robert out for real this time, but then... Oh my God. Robert's eyes accidentally drifted downwards towards Flambae's stacked chest. He couldn't help it; from his seated position, his eyes had direct eye-contact with the other superhero's brawny torso. Robert tried to bring his eyes up as quickly as he could, attempting to prevent Flambae from noticing the sudden divulge in attention, but of course... "What're you looking at?" "Nothing." Robert suddenly winced, his neck forcefully cranked upwards as Flambae's fingers pulled harshly on his locks. "Don't lie, Mecha Dick," Flambae taunted, his taller form bending down so that Robert and him could assume actual eye-contact. "What're you looking at me like that for, Robert?" "I don't know what you're talking about." Flambae inadvertently chortled; Robert's pitiful attempt at gaslighting influenced a short noise of amusement to escape from the fiery man's chest, the same chest Robert was actively lying about staring at like cmon now. "If you wanted to see them," Flambae nonetheless replied. "You could've asked." The bubblegum-pink hue in Robert's cheeks suddenly dropped, his face now transformed into a ghastly, snow-white tone. "I didn't-" "-Or is there something else you want to see, hm?" The normie remained quiet, yet his eyes still presumed their wide, astonished shape. The redeemed criminal finally released his hold on Robert's hair, before his hand slowly drifted downwards to palm at his umber-brown, aramid-material crotch. "Is it this?" He softly questioned, uncharacteristically hushed as if he was embarrassed. Nevertheless, he continued. "You want to see it, Robert?" There's a possibility in which this could've gone horribly wrong, in which Robert could run to H.R. and get Flambae get kicked off the team. To be fair, though, who's Robert going to report it to? That big-ass kitty-suit wearing mascot who be putting Jack Daniels in everyone's coffee? Or Blonde Blazer? The same woman who dated her subordinate, Phenomaman? Does SDN even have H.R.? A ping of fear vibrated throughout Flambae's chest when Robert didn't immediately respond; was he cooked? Did Flambae drag it? But then, the most peculiar thing occurred. Bashfully, the auburn-brunet man nodded, his eyes glossed over in arousal and curiosity. "Yeah?" Flambae egotistically spoke, as if he wasn't about to shit himself merely seconds ago. "Pull it out, then." Obediently, Robert obliged, his bandage-enfolded hands steadily danced around the south edges of Flambae's heat-resistant suit. A part of him felt ambivalent towards the situation; he's his dispatcher, the man who the Z-Team hero responds and answers to. Should he've been doing this? Robert still pulled the fabric down, however, exposing Flambae's firm, lengthy, peach-toned cock as its owner blissfully sighed. No briefs? Robert couldn't help but to quickly, internally realize. Not even panties? "What?" Flambae asked, noticing the muddled, expression on Robert's face. His dark, arched eyebrows furrowed as his apricot-tinted lips slightly parted. "You're disappointed, or what?" "No," the other man shook, his hooded-eyes refusing to release from the hardened cock. "You just free-ball it?" "Yeah, pretty much." "Everyday?" "Yeah." "Every mission?" "Yeah, I mean," Flambae shrugged. "It's healthy, no? Do you not?" He supposed that wasn't the most important issue at hand; Robert literally had a dick in his face. Regarding it, the appendage was actually, erm, beautiful? Does that sound gay? If the servile man had to guess, Flambae was around seven-inches on hard. His cock was darker than the rest of his skin, but not drastically; deep-peach would be the color Robert would use to describe it. There was hair, of course, but it was interestingly trimmed into a small, neat square-shaped patch. How clean. The tip blushed a coral-pink shade, as a bead of pre-cum dripped erotically down the veiny, broad shaft. Damn. "You like it?" Robert could hear Flambae interrogate him from above. "Yeah, I mean," the bossman replied, so engrossed in the way the fireman's dick throbbed and shuttered autonomously. "Yeah, it's a nice cock." "Touch it," Flambae adjured, inviting the younger man to engage with the target of his attention. "You're drooling for it, you know." Was he? But, from the way his mouth pooled, he figured he'd take Flambae's word for it. It didn't matter anyways. In a moment, it would prove to be beneficial. Without delay, the chocolate-chip freckled man reached a hand out again to touch the pulsating cock, the appendage warm to the touch. His fingers trailed the road which its baby-blue veins seemed to map, forking off into different directions as his digits grew moistened from the opalite, iridescent fluid which dripped from it. "Fuck," Flambae rasped, his dick jumping with every delicate touch Robert took. "Fuck, Mecha Bitch. Spit on it." Submissively, Robert complied; He pursed his lips, allowing a sliver of drool to pass through and alight the other man's rigid cock. Curiously, his dewy tongue forked out as it took a timid lick of Flambae's tip. It was his first time, okay? His first time sucking a man's dick; he was allowed to be shy about it. "Robert," Flambae called. His arousal-intoxicated voice had been husky and breathless, as his narrowed-eyes looked down upon the dispatcher passionately. "Don't be scared," he continued. Damn, is mind reading another one of his powers, too? Was it something he learned in one of Blazer's hero classes? Bro... "Put your mouth on it. Don't worry, I'll guide you." Feeling secure, Robert allowed his lips to fully sink and wrap around Flambae's cock, with his tongue pressed against the base of it. From above, he could hear a guttural groan leave Flambae's throat, with a crude 'fuckkk' following afterward. "Use that smart-ass tongue of yours," Flambae advised. "Get it allll wet and messy, bitch." Within his cotton, onyx-black pants, Robert's dick secretly sprung at the degradation. He should've felt ashamed; like, damn. How did he allow another grown man to not only put his dick in his mouth, but then allowed Flambae to bitch him out? Robert still obeyed, though. His tongue swirled around Flambae's shaft; his laps reached upwards to whirl around the tip, while also occasionally extending downwards right above the balls. Flambae released a series of noises: low moans, husky groans, plus a couple of obscene words. His fingers interlocked within Robert's hair once again, both hands this time grasping and pulling on the messy, auburn-tinted tresses. "Fuck," the Herculean man huffed. His cloudy eyes peered down, accidentally meeting the gaze of Robert's blown-out, blissful stare. A part of Flambae wanted him to pull his phone out, to take a picture to savor the eventual memory; Robert's mane had been so tousled, with some locks of hair sticking to his face from sweat. His pupils had been immensely dilated, with his eyes now narrowed with lust and empty-headedness. The nostrils of his aquiline-nose flared much more prevalently, to take in more air since, you know, he was currently eating dick. His cheeks had shown a bright, cherry-pink color, while his wheat-tan lips sucked, spat, and licked all on Flambae's thick, hardened cock. "So fuckin' good," Flambae sighed, the grasp on Robert's hair tightening with every head-bob the dispatcher took. His stomach flexed, the knots within beginning to form as every neuron inside tingled, warning the superhero for what was to arrive. He could feel himself about to cum, with the intensified, labored panting another telltale sign of his consequent orgasm. He was going to be nice and pull Robert off his cock so he could breathe, and so Flambae could cum all on his adorable, fucked-out face. But before he could, however, his eyes widened as he watched Robert throat almost all seven-inches of his quivering dick. The tip of his nose barely touched Flambae's pelvic-bone, but instead of accepting defeat, he opted for his fingers to stroke along the space of the shaft in which his lips struggled to reach. "Take it," Flambae growled, his hips aggressively thrusting to where he'd essentially been face-fucking Robert. He could hear coughs and slight gags erupting from the other man's mouth, but Flambae had been intensely swept up by his animalistic behavior to slow down. "Take it, Mecha Bitch. Take this fucking nut." Sonorous, unrhythmic moans and breaths poured out from Flambae's mouth as he irrevocably came, his seed spilling out from his cock and straight into Robert's mouth. The other man swallowed, yet it was unclear if Robert had meant to do so, or if his brain had been so enraptured that his body had done so on its own accord. Flambae pulled him off his cock, allowing Robert the opportunity to breathe and catch his breath. Large inhales had been taken from both men as they recovered, with a laugh breaking from Flambae's mouth. "You look worn out, Robbo," he explained, his right-hand's thumb coming up to wipe some iridescent fluid from the corner of Robert's lips. He couldn't help himself, though, as he pushed some of it back into the dispatcher's mouth, forcing Robert to suck Flambae's thumb. Flambae's dick jumped again at the sight before him; Robert's expression had remained close to the same: flushed cheeks, narrowed eyes, unruly hair. Now, however, his lips were parted generously over Flambae's finger, with audible pants taken from his mouth as he silently allowed Flambae to stare and ogle at him. He wanted to go a second round, but he had to remember; Robert's a normie. Flambae's cock could probably land the dispatcher another coma. Although he'd been cocky, something had shifted within Flambae; his eyes upon Robert had softened, while his heartstrings pulled as his breathing slowed. "You did good, Bob Bob," he praised, an admirable smile creeping up on Flambae's lips. Ugh, what was gayer: Robert eating dick, or the emotions starting to disrupt Flambae's vitality? "Did you like it?" Flambae questioned, chuckling as his only response had been a wordless, little nod. "Yeah?" the hero continued, bending down enough to plant a tiny smooch on Robert's nose. "Maybe we'll get to do it again another time, hm?" Another quiet nod from Robert caused another chuckle to leave Flambae's mouth. "Good," Flambae nodded back, his thumb escaping from between Robert's lips to pat him on the cheek, before the warm palm slipped fully away from Robert's damp skin. The copper-brunet man had been saddened by the loss of warmth on his cheeks, but he refused to make any forms of acknowledgment regarding it. "Get your ass off my bench," Flambae lightheartedly commanded, waving his hand to shoo Robert off. "You've disrupted my gym time, Mecha Bitch." Rolling his eyes, Robert slunk off the bench and headed out the door, with Flambae shamelessly watching his ass move as he did. "I hate to see you go," he called out. "But I love to watch you leave." Once the gymnasium doors closed, and Flambae was finally left with himself, he dropped down to sit on the bench, a heartfelt exhale left from his chest as he laughed to himself. "Damn."	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75582156/chapters/197642906	{"authors": ["lanitaminaj"], "language": "English", "title": "I want it outside, inside"}
He's Achilles, I'm the Heel Whenever "Voicebox Vinny" twirls behind the stage curtain with his easel, what he wants second-most in the world is to collapse on the staff room couch. It goes without saying, but he doesn't. There's fifty-billion fiddly-theater-tidbits that require attention, and since he's the moron who always volunteers to handle them (so he can earn top billing someday), there ain't no rest for the wicked. And yet. Somehow, some way, he always carves out just enough time for his favorite part of the night. "You're right! You would look prettier as a woman," Alastor chuckles loudly to the crowd. The unwashed masses are well on their way to tears already. Al's co-star, a wooden puppet, flips up its cap and points up at its wielder. "Well what're ya waiting for sweetheart, give us a show!" "Oh, hardly!" Alastor tells himself. "An upstanding madmoiselle never reveals her secrets-" Vincent can't hold in a soft nose-breath chuckle when Alastor's faux skirt slides itself off. "-before marriage." He's wearing real silk stockings underneath, God knows what poor soul he conned them from today. The rations have made it all but impossible to get ahold of fresh pairs, which is why Alastor stands up and sets his puppet on his shoulders to display a matching miniature set prominently. In sync with his "little shadow," he points one leg out like a ballerina, undulating his unfairly flexible body into a perfect split. It's hard to say which of the two has more joints and less masculinity. Vincent still isn't certain what mechanism makes this possible, but as Alastor rises from the floor, the stockings slide right off his body and pool into twin snakeskins. He's a cobra in the charmer's basket, posed back to the audience, the better to protect his modesty. Alastor gathers his shed skin shyly. Vincent definitely doesn't angle sideways for a better look. "Nifty invention! But perhaps not my style. Ladies, you wouldn't happen to know a better way to put these to use?" A centipede's shoe closet of manicured claws slithers around the hall, and Alastor winds back to throw the fabric to them over his shoulder. Vincent rolls his eyes and turns back to the fly counterweights. To his chagrin, it's the tech crew member across the stage that gets the joy of ratcheting the rope that pulls his angel off stage and into the sky. His job is across the theater in the prop room, and he'll put everyone behind if he dallies much longer. Three A.M., the witching hour. Vincent would crawl into his bunk, if that meant he could beg a few precious minutes more of his wayward mistress, sleep. Her abode is a cozy enough place: a mattress and the suggestion of a bedframe cowering underneath a slanted eave. The Hazbin Cabaret are only going to be in this crummy town a few more days, so he takes what he gets without complaint, knowing the hand of fate will deal him a new play faster than he can stack the deck. His shoes are first to go, fastidiously tucked under his bedframe (a defensive necessity after the incident.) He finds himself rubbing a hand casually through the toes of his roughspun socks to press away the soreness. It's a thoughtless act. "Tucking in so soon?" Vincent shoots up, slams his head against the low ceiling. "Did you have to do that," he sighs. "Oh, but we wouldn't have nearly so much fun if you were expecting me." He stares. Alastor's got a cheshire grin that reaches up to his eyes. Traditionally, that's the sign that Vincent should start running. He'd certainly love to duck under the covers and scare the monster away, but instead, his muscles tighten and a showman's smile paints across his lips. Alastor doesn't tolerate weakness. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit tonight?" "Just communion and camaraderie, of course," Alastor lies. His teeth are splayed wide and bright. Vincent regrets ever talking to him, even as he licks his lips at the sight. "And if you don't mind, I'd like to run something by you. Just a trifle." He sits on the good, un-crouchy side of the bed, leaving Vincent to curl up in the corner if he wants to remain upright. "Keen to hear it!" God. He cringes internally. "Ohh... it really isn't much. It's just... when you were sketching today." Ah, shit. It's feedback. "I thought the bit with the beard was a touch on the nose. You could have instead moved his ear for the same effect." Vincent frowns. He liked that part of the show. Still, it's better to go along with Al in matters of taste. He always does. "Good suggestion," he nods. "I'll be sure to swap it." Alastor says nothing for a long moment. It's enough time for Vincent's easily distracted eyes to wander, examining his troopmate's slender arms, broad shoulders, and fully clothed body. Al gets tetchy about that after a show. "...it's funny," he mumbles under his breath, mouth tugged loose by exhaustion. "Oh? What's funny, dear?" Vincent sharpens at the barbed question. "I thought... it doesn't matter." He squeaks when a warm hand grabs his	He's Achilles, I'm the Heel Whenever "Voicebox Vinny" twirls behind the stage curtain with his easel, what he wants second-most in the world is to collapse on the staff room couch. It goes without saying, but he doesn't. There's fifty-billion fiddly-theater-tidbits that require attention, and since he's the moron who always volunteers to handle them (so he can earn top billing someday), there ain't no rest for the wicked. And yet. Somehow, some way, he always carves out just enough time for his favorite part of the night. "You're right! You would look prettier as a woman," Alastor chuckles loudly to the crowd. The unwashed masses are well on their way to tears already. Al's co-star, a wooden puppet, flips up its cap and points up at its wielder. "Well what're ya waiting for sweetheart, give us a show!" "Oh, hardly!" Alastor tells himself. "An upstanding madmoiselle never reveals her secrets-" Vincent can't hold in a soft nose-breath chuckle when Alastor's faux skirt slides itself off. "-before marriage." He's wearing real silk stockings underneath, God knows what poor soul he conned them from today. The rations have made it all but impossible to get ahold of fresh pairs, which is why Alastor stands up and sets his puppet on his shoulders to display a matching miniature set prominently. In sync with his "little shadow," he points one leg out like a ballerina, undulating his unfairly flexible body into a perfect split. It's hard to say which of the two has more joints and less masculinity. Vincent still isn't certain what mechanism makes this possible, but as Alastor rises from the floor, the stockings slide right off his body and pool into twin snakeskins. He's a cobra in the charmer's basket, posed back to the audience, the better to protect his modesty. Alastor gathers his shed skin shyly. Vincent definitely doesn't angle sideways for a better look. "Nifty invention! But perhaps not my style. Ladies, you wouldn't happen to know a better way to put these to use?" A centipede's shoe closet of manicured claws slithers around the hall, and Alastor winds back to throw the fabric to them over his shoulder. Vincent rolls his eyes and turns back to the fly counterweights. To his chagrin, it's the tech crew member across the stage that gets the joy of ratcheting the rope that pulls his angel off stage and into the sky. His job is across the theater in the prop room, and he'll put everyone behind if he dallies much longer. Three A.M., the witching hour. Vincent would crawl into his bunk, if that meant he could beg a few precious minutes more of his wayward mistress, sleep. Her abode is a cozy enough place: a mattress and the suggestion of a bedframe cowering underneath a slanted eave. The Hazbin Cabaret are only going to be in this crummy town a few more days, so he takes what he gets without complaint, knowing the hand of fate will deal him a new play faster than he can stack the deck. His shoes are first to go, fastidiously tucked under his bedframe (a defensive necessity after the incident.) He finds himself rubbing a hand casually through the toes of his roughspun socks to press away the soreness. It's a thoughtless act. "Tucking in so soon?" Vincent shoots up, slams his head against the low ceiling. "Did you have to do that," he sighs. "Oh, but we wouldn't have nearly so much fun if you were expecting me." He stares. Alastor's got a cheshire grin that reaches up to his eyes. Traditionally, that's the sign that Vincent should start running. He'd certainly love to duck under the covers and scare the monster away, but instead, his muscles tighten and a showman's smile paints across his lips. Alastor doesn't tolerate weakness. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit tonight?" "Just communion and camaraderie, of course," Alastor lies. His teeth are splayed wide and bright. Vincent regrets ever talking to him, even as he licks his lips at the sight. "And if you don't mind, I'd like to run something by you. Just a trifle." He sits on the good, un-crouchy side of the bed, leaving Vincent to curl up in the corner if he wants to remain upright. "Keen to hear it!" God. He cringes internally. "Ohh... it really isn't much. It's just... when you were sketching today." Ah, shit. It's feedback. "I thought the bit with the beard was a touch on the nose. You could have instead moved his ear for the same effect." Vincent frowns. He liked that part of the show. Still, it's better to go along with Al in matters of taste. He always does. "Good suggestion," he nods. "I'll be sure to swap it." Alastor says nothing for a long moment. It's enough time for Vincent's easily distracted eyes to wander, examining his troopmate's slender arms, broad shoulders, and fully clothed body. Al gets tetchy about that after a show. "...it's funny," he mumbles under his breath, mouth tugged loose by exhaustion. "Oh? What's funny, dear?" Vincent sharpens at the barbed question. "I thought... it doesn't matter." He squeaks when a warm hand grabs his shirt at the center. His blood pumps faster through his chest at the contact. He squeezes his legs together, crisscross applesauce, making himself small enough to squirm out from under Alastor's arm. "You will tell me," Alastor says with certainty. With an introduction like that, Vincent might just sing him an opera. No, no. Be ballsy. Alastor prefers ballsy. "It's just... Don't laugh! But I just, um, thought we were... going to put someone else on the lightning sketch act. By now." Vincent summons the smallest hairsbreadth of courage to look up, instead of to the side. Alastor's face is set in a very, very appealing shade of red, but not for the sorts of reasons Vincent hopes. "Isn't. That. Clever." Part of Vincent's mind screams- oh god, no. Not now. He fucked up. The other half makes him gulp, very visibly, in anticipation. Two arms bracket his head against the enclosed space. Alastor's knee comes up fully onto the bed. "You just thought." The other knee follows in short order, leaving Vincent surrounded by all one hundred and seventy two centimeters of top billing perfection. "Didn't know you had that in you." "I-" "It was just a passing idea?" Alastor cuts him off. One of the hands encircles his throat, not applying pressure just yet. Vincent gets the idea, and focuses on keeping his eyes flinty. He'll be allowed to speak again later. "Ah, but, what do I say about little fish with passing ideas? They swim by... forgotten." Vincent does everything he can to keep a straight face. All hope's already lost for his nether regions, which it appears Alastor can sense without dipping his face down to notice. "There's only one way upstream," Alastor reminds him. "Can you think of what it might be?" Vincent knows exactly what it is. "Practice." He nods, overcome with emotion. Any thoughts of sleep writhe into a ball and kick themselves overboard. He prays Alastor had the foresight to lock the door, then remembers who it is he's got crawling all over his skin (somehow without actually touching). "If you're to be my protégé, you're expected to meet a certain standard." Warmth ghosts over exactly where Vincent needs it to make contact, but he's not suicidal enough to chase his pleasure. "But I can be a forgiving mentor. You're still hardly wet behind the ears." Vincent scowls at that. He's been in the troop for long enough to make a name in the cities they've passed through, and it's disingenuous to keep pinning him this low on the totem pole. Of course, anyone would be lowly under The Great Alastor, so he doesn't voice this. "You know what. I think you need... a little more training." The hand at his neck caresses his collarbone, taking its time on where the clavicle dips into soft flesh. Vincent can just see a collar or a lead clipped in Alastor's hand. "Mm. Yes. Why don't we work on that little magic act of yours, I believe it could do with refinements." The hand comes off of his chest. "Psssh. It's totally great," Vincent bluffs. It actually does need the extra attention, but at this point so does he, and he likes riling Al. He enjoys the way his mentor's mouth curls up in disdain, at the expression Vincent put there just with his acting. Alastor lets him stew in his silence, in exchange. The necessary tools for their act, stored carefully in a closed suitcase, find their way onto the bed without his needing to move an inch. That's the second realest magic they'll see all night. Then, heleans back, gives Vincent just enough rope to hang from. He does everything he can to make his rise from his bed casual, and not a backbreaking labor of twisting out of the bodyparts hemming him into the slanted ceiling. Alastor begins unclicking the harness. It always takes him a while to put it on. "And now, for our next performance," Vincent begins, letting his voice drop an octave into suave somnolesence, "The Adventurous Voicebox Vinny takes you on a trip to the idyllic canals of Venice!" He flourishes his hand. A golden pocketwatch drops on a chain, dangling at eye level with his late night visitor. The motion of falling immediately stills with the barest application of pressure. To the untrained eye, the motion appears spontaneously unaffected. To Alastor, it is sloppy. He holds up a finger. Already he's on his first strike? Tough crowd. "This pocketwatch was designed and built on those very shores," he begins. "By the great watchmaker, the esteemed Mister U. R. Myne. Now, my friend, if you would be so kind, I find myself in need of an audience volunteer. Good sir, can I coax you to the stage?" "You may." Alastor stands, and awed by the breadth of his majesty, Vincent does not react. ...Outwardly. Or voluntarily. But he does react, so Alastor mimes stretching and retracting his second finger. "Thank you. Now, if you'll permit me a spell to chat first, I will subsequently reveal to you a most impressive secret about Venice, a truth so forbidden to share that even the highest emperors of Rome did not come to know it in their lifetimes." He begins to swing the watch back and forth. "I ask first, your patience. Please, gaze deeply into this artifact. Do not mind the time." Alastor does so, letting his eyes gamely follow the moving clock. "Good," Vincent soothes. "Very good. And now, I ask for you to listen to my words very closely, for what I am about to divulge will rock you to your very marrow, if you should be the slightest bit unprepared." Alastor adds another finger to his tally. Vincent almost breaks scene to ask what the problem is, but thanks to remedial sessions, his role stays in first place. "There on the distant shores, past Sardinia and the isles, and coming into the strait into the mainland, there is a clock tower from which the original watchmaker set all his timepieces." Alastor looks to be taking notes in his head. To an outsider, they must make two kooks in a kitchen. "At the center of that tower, there lies the secret: the sundial of shaman Hatshepsut!" He flourishes out, pivoting his entire body along the Y axis for showmanship. His watch-swings survive the transition perfectly, not a pip out of place. "In the time of Marc Antony, in the time of Cleopatra, shaman Hatshepsut was legend for her wisdom and auguery-pokery. With a snap-" he snaps his other hand, "of her magic charm, and use of the sun's rays, she could see directly into your future. Her miracles were sought after from Cairo to Rome alike. And when she was granted a boon in exchange for her skill, she requested a temple to the Gods be built in that. Exact. Spot." He grins wildly into Alastor's vacant, ping-ponging expression. Fire burns down his neck. "But she asked the Romans for one thing more," he continues. "If ever a Roman were to enter her temple, she commanded of them, never to look at the dial directly. She told them that to do so would send them to madness." "One day, a young man came to her temple for a reading. He was a handsome fellow with ambition, and demanded to know what wife would suit him best." Vincent almost feels the chain slip, but he keeps on tilting it evenly, at that single consistent force. "But the shaman would not tell him. Lo, she said, I will not divine who will suit you. You will return to a stable as empty as your soul, a hearth as dark as pitch, and a bed as cold as the winter snow if you do not discover the truth in yourself." "He could not tolerate that answer. When he was turned away, he covered his body in cloth, and snuck inside as a priest. But when he slid aside his cloak and cap, and gazed into the sanctum of the temple-" The watch dead-drop stops with a snap. Alastor zings a little in his spot. "He was consumed by the sun!" It happens all at once. The chain of the watch slips from his hand. His eyes widen in fear. His body leans down to snatch it back up. Alastor blinks himself to wakefulness. They collapse, Vincent on top, onto the bed. Oh, god. Help. "...lovely story." Vincent doesn't blink. He doesn't twitch or pull or run. He stares into the sundial, and the predatorial rays of a sharp-toothed smile bounce the light back. "But that marks your third misstep of the performance. And we wouldn't ask our esteemed patrons to put up with such low quality. Would we." "...No, Alastor," he mumbles. "And come to think of it, there wasn't exactly much Venice in your tale. You could have led with the theming more plainly." ”There was more, and-“ Alastor takes him by the shoulders. Unresisting, Vincent feels his body be placed on the bed, feels eager hands take his in their deft dingers. "Did you catch your mistakes?" his mentor chides. "Excepting the obvious." Vincent takes his first breath back in. It's bracing. "Ah. I. Umm." "You'll need to be a fraction more specific." One of the hands gathers his up, leaving Vincent straddled and corralled. Alastor trails his free one down, gently pressing into the top of his protégé's stomach. The pressure is feather light, but targetted. "Please," Vincent exhales. "It wasn't clear. I can't-" "Oh, Vinny, dear. You were doing so well. Come, now. Let's not forget our lines. There's no can't in this business." His fly glides open with the slightest provocation from Al. Vincent, with a little wriggling, pops free of the waistband. The garment slides down his silky smooth legs, just like Alastor's trick skirt. Just like Alastor. "Only won't." "I-I don't know!" he cries, watching Alastor align and slick up the strapped toy. "I want to do this right! I do, honest!" "If you won't figure it out, I'll just have to correct you myself." The empty hand settles right where Vincent is on display, then grips into his hip. Green-and-blue mismatched eyes flutter at the sensations building in his gut. He's confused, aroused, scared, frustrated, embarassed. Everything he is, everything he could be, crawls over his spine and into Alastor's spread palm. Experimentally, he tries to lift his hands to touch back. He gets hissed at, and retreats. When Alastor calms down again, Vincent studies his eyes. They're turned up, but not all the way. Not like with his showman smile, or when the audience all laugh at his jokes. When he opens his mouth to retort, a withering glare makes him put it away. "Try not to make so much noise this time. Miss Charlie was ever so cross that 'wailing cat' had gotten in somehow." Vincent's face goes beet red. "I won't," he growls. "’Atta boy." Alastor leans in, just enough for the slicked up toy to make the proceedings more interesting. Vincent bears down towards it once before the hands encircling his wrists yank him up. "You'll take the punishment you're given or get none at all." Vincent nods. Attention from Alastor is his gold at the rainbow's edge, the wind in his sails, the rung up the ladder. He's the only one like Vincent in all of the world. Vincent is the only one capable of understanding him so completely. He huffs quick, fluttering breaths, waiting and wishing to recieve absolution. "And for a hypnotist with a touch of forgetfullness," he begins, rifling for something behind them. "I see no better remedy than a little bit of... time." The pocketwatch drops effortlessly in front of Vincent's face. He blinks, noting the flawless perfection of its stillness. Vincent's been doing magic for almost five years now, (not contiguouosly, just for parties) and he still can't quite replicate what he's seeing. "Let me tell you a story, now," Alastor smiles. "It starts with a sorry excuse for a performer. Nobody thought he was even the slightest bit funny, or witty, or wanted. But, thanks to his prodigious skill as a… window cleaner, one day, he runs across a media darling. And that media darling takes a liking to this hot young thing, and offers to teach it all she knows." Vincent moans when the free hand drags a finger along the shaft of his cock. He tries again to reach, up or down or anywhere or Alastor, and the grip on his wrists redoubles. He'd get his feet involved too if he weren't so confident they'd collapse. "But the performer isn't a very good student. He slacks his assignments. He misses his cues, he breaks all the sets. They start to wonder if he's haunted. But no- his mind is clear of every specter in town. Except one." Cool fingers dip lower, to the pucker. Vincent still doesn't lean into them, even though he wants to. He prefers to stop and smell the roses before Alastor somehow cuts out his nose. He slides one in, and drags Vincent down from the surface. "He's haunted by the one thing your little show couldn't get right. He stumbles into his house consumed by it. His wife can't follow his explanation. He goes to work and nobody wants to talk to him there either. He hasn't got time to check all around town for helpers. He just... loses his focus. Then his job. His wife, bless her, stays by his side until she would starve. The performer is set to expire.” A second deft touch begins to scissor through him. Tiny sighs ghost his lips, eager and appreciative of the preparation. It’s effortless to accept his circumstances: he was made for Alastor’s touch, he’s getting everything he wants and all it costs is the destruction of his shame. What a wasted emotion. He pushes it out the door. ”Finally, at the barest end of his rope, he figures out what he's been missing all this time." Alastor breaches, even as he holds the rest of Vincent in his palm. Vincent bucks out from the feeling, tries to let himself adjust, but he clenches and clenches even on this artificial substitute. Alastor withdraws, not ready to hilt. "A firmer guiding hand," he smirks. "Someone willing to push-" he punctuates this with a roll of his hips, "-against you to achieve your very best, the best in the world, even if the climb up there is unpleasant." The pressure on his lower half returns. Alastor cups his balls, thumbing the skin there as it tightens. "But the price isn't free. If you want to become who you're meant to be... you must submit." Vincent whimpers, his entire being rallying his insolence to chirp: "I thought I forgot two things." "Oh, that isit." Alastor wastes no time ploughing the fields. Soft strawberries jump and freckle under his combine, and he brushes them away, watering the crops where he goes. The watch drops to the ground, forgotten, and Vincent clings on for dear life.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75577956	{"authors": ["YurileeIntuit (ShibaIntuit)"], "language": "English", "title": "He's Achilles, I'm the Heel"}
Night Tears A wave of heat, alcohol, and noise slammed into me the minute I stepped into the bar- In my defense, I truly hadn’t planned on visiting the club, my friends forced me to come, ‘To have a fun time’ I guess… I disliked packed spaces, drunken foolishness, and migraine-inducing remixes, all of which nightclubs possessed in spades. But, I never expected to see Shadow working as a bartender. He's a dear friend, and helped me out with my date- that didn’t go too well. “Burning?” Shadow calls out- so I decided to spend my night with my dear friend. (Shadow’s Perspective) “So you didn’t use the condoms I gave you?” “Nope, sorry.” Burning Spice returned with a casual stare. “It was our first date. Plus Where did you get those condoms anyway?" “At yesterday's neon skate party.” I’d attended the party in hopes it would free me from creepy guys from this bar. And the new promotion of me being bartender, but either way… I’ve gotten a bag of Lurid party favors- though the condoms are glow-in-the-dark. Burning’s brows wrinkled. “Why were they even handing out condoms at a skate party?” “Because those parties always turn into giant orgies,” I explained, “I saw someone use one of those condoms right there in the middle of the ice rink” “You’re kidding,” Burning laughs. “Nope.” I restocked the garnishes, then turned to straighten the various glasses and tumblers. “Wild, right? It was fun, even if some things I witnessed traumatized me.” I lowered my gaze, Burning simply took a sip of his drink. “So, about that naked flag dude… you posted in your story? well - he also participated in the orgies.” “Uh, Shadow.” My name squeaked out in an awkward un-Burning-Like manner, I simply tried to change the subject. “Honestly, I never thought I’d see a glowing dick in—” A polite cough interrupted my spiel. A muscular man, I know that physic anywhere- Pure Vanilla… an esteemed member of the flamingo club’s managing committee, heir to a multi billion-dollar company, and owner of multiple companies. A soft voice comes out. “Apologies for interrupting, I’ll take the usual,” he said, his neutral tone. fuck. I wanted most now to scream, I straightened my shoulders, pasted on my best customer service smile, and turned. My mouth barely completed its upward curve before it froze. “The usual?” I said, not knowing what it is. “Yes, surprise me?” Vanilla says smoothly, with his British accent. With shame. I poured some whiskey, My body suddenly warmed, Burning sighs- Looking at Pure Vanilla. Pure Vanilla laughs. “I supposed you don’t serve glowing drinks.” He jokes. I said nothing- too afraid. “One Strawberry lime, coming up,” I finally said, Vanilla smiles but doesn’t even bother to touch his drink. “Do you… Dance?” Vanilla says, touching the rim of the drink. The question hung between us, soft but heavy, like smoke curling in dim light. I blinked, fingers frozen mid-shake, the cocktail tin clattering faintly as it hit the counter. “Dance?” I repeated, trying to sound casual. “As in… professionally, or are we talking drunk flailing?” Vanilla’s lips curved—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the word. “Either will do.” Burning choked on his drink beside me. “Shadow? Dance? Oh, I have to see this.” I shot him a glare, I hate it when he jokes. But Vanilla didn’t laugh. He just watched me, eyes steady, unblinking—like he was reading a confession straight off my skin. “I’ve seen you move,” he said. “At the skate party. You were in rhythm even when you were standing still.” My face burned. “You saw that? I was just avoiding spilled drinks and people trying to grind on me.” “Exactly,” he murmured, “and you made avoidance look like choreography.” Burning snorted. “Wow, that’s some poetic stalking, Mr. Vanilla.” Vanilla’s eyes flicked to him—amused, unbothered. “Observation, not stalking. There’s a difference.” He turned back to me. “So, Shadow… will you dance?” I hesitated, torn between saying something sarcastic or just walking away. But then I caught Vanilla’s expression—open, patient, curious. The kind of look you don’t get from people who only see your body. “Fine,” I said finally, hopping over the counter before I could talk myself out of it. “One dance. If you spill your drink, you’re paying for cleanup.” Burning lowered his gaze. Vanilla laughed—low and rich. He stood, unhurried, setting his untouched cocktail down. (Burning Spice Perspective) I’d never seen Shadow look like that. Relaxed. Happy. Vanilla moved with him effortlessly, like they were syncing to a rhythm only they could hear. People stared—men and women alike. They looked… right together. Too right. My chest tightened. Rich guys always take what they want, I thought bitterly. And leave the rest broken. I drained my drink and headed for the bathroom before I could watch any longer. Women stared as I passed... bare chest exposed, muscles on display. My friends had dressed me for a hookup. A sure thing, they said. I ignored them all. The bathroom mirror reflected someone I	Night Tears A wave of heat, alcohol, and noise slammed into me the minute I stepped into the bar- In my defense, I truly hadn’t planned on visiting the club, my friends forced me to come, ‘To have a fun time’ I guess… I disliked packed spaces, drunken foolishness, and migraine-inducing remixes, all of which nightclubs possessed in spades. But, I never expected to see Shadow working as a bartender. He's a dear friend, and helped me out with my date- that didn’t go too well. “Burning?” Shadow calls out- so I decided to spend my night with my dear friend. (Shadow’s Perspective) “So you didn’t use the condoms I gave you?” “Nope, sorry.” Burning Spice returned with a casual stare. “It was our first date. Plus Where did you get those condoms anyway?" “At yesterday's neon skate party.” I’d attended the party in hopes it would free me from creepy guys from this bar. And the new promotion of me being bartender, but either way… I’ve gotten a bag of Lurid party favors- though the condoms are glow-in-the-dark. Burning’s brows wrinkled. “Why were they even handing out condoms at a skate party?” “Because those parties always turn into giant orgies,” I explained, “I saw someone use one of those condoms right there in the middle of the ice rink” “You’re kidding,” Burning laughs. “Nope.” I restocked the garnishes, then turned to straighten the various glasses and tumblers. “Wild, right? It was fun, even if some things I witnessed traumatized me.” I lowered my gaze, Burning simply took a sip of his drink. “So, about that naked flag dude… you posted in your story? well - he also participated in the orgies.” “Uh, Shadow.” My name squeaked out in an awkward un-Burning-Like manner, I simply tried to change the subject. “Honestly, I never thought I’d see a glowing dick in—” A polite cough interrupted my spiel. A muscular man, I know that physic anywhere- Pure Vanilla… an esteemed member of the flamingo club’s managing committee, heir to a multi billion-dollar company, and owner of multiple companies. A soft voice comes out. “Apologies for interrupting, I’ll take the usual,” he said, his neutral tone. fuck. I wanted most now to scream, I straightened my shoulders, pasted on my best customer service smile, and turned. My mouth barely completed its upward curve before it froze. “The usual?” I said, not knowing what it is. “Yes, surprise me?” Vanilla says smoothly, with his British accent. With shame. I poured some whiskey, My body suddenly warmed, Burning sighs- Looking at Pure Vanilla. Pure Vanilla laughs. “I supposed you don’t serve glowing drinks.” He jokes. I said nothing- too afraid. “One Strawberry lime, coming up,” I finally said, Vanilla smiles but doesn’t even bother to touch his drink. “Do you… Dance?” Vanilla says, touching the rim of the drink. The question hung between us, soft but heavy, like smoke curling in dim light. I blinked, fingers frozen mid-shake, the cocktail tin clattering faintly as it hit the counter. “Dance?” I repeated, trying to sound casual. “As in… professionally, or are we talking drunk flailing?” Vanilla’s lips curved—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the word. “Either will do.” Burning choked on his drink beside me. “Shadow? Dance? Oh, I have to see this.” I shot him a glare, I hate it when he jokes. But Vanilla didn’t laugh. He just watched me, eyes steady, unblinking—like he was reading a confession straight off my skin. “I’ve seen you move,” he said. “At the skate party. You were in rhythm even when you were standing still.” My face burned. “You saw that? I was just avoiding spilled drinks and people trying to grind on me.” “Exactly,” he murmured, “and you made avoidance look like choreography.” Burning snorted. “Wow, that’s some poetic stalking, Mr. Vanilla.” Vanilla’s eyes flicked to him—amused, unbothered. “Observation, not stalking. There’s a difference.” He turned back to me. “So, Shadow… will you dance?” I hesitated, torn between saying something sarcastic or just walking away. But then I caught Vanilla’s expression—open, patient, curious. The kind of look you don’t get from people who only see your body. “Fine,” I said finally, hopping over the counter before I could talk myself out of it. “One dance. If you spill your drink, you’re paying for cleanup.” Burning lowered his gaze. Vanilla laughed—low and rich. He stood, unhurried, setting his untouched cocktail down. (Burning Spice Perspective) I’d never seen Shadow look like that. Relaxed. Happy. Vanilla moved with him effortlessly, like they were syncing to a rhythm only they could hear. People stared—men and women alike. They looked… right together. Too right. My chest tightened. Rich guys always take what they want, I thought bitterly. And leave the rest broken. I drained my drink and headed for the bathroom before I could watch any longer. Women stared as I passed... bare chest exposed, muscles on display. My friends had dressed me for a hookup. A sure thing, they said. I ignored them all. The bathroom mirror reflected someone I barely recognized: broad shoulders, messy hair, exhausted eyes. Why did I feel like this? I’d dated girls. Plenty. Shadow always helped me prepare. Always encouraged me. So why did the thought of him with someone else feel like something was tearing open in my chest? Do I like him that way?	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75577996	{"authors": ["Goober_01"], "language": "English", "title": "Night Tears"}
make my bed (and sleep in it) Bitty’s been on Jack’s mind a lot, recently. Down in Madison, they hadn’t fallen back into their old habits. Almost, but not quite. There was some hesitancy to Bitty that there hadn’t been before, and it killed Jack not knowing the cause of it. He’d hoped that it was just nerves, Bitty adjusting to the fact that they weren’t Hausmates or even teammates anymore, but it felt like something different. And it didn’t help that Jack couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. He’d clearly been keeping up with his workouts, Jack could tell by the muscles peeking out of the thin tank tops and tiny shorts Bitty wore. He couldn’t help but stare at the lake, water carving pathways into his sparsely haired chest, dripping past his abs and finally, disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks. (Bitty had written it off as sun sickness and made him go sit in the shade.) But now Bitty is coming up to Providence to spend a few days with Jack. Alone. No teammates, no parents. He wonders if it’s obvious to everyone else that he can’t keep his mind off Bitty’s eyes and the way they shone in the Madison sun. One thing he knows for sure, though, is that he’s not going to make the first move. He doesn’t want Bitty to think he’s going for the only gay guy he knows, he doesn’t want to ruin their friendship. But it’s kind of driving him insane. Bitty had convinced him to download Snapchat, and sends him pictures every day. Pictures of him baking, pictures of him at camp, pictures of him red-faced and sweaty after his morning run. The last ones are his favorites, and it frustrates him that he can’t save them without Bitty knowing. He wants to pull on the hair that curls around Bitty’s ears, wants to lick up the sweat that traces its way down his throat. But most of all, he wants to hold Bitty in his arms and never let him go. _/ \_ Jack picks Bitty up from the airport the same way Bitty did for Jack- with two iced coffees sitting in the center console. Black for Jack, cream and sugar up to high heaven for Bitty. (Bitty’s words, not his.) “Hey, bud,” he says as Bitty climbs into the car. “Jack!” Bitty says, and leans in for a hug. It’s awkward, across the center console, but they make it work. Jack pushes his nose into Bitty’s hair and just breathes. He smells like airplane, like stale sweat and recycled air, but Jack doesn’t mind. When Bitty’s grip relaxes, Jack forces himself to let go, even though he would rather stay in that position for much longer. “So!” Bitty starts once Jack has started driving, “Do we have a plan for today?” Jack winces. Outside of hockey, he’s not really a “plans” guy. He hadn’t really wanted to do anything except spend time with Bitty, and he can do that anywhere. “Euh, maybe we can wander around by the river?” “Jack Zimmermann, you mean to tell me you haven’t planned a single thing for us to do? I am a guest!” Bitty exclaims, but Jack can tell he’s just chirping him. Still, he laughs self-consciously. “I haven’t really explored the city much. I figured it might be fun to do that together?” he says, his voice lilting up at the end of the sentence, making it a question. Thankfully, Bitty melts. “You big sap,” he says, swatting at Jacks shoulder. “But I can’t believe that you haven’t gotten out and about at all! You’ve been here two months!” Jack shrugs. He’s not really a “go out and explore” type of person either— once he’s got his routine down, he likes to stick to it. He does have one thing he wants to do with Bitty— but he’ll keep that a surprise. Bitty busies himself updating Jack on what he’d done over the summer, Jack listening fondly and replying when necessary. He could listen to Bitty talk all day, he thinks, even about the little things. Jack helps Bitty with his multitude of bags once they get to his condo. He’ll be driving Bitty back to Samwell at the end of the week, so Bitty has a bunch of stuff. They haul it all up and drop it in the front entry. “So!” Bitty starts, clapping his hands together. “Am I the first the break in your guest room?” Right. The guest room. Which Jack definitely has, all set up and everything. Shit. Jack closes his eyes and lets a stream of air out of his mouth. How could he forget? The one thing it would take for Bitty to feel comfortable in his home, and he blew it. “Euh. Well.” Bitty’s looking at him, concerned. “I don’t have one?” Bitty’s expression turns from concerned to confused. “Jack Zimmermann, I know very well that you purchased a three bedroom condo, one of which is your office. Now, unless I’m mistaken, from the tours you gave me over Skype,” Bitty walks over to the door to the spare room, “This should be your guest room.” He flings open the door with a flourish, to reveal… nothing. It’s just an empty room. Jack kind of wishes the ground would swallow him up. “I forgot to furnish it,” Jack says, embarrassed. “I just kept putting it off and now…” he trails off. “Okay, well, I’m sure I could get a hotel—” Bitty starts. “No!” Jack	make my bed (and sleep in it) Bitty’s been on Jack’s mind a lot, recently. Down in Madison, they hadn’t fallen back into their old habits. Almost, but not quite. There was some hesitancy to Bitty that there hadn’t been before, and it killed Jack not knowing the cause of it. He’d hoped that it was just nerves, Bitty adjusting to the fact that they weren’t Hausmates or even teammates anymore, but it felt like something different. And it didn’t help that Jack couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. He’d clearly been keeping up with his workouts, Jack could tell by the muscles peeking out of the thin tank tops and tiny shorts Bitty wore. He couldn’t help but stare at the lake, water carving pathways into his sparsely haired chest, dripping past his abs and finally, disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks. (Bitty had written it off as sun sickness and made him go sit in the shade.) But now Bitty is coming up to Providence to spend a few days with Jack. Alone. No teammates, no parents. He wonders if it’s obvious to everyone else that he can’t keep his mind off Bitty’s eyes and the way they shone in the Madison sun. One thing he knows for sure, though, is that he’s not going to make the first move. He doesn’t want Bitty to think he’s going for the only gay guy he knows, he doesn’t want to ruin their friendship. But it’s kind of driving him insane. Bitty had convinced him to download Snapchat, and sends him pictures every day. Pictures of him baking, pictures of him at camp, pictures of him red-faced and sweaty after his morning run. The last ones are his favorites, and it frustrates him that he can’t save them without Bitty knowing. He wants to pull on the hair that curls around Bitty’s ears, wants to lick up the sweat that traces its way down his throat. But most of all, he wants to hold Bitty in his arms and never let him go. _/ \_ Jack picks Bitty up from the airport the same way Bitty did for Jack- with two iced coffees sitting in the center console. Black for Jack, cream and sugar up to high heaven for Bitty. (Bitty’s words, not his.) “Hey, bud,” he says as Bitty climbs into the car. “Jack!” Bitty says, and leans in for a hug. It’s awkward, across the center console, but they make it work. Jack pushes his nose into Bitty’s hair and just breathes. He smells like airplane, like stale sweat and recycled air, but Jack doesn’t mind. When Bitty’s grip relaxes, Jack forces himself to let go, even though he would rather stay in that position for much longer. “So!” Bitty starts once Jack has started driving, “Do we have a plan for today?” Jack winces. Outside of hockey, he’s not really a “plans” guy. He hadn’t really wanted to do anything except spend time with Bitty, and he can do that anywhere. “Euh, maybe we can wander around by the river?” “Jack Zimmermann, you mean to tell me you haven’t planned a single thing for us to do? I am a guest!” Bitty exclaims, but Jack can tell he’s just chirping him. Still, he laughs self-consciously. “I haven’t really explored the city much. I figured it might be fun to do that together?” he says, his voice lilting up at the end of the sentence, making it a question. Thankfully, Bitty melts. “You big sap,” he says, swatting at Jacks shoulder. “But I can’t believe that you haven’t gotten out and about at all! You’ve been here two months!” Jack shrugs. He’s not really a “go out and explore” type of person either— once he’s got his routine down, he likes to stick to it. He does have one thing he wants to do with Bitty— but he’ll keep that a surprise. Bitty busies himself updating Jack on what he’d done over the summer, Jack listening fondly and replying when necessary. He could listen to Bitty talk all day, he thinks, even about the little things. Jack helps Bitty with his multitude of bags once they get to his condo. He’ll be driving Bitty back to Samwell at the end of the week, so Bitty has a bunch of stuff. They haul it all up and drop it in the front entry. “So!” Bitty starts, clapping his hands together. “Am I the first the break in your guest room?” Right. The guest room. Which Jack definitely has, all set up and everything. Shit. Jack closes his eyes and lets a stream of air out of his mouth. How could he forget? The one thing it would take for Bitty to feel comfortable in his home, and he blew it. “Euh. Well.” Bitty’s looking at him, concerned. “I don’t have one?” Bitty’s expression turns from concerned to confused. “Jack Zimmermann, I know very well that you purchased a three bedroom condo, one of which is your office. Now, unless I’m mistaken, from the tours you gave me over Skype,” Bitty walks over to the door to the spare room, “This should be your guest room.” He flings open the door with a flourish, to reveal… nothing. It’s just an empty room. Jack kind of wishes the ground would swallow him up. “I forgot to furnish it,” Jack says, embarrassed. “I just kept putting it off and now…” he trails off. “Okay, well, I’m sure I could get a hotel—” Bitty starts. “No!” Jack blurts, because the whole point of this trip was to spend time with Bitty, and he can’t do that if Bitty’s sitting around in some hotel. “Or— the couch is surely big enough for me,” Bitty says, and Jack’s heart sinks, because if Bitty is ignoring the obvious solution, which is sleeping in Jack’s bed, with Jack, then— “Bitty, I can’t let you do that, you’re a guest. I’ll take the couch and you can sleep in my bed. It’s what I did when my parents were here,” Jack says firmly. Bitty looks like he want to protest, but Jack just repeats, “I’ll take the couch. You’re a guest.” While Bitty takes a shower, Jack looks at mattresses and bed frames online, and orders express shipping on a generic-looking frame and headboard to go along with a queen mattress. He could probably go out today and pick something up, but he doesn’t know if a mattress would even fit in the back of his (admittedly large) truck, and selfishly, he likes the thought of Bitty in his bed. He likes the thought of Bitty on his pillows, in his sheets, under his comforter. He likes the thought of the bed smelling like him when he leaves. Once Bitty is out of the shower, they hop back in Jack’s car and drive to downtown Providence. It’s not super far, but Jack wants the car just in case they do any shopping. They eat lunch at a literal shack with what Bitty proclaims to be “exorbitantly expensive” lobster rolls, but he wants to try one anyway. They fight over who gets to pay, until Jack puts his foot down and tells Bitty that he will be paying for everything on this trip. “You’re a college student, Bits,” he says, “I’m on a pro hockey contract.” After lunch, they go to the RISD museum and each valiantly pretend to be interested in the art before they mutually agree that art can be Lardo’s thing. There’s a maker’s market nearby and they pick up a few things for Jack’s condo; some art pieces, a small sculpture, a bowl. Then, after they drop all that off at the car, Jack starts herding them (hopefully inconspicuously, but who knows) in a specific direction towards a specific place that he’d scoped out earlier. “Hey,” Jack says, interrupting Bitty mid-rant about the pre-teens at camp, “Let’s go in here.” Bitty follows him in, still talking, but stops mid-sentence when he sees where they are. “Jack!” he protests, eyes shining as he turns to him. Jack has to work to play it cool and suppress the smile thats ready to burst out of him. “I thought you could help me outfit my kitchen. It’s no Williams Sonoma, but I suppose it’ll do.” “Oh, Jack, I— I don’t even know what you have in your kitchen already!” Bitty exclaims, already beginning to browse the nearest display. Jack shrugs. “Nothing I can’t get rid of. And don’t forget to get some bakeware, too. I don’t bake but I have a friend who does.” He thinks about winking after the last sentence, but before he can decide, Bitty is flinging his arms around him. What Jack really wants to do is pick him up and twirl him around, but they’re in public, so he settles on just squeezing extra tight. They spend at least an hour in there, Jack having to talk Bitty out of getting the least expensive version of everything, reminding him that he is the son of millionaires and well on his way to becoming independently wealthy himself. “And I don’t want stuff that’ll break on me, either. So get the nice stuff.” Jack ends up doing more work than he expected, besides just carrying around whatever Bitty’s picked out. There are colors to choose (a mix of Samwell red and Falconers blue), materials to decide upon (no, Bitty, he really doesn’t care whether his measuring spoons are stainless steel, copper, or goldtone), and brands to pick out (he has no preference towards any of it). He usually just picks whatever option it seems Bitty is leaning towards, anyway. Bitty scoffs at the hand pie molds and tells Jack that no baker worth her salt can’t mold a hand pie. He spends a while lingering over the pie dishes (of which Jack had no idea there were so many), before finally deciding on only two. “If you’re ever baking more than two pies at once, just use disposable tins. It’s what I do.” He makes Bitty turn around at the register so he won’t see the total. Jack nearly cringes at the total himself, but determines that one, these are investment pieces that he won’t need to buy more of in a very long time, and two, seeing Bitty in his element was worth it. He knows he won’t use half this stuff once Bitty is gone, but he hopes to have Bitty in his life for a long, long time if he can help it. Instead of going out to dinner, Jack leads them to a local supermarket next to pick out ingredients, both for dinner, and for any pies that may appear during such preparations of dinner. He would have bought such ingredients beforehand, but he’s embarrassed to admit he doesn’t really know what goes into pies besides sugar, butter, and flour. It’s endearingly domestic, shopping together, and Jack can so easily see this becoming his life. Jack makes salmon, potatoes, and broccoli while Bitty works on a maple apple pie. Jack watches him as he works, a puff of flour coating Bitty’s shirt and reminding Jack that he probably should pick up an apron or two. They eat together at the table, not across from each other but right next to each other, where Jack can feel the air from Bitty’s swinging foot, their knees pressed together. After dinner they watch a few episodes of a cooking show Jack’s not truly interested in but Bitty seems enraptured by. Jack doesn’t mind. They sit close enough that Jack can feel the heat radiating off of Bitty’s skin, and he resists the urge to wrap an arm around him. But when Bitty jumps up to yell at the screen for the third time, Jack pulls him back down to the couch with both of hands on Bitty’s hips, and his arm gets trapped behind Bitty’s back, curling around his waist. “Oh, lord that must be uncomfortable for you,” Bitty says, catching Jack’s hand with his own and pulling it up to drape around his shoulders. “There! Now thats much better.” Bitty sighs happily and snuggles into Jack. Jack’s heart is so full it might burst. Around ten, Bitty starts making noises about going to bed, tired from the early flight. Jack acquiesces, tired himself, and grabs his pajamas and a pillow from his room. Belatedly, he realizes that he probably should have at least offered to change his sheets or something, but Bitty’s closing the door before he can say anything. He settles down with a book to read for a while before getting up to turn the lamp off. He’s just barely back under the covers when the door to his room opens. It’s Bitty, backlit in the doorway. “This is silly,” Bitty says, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Your bed is plenty big enough for both of us. We can just— share.” Jack sits up, and as much as he would love that— “Are you sure?” he asks. Bitty nods, and Jack gathers up his pillow and follows him into the room. The sheets are rumpled on the opposite side that Jack usually sleeps on, and something about that makes Jack have to suppress a smile. He doesn’t know if Bitty just took notice of the side he took the pillow off of or what, but it’s nice to know that they’re potentially bed-partner compatible. Jack settles back into bed— his bed, this time, with Bitty, and turns off the light once Bitty is settled as well. He grins up at the ceiling, grateful for the darkness. “Jack?” Bitty says from next to him. “Yeah?” Jack turns to face him. He can just barely make out Bitty’s features. “Thanks for inviting me. And taking me to the kitchen store.” Jack’s smile grows, and he knows it bleeds into his voice when he says, “Of course, Bits. Anytime.” _/ \_ Jack wakes up first, wrapped around Bitty, having slept much better than he has in probably months. It was great, going from a dorm mattress to his own personal king-sized bed, but it was unavoidably lonely, going from a full Haus to an empty apartment. He doesn’t extract himself right away, instead choosing to lay in the quiet warmth of Bitty. It feels so much like home that he regrets it the moment he makes the decision to move away. He heads to the kitchen, puts on coffee and pulls out eggs to make omelets. Bitty wanders in about halfway through, rubbing his eyes and stretching. Jack purposefully does not look at the strip of skin between the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his shorts. “What’s the plan today, Mr. Zimmermann?” Bitty asks, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I got us some ice time at a local rink, we could run some drills? Or just mess around, whatever you want, really.” “Sure!” Bitty sounds enthused. “I didn’t get much ice time back in Madison, but I did what I could. It’ll be good to get back on the ice again before school starts. Lord knows Ransom and Holster won’t be as bad as a certain prior captain, but I don’t mean to be out of practice once the season starts.” “Of course not. Been keeping up with your workouts?” Jack asks, even though he knows the answer is yes. Bitty looks offended. “I’ll have you know I have! This booty doesn’t come naturally, you know.” Jack does not check out Bitty’s ass, even as he sticks it out and shakes it a little. If he was Holster, or Shitty, he would slap Bitty’s ass and say something like Lookin’ good, Bits! But he’s not, and instead he says, “Heh. I guess.” Bitty doesn’t seem to notice the awkwardness, though and just thanks him as Jack sets the omelet down in from of him. “Why am I not surprised,” he chuckles through a mouthful of eggs. “Jack ‘eat more protein’ Zimmermann never takes a day off, does he?” Jack forces a laugh as he starts on his own omelet. Is that really what Bitty thinks of him? That Jack is still some emotionless hockey robot? He knows it’s just chirping, but underneath it there’s a layer of truth that Jack can’t help but be uncomfortable with. It’s a conversation for later, though, or possibly never, if Jack is ever able to get over himself and just be normal. “Pie is not a part of the food pyramid,” he just says, instead of ‘do you know I care about you?’ Bitty is finished with his omelet by the time Jack sits down, but he stays at the table anyway, kicking his legs and occasionally brushing his shin. “You should let me make frittata tomorrow,” he says. “I think quiche is a little too much like pie for your standards.” There it is again. “Bits,” Jack starts, wanting to take Bitty’s hands in his but refraining, “I like your pies. I like that you bake. Make a quiche if you want to. Hell, make something with no protein in it at all—” “Well, no protein at all would be sort of a feat,” Bitty interrupts. “The point is,” Jack resumes, “Is that we’re on vacation. We can do whatever we want. If you want to make pie for breakfast, we’ll make pie for breakfast! I mean, I’ll probably have a protein shake with it, but—” he cuts himself off, aware he’s sort of rambling. “Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’m not your captain anymore,” Jack says, then hunches over to shove a forkful of eggs into his mouth. Bitty doesn’t say at first, just looks at him with a face that Jack can’t quite decipher. “Well, maybe I will make that quiche tomorrow,” he says finally, taking his plate to the sink and hand washing it despite the fact that Jack has a perfectly good dishwasher. Everything’s back to normal by the time they get to the rink, a run-down little place with dirty, pockmarked ice. Bitty gets on first while Jack gears up, warming up with some jumps and spins he can do in hockey skates. They trade places, Jack on the ice while Bitty gears up, doing suicides and stretching his hips. They play tag for a while, just for the hell of it. Bitty creams him, of course. Bitty doesn’t really need checking practice anymore, but Jack makes them do some anyway, trying to get Bitty to check him, this time. He doesn’t get any further than sort of knocking his shoulder against Jack’s arm, but it’s better than nothing. Bitty shows Jack how to do crossovers the “figure skater” way, and laughs at him when he can’t quite get it. “How do you ‘tuck your foot under’?” Jack complains. “My skates are heavy.” “You think your skates are heavy, try a pair of Jacksons,” Bitty says. “My spirals are so much easier in hockey skates.” “What’s a spiral?” Jack asks, and Bitty demonstrates. He pushes off and lifts his leg back as high as he can— definitely more than 90 degrees, Jack thinks— skate blade parallel to the ice and arms extended outward. “I don’t trust my edges as much in hockey skates, or I’d be able to show you something really cool,” Bitty says as he winds back around to Jack. “That was really cool,” Jack says honestly. “I didn’t know you were that flexible.” Bitty makes a face. “I haven’t really kept up my conditioning since I came to Samwell. I used to be better. I did some over the summer, but…” He shrugs. “You should have brought your figure skates. It would have been cool to see you… in your element,” Jack finishes awkwardly. Bitty just smiles sadly. “My figure skates don’t fit anymore. I was a late bloomer, and was still growing when I gave it up. It’s better this way, y’know? A cleaner break.” Jack’s heart breaks for him, and he wishes that there was some sneaky way he could get Bitty figure skates again without him knowing. But figure skates have to be fit in different ways, and Bitty would definitely not be okay with Jack dropping that kind of money on him. Maybe for Christmas? Maybe if he got the whole team involved, like he did with the oven? “Jack?” Bitty’s voice cut through his thoughts. He realized that he was just standing at the edge of the rink, staring off into space. “Oh, sorry,” Jack apologizes. “It sucks that you had to give up figure skating like that. I remember—” he starts, then stops. Does he really want to talk about his overdose with Bitty? Bitty, who’s only known the Jack that he wanted to show everyone? Yes, he decides. Because Bitty was there through the rough beginning and stuck around until now. “Yes?” Bitty prompts. They’re skating lazy laps around the rink. “I was just going to say that I remember what it was like not to have hockey any more. After— you know.” “Oh, Jack, you don’t have to—” “No, it’s okay. I remember what it was like to not have it, and how I grieved it, every day. I could get back on the ice all I wanted, but I was never going to get it back. Obviously, I got it back, eventually,” he gestures to them, on the ice, “But for a long time I thought that was it for me.” Bitty nods, biting his lip. “Before I quit I got all the way to Regionals. I could have gone farther, but Coach got that job in Madison and I thought, this is it. If I’m going to reinvent myself it should be now. So I quit. My mama cried, but she understood. Coach was more supportive than I’ve ever seen him. Honestly, the person that was most torn up about it was MooMaw. She was so into my figure skating, helped pay for it for most of my life. She said she understood why I quit, but I don’t really think she got it. She came to my hockey games, but she wasn’t as excited about it. That was the hardest part, I think. Feeling like I was letting her down. Like I should have been stronger.” Jack doesn’t know what to say, so he just puts his arms around Bitty. Bitty tenses, surprised, then relaxes into Jack’s arms. Jack rests his chin on Bitty’s head and says, “That was the worst part for me, too, I think. Living with my father, knowing that I’d let him down. No matter how many times he’d say he loved me no matter what, I couldn’t help but feel his disappointment.” Sighing, Bitty wriggles out of Jack’s grip, and Jack is drawn back into the brisk air of the ice rink. “I know,” Bitty says. “It’s not the same, but I know.” Bitty skates ahead, then looks behind to see if Jack is coming. Jack is… honestly a little confused. He’d thought they were having a moment, but maybe not. He catches up to Bitty, who’s shaking his head. “I just— I wish it was different for us.” Jack frowns and comes to a stop in front of him. “Don’t say that. Don’t— it all worked out, yeah? It was hard, but we got through it. And if none of it had happened, we never would have met. And—” He takes a breath. “I’m glad we met.” “I’m glad we met too, Jack,” Bitty says, but he’s not looking at him. _/ \_ The weird energy carries throughout the day. When it comes time for bed, Jack thinks seriously about going back to the couch instead of trying to sleep in the cloud of awkward that blankets them both. Instead, he asks Bitty, “Is everything okay? Are we okay?” Bitty looks up from his phone, startled. Then he sighs and says, “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry Jack. It’s not you, I promise. I’ve just been out of my head all day. Just thinking.” Jack frowns. “Okay, bud. I’m here if you need to talk,” he says, ruffling Bitty’s hair. Biting his lip, Bitty looks down at his lap. “Thanks, Jack.” They get ready for bed in relative silence, and it’s not until the lights are shut off that Bitty speaks again. “It’s just— well, part of it is that— y’know, when we were talking earlier at the rink, and you were saying how your dad was disappointed in you, it got me thinking how much I wished that Coach and mama were disappointed when I quit. And that’s not to make light of you or anything—” “No, no, go on,” Jack rushes to say. “—but even as my mama cried, I could tell she was relieved. And Coach, he didn’t say anything but when I picked up hockey, I knew he hoped that it was finally gonna make a man outta me. And—” Bitty’s voice breaks, his voice thick and his accent thicker. “And I never showed any interest in any of the figure skatin’ girls, I could tell they were hopin’ that I was only interested in a different type of girl, and co-ed hockey would be the place to meet ‘em.” Jack sits up and gathers Bitty in his arms. “Oh, Bits,” he says. “And this summer, when the news broke about gay marriage, I was so happy—” he sniffles, wiping at his face, “—and I couldn’t tell them the reason why. They never said anything to me but when I was younger I heard my daddy worryin’ that it was gonna turn me gay, and my mama said ‘Rick, if he’s gay it won’t be because of the figure skatin’. It’ll be because that’s who he is.’ That’s the closest I’ve ever got to any kind of acceptance from either of them. And they couldn’t even say it to my face.” Jack draws them backward, slowly, until they’re laying down together with Bitty’s head on his shoulder. Uncaring of the tears leaking into the fabric of his shirt, he keeps his arms around him, rubbing his back in hopes that will forgive the lack of words. He’s thinking about his own coming out to his parents— no words, just them walking in on him and Parse. They’d sat him down, had the awkward conversation about sex, and then told him that no matter how much they loved and supported him no matter what, hockey would not feel the same way. He’d already known that, and had nodded stoically and promised to keep it a secret. And he had— after Parse there had only been girls. Until now. Until Bitty. Now’s not the right time to come out to him, though, so he just keeps holding him until Bitty’s breath evens out against his neck. Not wanting to wake him, he stays still, even though he can’t get comfortable on his back. He just thinks, about Bitty and about Parse, how similar they are, how different. He thinks about coming out to Bitty, and abruptly realizes he’s never really come out to anyone before. He’d just kissed Parse, and that won’t work with Bitty. With Parse it was physical long before any feelings got involved, whereas with Bitty— well, Jack’s already in pretty deep there. He falls into an uneasy sleep, waking often. Bitty migrates back towards his side of the bed, clutching Señor Bun. Jack wants to drag him back towards the middle and slot their bodies together like they belong, but he doesn’t. He wakes once to find himself reaching out, fingers tangled in the hem of Bitty’s shirt and thinks, isn’t that the truth of it. Come morning, Bitty’s side of the bed is cold, but Jack can hear music blaring from the kitchen and a voice singing along, slightly off-key. He groans, feeling like he barely slept. Dragging himself out of bed and into the kitchen, he’s greeted by the sight of Bitty dancing, using a whisk as a microphone. He’s pretty sure the singer is Beyoncé, but he’s never heard the song before. “Oh, Jack! You’re up!” Bitty says, pausing the music. “Oh, did I wake you?” “No, I don’t think so. What time is it?” “It’s just gone nine. I was surprised you slept so late!” Bitty bends down to check the oven. “The quiche still has about 20 minutes to go, then it needs to set out of the oven for a few minutes, so it’ll be a while before it’s ready.” They brush their teeth side-by-side while they wait, with Jack hip-checking Bitty and Bitty getting him right back, so hard he almost stumbles. “Woah,” he says, spitting out his toothpaste in the sink. “Save it for the ice, Bits.” Bitty scoffs. “As if I’d be able to check someone for real.” “You never know!” Bitty will check someone by his last season at Samwell, Jack is sure of it. “You’ve still got a while yet.” They get changed into workout clothes, Jack set on going to the gym after breakfast, and dragging Bitty along whether he wanted to or not. Bitty’s fine with it, but grumbles as they sit down to eat, “You’re darned lucky to have a gym in your apartment complex, mister. I had to make do with my daddy’s old equipment and the high school weight room this summer. Samwell has spoiled me.” The quiche is good, of course. Everything Bitty makes is good. They work out together and it’s not quite rowdy enough to be mistaken for Samwell, but it’s nice. Bitty wears a tank top and Jack does his best not to stare at his back while he works his lats. He feels Bitty’s eyes on him in return, occasionally, and if he flexes in a way that make his biceps pop, well, no one’s the wiser. His condo has another bathroom, but they take turns showering in Jack’s shower, which is significantly more luxurious than the one down the hall. He lets Bitty go first and wanders absent-mindedly through his kitchen, smiling at the marks Bitty has left on it. Then it happens. The guest bed gets delivered. Bitty’s the one to receive the packages while Jack’s still in the shower. He enters the living room to find Bitty staring at the boxes, bewildered. “What in the world did you order?” Bitty asks. “Euh. Your bed?” Jack tries. “I mean, the bed you’ll sleep in. In the guest room. So, the guest bed.” “Oh.” Bitty looks down at the boxes. “Well, I guess we’d better start putting it together.” It wasn’t like they’d really had plans for the day, but Jack hadn’t exactly counted on doing manual labor. “Lord, where’s Dex when you need him?” Bitty grumbles under his breath as he tries to screw two pieces together. “Probably enjoying a nice, relaxing summer where he doesn’t have to constantly fix a crumbling Haus he doesn’t even live in,” Jack jokes as he tries to hammer a peg into place. When the frame is completed, they cut open the mattress box and heft the mattress onto the bed. Then they stand there, just looking at it. “Well!” Bitty says, clapping his hands together. “That’s done. Sheets?” Jack grimaces. “Also don’t have those. We’ll have to go shopping.” He really should have bought sheets when he bought the bed, but hindsight’s 20/20. After lunch, they trek to a Bed, Bath, and Beyond somewhere outside the city limits. He picks out a nice sheet set, Egyptian cotton, high thread count. He lets Bitty pick the pillows. He ends up looking for nightstands, too, so the room won’t look like a prison cell. “Not that one!” Bitty says, scandalized. “It looks like it’s from IKEA.” “What’s wrong with IKEA?” Jack asks, amused. Bitty just sniffs and says, “You can afford better.” He ends up buying the nightstands Bitty picks out, because he doesn’t really have an opinion one way or the other. “I should commission Lardo for a painting for the guest room,” Jack says as they drive back to the condo. “That’d be nice. What of?” Jack shrugs. “Maybe something to do with Samwell. A painting of Faber, maybe.” “You ever think of putting your own photos up?” Bitty asks. Swallowing uncomfortably, Jack says, “Ah— I don’t know. Seems a little conceited, doesn’t it?” What he doesn’t want to admit is that a lot of his photos, most of the ones that aren’t of geese or interesting bits of architecture, are of Bitty. Bitty doesn’t press. He throws the sheets in the laundry when they get back, so they’ll be ready for Bitty that evening. Then they split off to do their own thing for a while— Bitty editing his vlog and Jack kind of meandering around doing nothing in particular. They go out for dinner and Bitty chirps him endlessly about ordering the chicken when there are “so many more interesting things on the menu”. “I’ll just have to try some of yours then, eh?” Jack tries, aiming for flirty. When the food comes, Bitty holds out a fork for him to try, but Jack just leans forward and opens his mouth. Bitty ends up feeding him the bite of his shrimp risotto and they lock eyes as Jack’s mouth closes around the tines of the fork, Bitty looking faintly pink but determined. “Mmm,” Jack hums, the utensil still in his mouth. Bitty bites his lip as he withdraws the fork. “Good?” He asks. “Good,” Jack agrees. “Want to try some of mine?” Bitty turns a shade pinker. “Oh, um, sure.” Jack isn’t sure what made him decide that tonight was the night to go bold, but whatever it was, he’s glad. They order desert and Bitty critiques it, Jack just staring him fondly and not caring if he notices. “You have a little—” Bitty points to the corner of his mouth. Jack flicks out his tongue in an attempt to get it. “No, it’s just—” Bitty reaches over the table and swipes at his lip with his thumb. “There, got it.” Jack’s mouth goes dry. Back at Jack’s condo, they put the sheets on the guest bed together. It feels final somehow. He still has two more days with Bitty, but standing there, wrestling pillows into their cases, it feels like the end of something Jack barely even realized had started. Jack goes to bed that night feeling defeated, with a bone-deep tiredness that somehow still can’t lull him into sleep. He tosses and turns and finally gives up and goes to the kitchen, hoping a glass of water will reset him. “Can’t sleep either?” He hears as he opens his door. Bitty’s standing at the counter near the fridge, holding a half-empty glass. “Heh. I see you had the same idea I did,” Jack says as he shuffles toward the kitchen. He opens the cabinet and gets down a glass, before mechanically turning the faucet on and filling it. He faces Bitty. “New bed not working out for you?” Bitty shrugs noncommittally. “Just not used to it. I always sleep weird in new places.” He takes a sip of water, then rolls the glass between his hands. “‘Cept when I was in with you, funny enough.” Jack is suddenly aware of his heart beating in his chest. “Yeah?” He manages. Bitty’s eyes flick up to him, fixed and steady. “Yeah.” Throat thick, Jack swallows, then sets his glass down, taking a step towards Bitty. “Bitty, I—” he starts, then lets out a shaky breath. Eyes still fixed on Jack, Bitty sets his own glass down. He tilts his chin up invitingly. It’s all the encouragement Jack needs. He steps into Bitty’s space, effectively crowding him against the counter, leans down, and kisses him. Bitty kisses back immediately, hands curling into Jack’s shirt. Jack lifts a hand to the back of Bitty’s neck, running his fingers through the hair that curls there. They break for air, chests heaving, and look at each other. Jack wants to catalog every freckle on Bitty’s face. Bitty traces a hand from Jack’s chest, to his shoulder, all the way down his arm before lacing their fingers together. “I thought you mighta been flirting with me tonight,” Bitty says into Jack’s chest. Jack rests his chin on top of Bitty’s head. “I’m not very good at it, eh?” He asks. He can feel Bitty chuckle. Disappointingly, Bitty pulls away first. “I oughta get to bed before I turn into a pumpkin,” he says, releasing Jack’s hand. “You could, euh,” Jack starts, biting his lip. “Sleep with me?” Bitty turns a delicate shade of pink. “Um—” “Just to sleep,” Jack rushes to say. “We don’t have to do anything—” “It’s not that I don’t want to,” Bitty interrupts. “It’s just, it’s late, and—” “Hey,” Jack says, reaching for Bitty’s hand again. “Even if you never wanted to, that would be okay. But definitely not right now, yeah?” Bitty nods. “I’ll just— get Señor Bun,” he says before darting off into the guest room. Jack can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. When the door to his bedroom creaks open, Jack is sitting up comfortably in the bed, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Bitty creeps in, clutching Señor Bun to his chest and shutting the door quietly behind him. Jack turns off his phone and holds his arms out. Bitty climbs into them and lets out a sigh. “I never thought I could have this,” he says, snuggling into Jack’s chest, tipping his head up for a kiss. Jack obliges, smiling into it. “I didn’t either,” Jack confesses. “I thought— I mean, I wanted, but—” “I know.” Bitty looks up at him with those wide brown eyes, and Jack thinks there’s never been a more perfect moment. They fall asleep with Bitty’s back pressed up against Jack’s chest, Jack’s arm draped over them. They wake up in the same position, reversed. Bitty’s hard. Jack can feel it against his back. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he wake Bitty up? Leave it be? It shouldn’t be a problem, except it’s kind of turning Jack on, too. Not enough to get him hard, his medication makes that take a lot longer than it used to, but enough to have a low-level thrum under his skin. Jack gets up to brush his teeth before slipping back into bed and trying to focus on a book. He’s kind of excited. He wasn’t lying last night, if Bitty never wants to have sex he’d be fine with that, but he doesn’t think that’s the case. Bitty wakes up slowly, an arm reaching out to search for him. “Jack?” He says drowsily. “I’m here, bud,” Jack says, running a hand through Bitty’s hair. He closes his book and slides down the bed so he’s lying next to Bitty. “Hey.” Jack can pinpoint the moment Bitty wakes up fully and realizes he’s hard. His eyes go wide and a blush colors his cheeks. Jack resists the urge to smirk. “Go brush your teeth, then come back,” Jack says. “Okay,” Bitty whispers, his fading flush creeping back onto his face. He goes, and Jack spends the two minutes that he’s gone nervously rearranging the pillows on the bed. Does he want to be lying down or sitting up? Should he fluff the pillows more? He’s still deliberating when Bitty returns. Jack’s eyes flick downward automatically and yep, Bitty’s still hard. “Um,” Bitty starts. “C’mere,” Jack says, beckoning. Bitty steps forward until he’s practically between Jack’s legs. He looks up at Jack through long lashes and Jack leans down and kisses him. It’s nothing like it was last night, careful and uncertain. Bitty’s lips press back against his urgently, desperately. Jack walks them back until his thighs hit the mattress, and pulls them backwards onto it, never breaking the kiss. They make out for a while like that, intense and heated, but Bitty starts rutting down against Jack’s thigh, and Jack, past halfway to hard himself, lets his fingers linger at the waistband of Bitty’s shorts. “Tickles,” Bitty breathes, and shoves down his shorts. Jack strips his shirt off while Bitty kicks the shorts off of his legs, then Bitty wriggles out of his shirt while Jack pushes his pants off. Bitty sits on top of him, tracing his hands over his chest. “Wow,” he whispers. “You’ve seen it all before,” Jack says, but he’s equally enchanted by Bitty. “Yeah, but I’ve never really been allowed to look,” he says, running the tips of his fingers over Jack’s nipples. Jack shivers. “Bitty,” he groans, settling his hands on Bitty’s hips. Bitty ducks his head, a blush rising to his cheeks. “I haven’t really— I mean, I don’t know—” He cuts himself off, looking mortified. Sitting up, Jack maneuvers them so they’re side by side. He takes Bitty’s hand. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he says seriously. “But I want to be ready!” Bitty exclaims. “I thought Samwell would be this great haven where I could be myself openly and all my fears would disappear, but every time I get close I just— I chicken out. There’s always the worry that someone’s going to catch me, or it’ll all have just been a big joke to make fun of me, or someone on the team will find out and it turns out that they’re all just okay with me being gay in theory, but when I actually do something…” He trails off, eyes on the verge of watering. Silently, Jack curses himself. They should have talked about this before just jumping in. He puts an arm around Bitty’s shoulder and pulls him into himself. “I get it, bud. I mean, for a long time I was strung out every time I had sex. The first time I tried to do anything sober, I freaked out. Sex is really vulnerable, and if you don’t trust your partner…” “I do trust you,” Bitty says. “And I do want this, with you. I just don’t want to mess anything up.” “You’re not going to mess anything up. There’s not one way to have sex. As long as we’re both having fun, it’ll be fine.” Bitty takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out. Both of their erections have mostly flagged, and in the air-conditioned room, Jack is starting to feel kind of cold in just his underwear. But then Bitty says, “Okay. Will you be on top this time?” Jack looks at him, surprised, but rolls over on top of Bitty anyway. Bitty lets his thighs fall apart to allow space for Jack as Jack carefully positions himself as to not let his whole bodyweight fall on Bitty. “Is this okay? Am I crushing you?” “Mmm, no,” Bitty says, kissing him slowly as he wraps his arms around Jack. “I mostly wanted us in this position so I could do this.” He slides his hands down Jack’s back onto his ass and squeezes. Jack laughs in startled delight and begins to kiss down Bitty’s neck. “Oh, you did, did you?” He murmurs against his pulse point. Bitty gasps and squirms under Jack’s ministrations. He could get addicted to this. When he makes his way back up to his mouth, Bitty practically devours him, kissing deep and intense. Whatever lack of experience Bitty has definitely doesn’t extend to kissing. Jack could kiss him forever. But Bitty’s hips are twitching upward underneath him and Jack kind of wants to get a hand on his dick. “Can I touch you?” He asks, running a hand down Bitty’s side to rest on his hip. Bitty freezes, blinking up at him shyly. “Yeah,” he breathes, “If I can touch you.” “Yeah,” Jack repeats, and presses his hand against the front of Bitty’s underwear. He jerks up to the touch, and gets Jack back by reaching a hand into Jack’s underwear and getting a hand around his dick. “Ahh,” Jack groans, and Bitty’s barely even done anything yet. Bitty grins. “Naked now?” Jack yanks down his underwear without a second thought, rolling off Bitty to let him do the same. He lets himself stare at Bitty’s naked cock, standing proudly against his belly. “Is it okay?” Bitty asks, chewing on his lip. Jack looks back up at his face. “God, Bitty, you’re perfect, you’re so perfect, you know that?” Bitty laughs as Jack sits up against the headboard and pulls him on top of himself so Bitty’s straddling him. “You’re perfect, too, you know,” Bitty says before leaning in and kissing him. The movement traps both of their cocks between their torsos and they groan into each other’s mouths. Bitty snakes a hand between them and starts jacking their cocks together. Suddenly, Jack is self-conscious. “Wait, wait,” he blurts. “I have to tell you something.” Bitty’s hand stills. “What’s wrong?” he asks, sitting back on Jack’s thighs. He doesn’t really know how to say it elegantly. “I’m on a medication. For my anxiety.” Bitty nods, confused. “It makes it hard for me to come. I mean it— it takes a long time.” There, he said it. He doesn’t want to look at Bitty, but Bitty touches his chin and Jack’s eyes automatically flick upward. “Hey,” Bitty says, “Thank you for telling me. Is that— did you just want to let me know, or…?” “I mean, I didn’t want you to think I’m not enjoying it. Because I am. It just— takes a little longer for me. Like, to the point where it gets boring.” “Oh, honey.” Bitty leans back into him and wraps his arms around him. “We’ve got nothing on the schedule today, right? We’ve got time.” “Okay.” Jack takes a deep breath, the panicky feeling mostly subsided. “Okay.” “Okay?” Bitty asks, with a wicked grin on his face, shimmying down Jack’s body until he’s lying between his legs. Jack gasps when Bitty takes the head of his cock into his mouth, suckling lightly. Jack’s hands automatically go up to tangle in Bitty’s hair. “Christ, Bitty,” he swears as Bitty takes him down a little further. “I mean, Jesus. Warn a guy.” Bitty pulls off and laughs, replacing his mouth with his hand. “I haven’t ever done this before, so…” It shouldn’t be that hot. But it is, knowing that Bitty is choosing Jack to give his first blowjob to. Jack’s generally pretty quiet in bed, but he makes an effort to make some noises to encourage Bitty. His enthusiasm more than makes up for his lack of experience. Jack lets him go at it for as long as he wants, but eventually Bitty pulls off, rubbing at his jaw. “I’m getting kinda sore,” he says apologetically. “No, that was— it was great!” Jack says, pulling Bitty up so he can kiss him. Bitty’s cock is smeared with precum when he reaches down for it, and Jack has a sneaking suspicion that there’s a wet spot where Bitty was grinding down against the mattress. Bitty gasps when Jack finally gets a hand around him, and he learns that Bitty, unlike Jack, is rather talkative in bed. “Oh, Jack, yes, just like that,” he says between kisses. Jack twists his wrist a little and thumbs under the head, and Bitty shudders. “Jack,” he keens, panting into his mouth. Jack works him until he’s whimpering, then slides down between his legs. “Oh, you don’t have to—” Bitty starts, but Jack shushes him. “I want to,” he promises. When Jack gets his mouth on him, Bitty practically arches up off of the bed. “Oh my Lord” he whispers, an arm thrown over his forehead. Jack just chuckles before going back down on him. It’s Bitty’s first blowjob, and he’s determined to make it good. He almost zones out while he does it— it’s something he’s always liked doing, especially to a partner as responsive as Bitty. When he notices Bitty gripping at the sheets, he guides his hands up to his hair. “Here,” he says, “If you want to control it.” Bitty looks like he’s just been handed the keys to his very own bakery. “You like that?” he asks. Jack makes deliberate eye contact with him, and nods. Bitty swears, and gently guides Jack back to his dick. Jack follows the pull of his hair and the Press of Bitty’s fingers, sinking down and coming back up again. When he looks up at Bitty, his eyes are wide, staring at Jack, teeth clenched over his bottom lip. His mouth opens in a sigh when Jack swirls his tongue around the tip. Before he comes, he’s practically panting, shaking with it. His hands clench in Jack’s hair, then very quickly pull away as he gets out, “I’m— I’m—” Jack doesn’t pull off, though. He sucks him through it, swallowing around his cock. Jack climbs back up to collapse next to Bitty, who throws an arm around him. “Well, that’s me worn clean out,” he says. Jack doesn’t mind. He’s perfectly content to cuddle Bitty through the afterglow. But Bitty can almost definitely feel his erection against his ass, because he says, “Mmm, honey, do you have any lube?” Surprised, Jack rolls over to dig through his nightstand and retrieve it, handing it to him. But Bitty shakes his head, handing it back to him. “If you wanted, you could fuck my thighs?” he says, slightly nervous. It’s all Jack can do not to groan, because he does want. He parts Bitty’s legs to smear lube on the inside of his thighs, then slicks himself up. They lay on their sides, Jack behind Bitty as he slowly lines himself up. He feels Bitty’s knees press together as he slips between his thighs. He can feel the muscles in Bitty’s thighs flexing as he rocks back and forth. He wraps his arms around Bitty and kisses down his neck until he turns enough that Jack can kiss him on the lips. It’s awkward, but it’s perfect. “Next time we can do it for real, how about that, honey?” Bitty whispers, soft and low in his ear, and Jack groans. “I’ve thought about you like that before, imagined my own fingers were yours.” “Ah, Bitty—” Jack pants. Bitty takes Jack’s hand in his own as his thrusts turn sloppy. “Are you going to come for me, honey?” Jack can’t do anything but nod frantically, his hips stuttering in their rhythm. Bitty’s thighs clench tighter around him. When he comes, he does so with a low groan right into Bitty’s ear. He’s distantly aware of Bitty smirking at him as he basks in his bliss. Bitty gets out of bed and Jack complains, “No, come back.” “I’m just getting a washcloth, honey, I’ll be back.” Jack is kind of disappointed he won’t be able to see Bitty with come all over his thighs, but the experience was more than enough. When Bitty slips back in, he wipes Jack down tentatively, like he’s still awestruck by Jack’s cock. Jack pulls the washcloth out of his hand when he’s done and tosses it onto his nightstand. He opens his arms. “C’mere, bud,” he says. Bitty looks relieved as he climbs into Jack’s arms. He settles in and they lay there, together. It’s intoxicating, the closeness. The press of Bitty’s naked skin against his. The smell of Jack’s shampoo in his hair. Jack wants to live in this moment, with Bitty’s chest rising and falling with his breathing against Jack’s own. But Bitty’s chest is rising and falling too quickly, too sporadically for him to be basking in this moment the way that Jack is. Jack pulls away and turns Bitty towards him. Bitty tries to cover his face before Jack can see him, but Jack pulls his hands away. “What’s wrong?” he asks. Everything was perfect, just a second ago. “This can’t last,” Bitty confesses miserably. Sitting upright, Jack tries to make sense of what he’s saying. “Why not?” Bitty looks at him, a long look that Jack can’t quite parse. Finally, he sighs, looking down at his hands. “I was looking at everything with rose-colored glasses last night. But I need to think realistically. You’re a professional hockey player. I’m a college student. A stereotypically gay one, at that.” “Bittle—” Jack starts, but Bitty raises a hand to stop him. “This was a lovely fairytale, honey, but we wouldn’t last a month. I would be too clingy, you would be too stoic. You wouldn’t bring me around your hockey friends, I wouldn’t bring you home to my parents. This— I’m sorry, Jack, but I can’t.” With that, Bitty collects his clothes from the floor and leaves Jack’s room. Jack sits, stunned. He doesn’t run after Bitty, doesn’t bring up that he’s been home to his parents, or that he actually kind of loves his clinginess. He just stares straight ahead, shocked. He doesn’t cry. For once, he’s glad that the medication numbs him up like that. He gets up and gets dressed mechanically, stopping only to make a protein shake before he heads for the complex’s gym. He always pushes himself hard, but he tests his limits today. Working out usually soothes him, but now, it just reminds him of Bitty. Everything reminds him of Bitty. When he opens the fridge, Bitty’s pie and yesterday’s quiche seem to taunt him. He makes himself some chicken tenders from the freezer instead. Bitty shuts himself in the guest room all day, and when he finally emerges for dinner, he takes it right back to the room. Jack is supposed to drive Bitty back to Samwell tomorrow. He doesn’t know how they’ll survive forty minutes in the car. His dreams are tenuous and fleeting, but all about Bitty. He runs toward him, but when he finally reaches him, Bitty turns into smoke. He wakes too early and just lies in bed, wishing that Bitty was just slightly less rooted in reality, just slightly more willing to live in fantasy, even for a little while. But Jack understands. Bitty’s just protecting himself. Would it have hurt more if he’d gotten to have him for a month? When his alarm goes off, Jack rolls out of bed and knocks on Bitty’s door. Bitty answers with red-rimmed eyes, looking like he slept worse than Jack. “Hey, b— uh, Bittle,” Jack says, just stopping himself from calling him “bud”. “What time did you want to leave?” They were originally going to leave it for the afternoon, so they could fit in another day together, but Jack’s not sure Bitty wants that, now. Bitty blinks at him and shakes his head, waking himself up. “Just give me a moment to pack up,” he says before closing the door. Jack heats up a piece of quiche in the microwave and savors it. When Bitty comes in, he pours himself a bowl of cereal like he’s saving the quiche for Jack. They haul Bitty’s things down to Jack’s car and load it up in silence. Jack offers the aux to him, but Bitty just shakes his head and pops his headphones in. Jack drives in silence, with only the sound the music leaking from Bitty’s headphones. When they reach the Haus, Jack helps Bitty bring his stuff upstairs. They stand facing each other, in Bitty’s room. Jack reaches for his hand, but Bitty pulls away. “Jack,” he says, pleadingly. Jack swallows, finally feeling a pressure behind his eyes. “Can’t I just kiss you? One last time?” he begs. Jack can see it in his eyes the moment Bitty breaks. He nods, once, and stands on his tiptoes, curling his hand around Jack’s neck and closing his eyes. Jack hesitates for only a second before ducking down and pressing his lips to Bitty’s, and it’s soft and tender and perfect, if only it was a fist kiss instead of a last one. Bitty breaks away first, hands clenched into fists, looking at his feet. “Goodbye, Jack,” he says softly. “Goodbye,” Jack echoes, and doesn’t wait for Bitty to look back up at him before turning around and seeing himself out of the house.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75578001	{"authors": ["flowerylanguage"], "language": "English", "title": "make my bed (and sleep in it)"}
Yin vs. Yang - Squealing Santa 2K25 “Grrr! Baizhu I swear, if you make one more zombie I’ll… I’ll… Tickle you to death!” Hu Tao declared with a stomp, crossing her arms and turning her head away. Baizhu cocked his head at her. “Tickle me? What does that mean?” Hu Tao peeked at him with one eye. “...You’re joking, right?” “You’ve ssseriously gone on all this time without learning what tickling is?” Changsheng chimed in. “I’m afraid not,” Baizhu shook his head. “No way!” Hu Tao stared at him in shock. “How is that possible?” “I suppose he did grow up pretty isssolated,” Changsheng said. She slithered around his neck to look at him. “You’ve really never been tickled before?” “Not that I can recall.” “We’d better fix that,” Hu Tao grinned. “Hold on a moment,” Baizhu started, "Did you not just say that this is something that will kill me?” Hu Tao and Changsheng snickered. “No, silly,” Hu Tao said. “I was exaggerating.” “It’s quite harmless, really,” Changsheng added. “Gah! Wh-what- hehehehe!” Changsheng swirled her tongue in and around Baizhu’s right ear. “Sssee?” “Whahahat is hahappening?” “You’re a doctor, so I’ll give you the technical terms,” Hu Tao said. “What you’re experiencing right now is knismesis, the light and feathery form of tickling. Would you like to experience gargalesis, the rougher, more intense form instead?” “I guehehess??” “Great! Coming right up~!” Hu Tao pounced, knocking Baizhu over onto the grass. “Let’s see where you’re most ticklish.” She straddled his hips, getting into position. “Starting… here!” She dug her fingers into Baizhu’s ribs, examining which area and what kind of finger movement got the best reaction. “HAHA! Wahahahahait! NOhoho stohohop thahahahahat!” “But you said you wanted to experience gargalesis! Guess we’ll just have to give you a taste of both to see which you can tolerate better~ Bet I can get a bigger reaction out of him than you can, Changsheng!” “Ssso you think? I disagree.” Changsheng flicked her tail under Baizhu’s chin. Baizhu cringed. “Hehehe! You two are ridiculous- Ah! Changsheng, where do you think you’re going!?” Changsheng slithered down Baizhu’s collarbone and slipped underneath his shirt, uncoiling herself and disappearing from sight. She wiggled her tail against his left armpit. “EEK! HahAhAHA!” Baizhu had to restrain himself from bringing his arms down all the way as he didn’t want to accidentally squash her. “Changsheng! That’s not fair!” “Of courssse it is.” “Whatever. Baizhu, which tickles more? That or… this!” Hu Tao held Baizhu’s right arm up with her left hand and used her right hand to attack his right armpit. She vibrated her fingers as fast as she could, determined to outdo the snake. “GahAHAHA!” Baizhu tossed his head back and forth, the stark contrast between the two sensations driving him crazy. They both felt, er, tickled, so bad! “I don’t knOHOhow!” “You don’t know? Well that won’t do.” Hu Tao changed tactics, letting go of Baizhu’s arm and grabbing on to his waist instead. She switched between skittering her fingers across his lower abdomen and squeezing up and down his waist rapidly. Changsheng slithered down further, popping her head out from under Baizhu’s shirt and sticking her tongue in his bellybutton. Baizhu thumped like a bunny. “Oh dear meEEHEHEHE! AHHAhaHAhaHAHA! M-Ms. Hu, p-pleEAASE! StaaAAAHA! STAHAHAhahaHAP!” “Aww, does he not like his belly rubs?” Hu Tao pouted. “That’s surprising for someone who walks around in a crop top all the time!” “You’ve got a point,” Changsheng agreed. “PleheASE! I-I don't think I can tahahAKE m-much more of this!” “Who’s the better tickler? Me or Changsheng?” “I d-don’t know!” “We won’t stop until you decide on a winner~ Ooh! I know a good spot,” Hu Tao said, but Changsheng was one step ahead of her. “WhahaHA!? Changsheng, g-get out of there!” The second Hu Tao turned around, she saw Changsheng emerge from the bottom of Baizhu’s left pant leg. Hu Tao scrambled over Baizhu’s legs to get to his feet before Changsheng had a chance to win their little game. Hu Tao grabbed his right shoe, throwing it to the side as Changsheng wedged her tail between his left shoe and the sole of his left foot. Changsheng began tracing up and down Baizhu’s sole wherever she could reach. Baizhu curled his toes and thrashed his leg, but his attempts to fight her off were futile. Wait wait wAIT-HAHA-NAHAHAHA!” Changsheng had a tight grip around his ankle. She was strong enough to pry his toes apart and wriggle her tail in between them again and again, no matter how hard he fought. At the same time, Hu Tao had wrapped her legs around Baizhu’s ankle to keep his foot in place. She used her left hand to gently but firmly pull back his toes so that she could use her right hand to scritch the delicate skin underneath. The second her nails made contact with that spot, he screamed. “AhahahAHAHAAAA!” Baizhu’s entire leg jerked back, his toes twitching beneath her grip. “HAHAAHAAAAAA!! Okay, oHOKAHAHAY! HU TAO! Y-YOURE THE	Yin vs. Yang - Squealing Santa 2K25 “Grrr! Baizhu I swear, if you make one more zombie I’ll… I’ll… Tickle you to death!” Hu Tao declared with a stomp, crossing her arms and turning her head away. Baizhu cocked his head at her. “Tickle me? What does that mean?” Hu Tao peeked at him with one eye. “...You’re joking, right?” “You’ve ssseriously gone on all this time without learning what tickling is?” Changsheng chimed in. “I’m afraid not,” Baizhu shook his head. “No way!” Hu Tao stared at him in shock. “How is that possible?” “I suppose he did grow up pretty isssolated,” Changsheng said. She slithered around his neck to look at him. “You’ve really never been tickled before?” “Not that I can recall.” “We’d better fix that,” Hu Tao grinned. “Hold on a moment,” Baizhu started, "Did you not just say that this is something that will kill me?” Hu Tao and Changsheng snickered. “No, silly,” Hu Tao said. “I was exaggerating.” “It’s quite harmless, really,” Changsheng added. “Gah! Wh-what- hehehehe!” Changsheng swirled her tongue in and around Baizhu’s right ear. “Sssee?” “Whahahat is hahappening?” “You’re a doctor, so I’ll give you the technical terms,” Hu Tao said. “What you’re experiencing right now is knismesis, the light and feathery form of tickling. Would you like to experience gargalesis, the rougher, more intense form instead?” “I guehehess??” “Great! Coming right up~!” Hu Tao pounced, knocking Baizhu over onto the grass. “Let’s see where you’re most ticklish.” She straddled his hips, getting into position. “Starting… here!” She dug her fingers into Baizhu’s ribs, examining which area and what kind of finger movement got the best reaction. “HAHA! Wahahahahait! NOhoho stohohop thahahahahat!” “But you said you wanted to experience gargalesis! Guess we’ll just have to give you a taste of both to see which you can tolerate better~ Bet I can get a bigger reaction out of him than you can, Changsheng!” “Ssso you think? I disagree.” Changsheng flicked her tail under Baizhu’s chin. Baizhu cringed. “Hehehe! You two are ridiculous- Ah! Changsheng, where do you think you’re going!?” Changsheng slithered down Baizhu’s collarbone and slipped underneath his shirt, uncoiling herself and disappearing from sight. She wiggled her tail against his left armpit. “EEK! HahAhAHA!” Baizhu had to restrain himself from bringing his arms down all the way as he didn’t want to accidentally squash her. “Changsheng! That’s not fair!” “Of courssse it is.” “Whatever. Baizhu, which tickles more? That or… this!” Hu Tao held Baizhu’s right arm up with her left hand and used her right hand to attack his right armpit. She vibrated her fingers as fast as she could, determined to outdo the snake. “GahAHAHA!” Baizhu tossed his head back and forth, the stark contrast between the two sensations driving him crazy. They both felt, er, tickled, so bad! “I don’t knOHOhow!” “You don’t know? Well that won’t do.” Hu Tao changed tactics, letting go of Baizhu’s arm and grabbing on to his waist instead. She switched between skittering her fingers across his lower abdomen and squeezing up and down his waist rapidly. Changsheng slithered down further, popping her head out from under Baizhu’s shirt and sticking her tongue in his bellybutton. Baizhu thumped like a bunny. “Oh dear meEEHEHEHE! AHHAhaHAhaHAHA! M-Ms. Hu, p-pleEAASE! StaaAAAHA! STAHAHAhahaHAP!” “Aww, does he not like his belly rubs?” Hu Tao pouted. “That’s surprising for someone who walks around in a crop top all the time!” “You’ve got a point,” Changsheng agreed. “PleheASE! I-I don't think I can tahahAKE m-much more of this!” “Who’s the better tickler? Me or Changsheng?” “I d-don’t know!” “We won’t stop until you decide on a winner~ Ooh! I know a good spot,” Hu Tao said, but Changsheng was one step ahead of her. “WhahaHA!? Changsheng, g-get out of there!” The second Hu Tao turned around, she saw Changsheng emerge from the bottom of Baizhu’s left pant leg. Hu Tao scrambled over Baizhu’s legs to get to his feet before Changsheng had a chance to win their little game. Hu Tao grabbed his right shoe, throwing it to the side as Changsheng wedged her tail between his left shoe and the sole of his left foot. Changsheng began tracing up and down Baizhu’s sole wherever she could reach. Baizhu curled his toes and thrashed his leg, but his attempts to fight her off were futile. Wait wait wAIT-HAHA-NAHAHAHA!” Changsheng had a tight grip around his ankle. She was strong enough to pry his toes apart and wriggle her tail in between them again and again, no matter how hard he fought. At the same time, Hu Tao had wrapped her legs around Baizhu’s ankle to keep his foot in place. She used her left hand to gently but firmly pull back his toes so that she could use her right hand to scritch the delicate skin underneath. The second her nails made contact with that spot, he screamed. “AhahahAHAHAAAA!” Baizhu’s entire leg jerked back, his toes twitching beneath her grip. “HAHAAHAAAAAA!! Okay, oHOKAHAHAY! HU TAO! Y-YOURE THE BEHEHETTER TIHICKLEEHEEHEE!! HEHEHER!” “What? I didn’t quite catch that.” Hu Tao smirked. “YOU- EEHEEEYAAAHAHAHAAAHA! PLEHEHEHEHEEEASE! MERCY! MER-HAHA-HERCY!” Tears glistened at the corners of Baizhu’s eyes. His glasses were crooked and his hair a mess. “YOU WIHIHIN!!!” “Now that’s what I like to hear!” Hu Tao unceremoniously dropped his foot onto her lap. Changsheng slithered back up Baizhu’s leg, across his torso, and finally around his shoulders. “Tough competition, that one.” Baizhu lay there, panting. He put the back of his right hand against his forehead and closed his eyes. “I can’t believe you two.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75578006	{"authors": ["SpicyRainbowRoll"], "language": "English", "title": "Yin vs. Yang - Squealing Santa 2K25"}
Dream a little dream of— He wakes up softly, from one dream to another. The cosmos spreads out around him—purple, black. This is not his Mindscape. There is something in the back of his mind, something like a warning. Surely, this is dangerous—but the thought is brushed away, easily. This variation of Stanford Pines lacks the paranoia, the scars of betrayal that make his counterparts so recognizable. Above him, something floats:Ambystoma mexicanum, an axolotl, pink fronds swaying gently in the void. Ford breaths, carefully. The air in this place is clear and cold, the creature large enough to swallow him whole if it wished. Stanford Pines, and though it's mouth doesn't move Ford understands this is the axolotl speaking, in a voice like sun-warmed taffy and midnight waves. "Hello," he says, adjusting his glasses nervously. He has little experience with beings of the mindscape—his interactions with his Muse, though wonderful, are not enough to make him an expert. Not yet. The being tilts its head, floating forwards until their noses are almost touching.I apologize for the intrusion. But I must speak with you. If this were a conversation between humans, Ford might fidget, tense, hide his hands behind his back. But the axolotl's honey-thick voice washes over him like sleep, and he feels no fear. "Yes," he says, because Stanford Pines is, to his detriment, always curious. "Of course. What is it?" A hum, gentle, like his mother's hand on his forehead during a fever.You sit on a precipice. A turning point. You are familiar with chess, yes? Ford giggles—he can't help it, though he stops himself quickly. "Yes," he says, then, unsure of the creature's gender or title: "your Majesty." The axolotl giggles in return.My apologies. There are... many timelines. It is easy to lose track. And please, refrain from the formalities. "Yes," he says, nodding. "of course." He is itching to ask questions—it is evident in the sparkle in his eyes and the twitching of his fingers, but he keeps them to himself, for now. He can ask his Muse, later—but even Ford knows it would not be a good idea to bother a being that radiates power with his foolish, human questions. Besides, Bill will get jealous if he gains divine knowledge from others. Back to the point—you are at a, hmm, stalemate, of sorts. The scales hang in the balance; your next moves are imperative. You sit upon a forked path, Stanford Pines. A choice, before you: to return, or to be taken away. Take the first path, and the axolotl raises a paw, holding it in front of them, friendship. Learning. Knowledge beyond your wildest imagination, connection with another deeper than anything you could have dreamed. Stay, and you will, for a moment, have everything you had never allowed yourself to want. Another paw is raised. Take the other—change what is being written. Forfeit the game, and things will be as before. You will be alone—empty nights. Phone calls with no voice on the other side. Your years since arriving in the Falls will continue and stretch on. You. Your research. This is all you will have. Stanford closes his eyes, swallows thickly. His hand moves, unconsciously, before he stops it. When he speaks, it is with the quiet of someone watching their every dream die before them. "If I make the wrong choice," he says, because his Muse has taught him well already, warned him that things too good to be true often are. "Something bad will happen, won't it. People will—people will get hurt." The axolotl nods. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself into an illusion of resolve. "Well," he says, grin lopsided as if his false confidence could hide the shake in his legs, hands, voice. "if people are going to be hurt, then I—then I should probably go back and save them." He takes the creature's open hand—it has no facial features, but for the briefest of moments before he disappears, he thinks that it looks sad. *** He wakes up quickly, from one dream back to the first. Cradled in his Muse's arms from when he'd collapsed into his meeting with—hmm. Someone. Something strange flickers in Bill's eye before Stanford is forcibly righted, wobbling for a moment as he finds balance on his own two feet. "Woah there, kid! Where'd you go off to?" Ford blinks. He was... he was somewhere, maybe. There was something important, but he doesn't remember what. "I... I'm not sure. Go where?" Bill blinks at him before laughing, concern—if it exists—remaining well-hidden."You're a riot, Six, anyone ever tell you that?" Ford laughs, flushes beneath the feelings of his Muse's hands in his hair. "No, my Muse." Bill laughs again, at that, and soon the two are laughing together, pressed close enough to blur the line between their skins, souls, hearts. Above them, the stars of their combined Mindscape—mostly Ford's, save for a few made from the memories of a long-gone realm—circle above. And beyond that, the Axolotl sits, watching as yet another Icarus goes crashing into the sea.	Dream a little dream of— He wakes up softly, from one dream to another. The cosmos spreads out around him—purple, black. This is not his Mindscape. There is something in the back of his mind, something like a warning. Surely, this is dangerous—but the thought is brushed away, easily. This variation of Stanford Pines lacks the paranoia, the scars of betrayal that make his counterparts so recognizable. Above him, something floats:Ambystoma mexicanum, an axolotl, pink fronds swaying gently in the void. Ford breaths, carefully. The air in this place is clear and cold, the creature large enough to swallow him whole if it wished. Stanford Pines, and though it's mouth doesn't move Ford understands this is the axolotl speaking, in a voice like sun-warmed taffy and midnight waves. "Hello," he says, adjusting his glasses nervously. He has little experience with beings of the mindscape—his interactions with his Muse, though wonderful, are not enough to make him an expert. Not yet. The being tilts its head, floating forwards until their noses are almost touching.I apologize for the intrusion. But I must speak with you. If this were a conversation between humans, Ford might fidget, tense, hide his hands behind his back. But the axolotl's honey-thick voice washes over him like sleep, and he feels no fear. "Yes," he says, because Stanford Pines is, to his detriment, always curious. "Of course. What is it?" A hum, gentle, like his mother's hand on his forehead during a fever.You sit on a precipice. A turning point. You are familiar with chess, yes? Ford giggles—he can't help it, though he stops himself quickly. "Yes," he says, then, unsure of the creature's gender or title: "your Majesty." The axolotl giggles in return.My apologies. There are... many timelines. It is easy to lose track. And please, refrain from the formalities. "Yes," he says, nodding. "of course." He is itching to ask questions—it is evident in the sparkle in his eyes and the twitching of his fingers, but he keeps them to himself, for now. He can ask his Muse, later—but even Ford knows it would not be a good idea to bother a being that radiates power with his foolish, human questions. Besides, Bill will get jealous if he gains divine knowledge from others. Back to the point—you are at a, hmm, stalemate, of sorts. The scales hang in the balance; your next moves are imperative. You sit upon a forked path, Stanford Pines. A choice, before you: to return, or to be taken away. Take the first path, and the axolotl raises a paw, holding it in front of them, friendship. Learning. Knowledge beyond your wildest imagination, connection with another deeper than anything you could have dreamed. Stay, and you will, for a moment, have everything you had never allowed yourself to want. Another paw is raised. Take the other—change what is being written. Forfeit the game, and things will be as before. You will be alone—empty nights. Phone calls with no voice on the other side. Your years since arriving in the Falls will continue and stretch on. You. Your research. This is all you will have. Stanford closes his eyes, swallows thickly. His hand moves, unconsciously, before he stops it. When he speaks, it is with the quiet of someone watching their every dream die before them. "If I make the wrong choice," he says, because his Muse has taught him well already, warned him that things too good to be true often are. "Something bad will happen, won't it. People will—people will get hurt." The axolotl nods. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself into an illusion of resolve. "Well," he says, grin lopsided as if his false confidence could hide the shake in his legs, hands, voice. "if people are going to be hurt, then I—then I should probably go back and save them." He takes the creature's open hand—it has no facial features, but for the briefest of moments before he disappears, he thinks that it looks sad. *** He wakes up quickly, from one dream back to the first. Cradled in his Muse's arms from when he'd collapsed into his meeting with—hmm. Someone. Something strange flickers in Bill's eye before Stanford is forcibly righted, wobbling for a moment as he finds balance on his own two feet. "Woah there, kid! Where'd you go off to?" Ford blinks. He was... he was somewhere, maybe. There was something important, but he doesn't remember what. "I... I'm not sure. Go where?" Bill blinks at him before laughing, concern—if it exists—remaining well-hidden."You're a riot, Six, anyone ever tell you that?" Ford laughs, flushes beneath the feelings of his Muse's hands in his hair. "No, my Muse." Bill laughs again, at that, and soon the two are laughing together, pressed close enough to blur the line between their skins, souls, hearts. Above them, the stars of their combined Mindscape—mostly Ford's, save for a few made from the memories of a long-gone realm—circle above. And beyond that, the Axolotl sits, watching as yet another Icarus goes crashing into the sea.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75578011	{"authors": ["iThinkIm_slowly_going_insane"], "language": "English", "title": "Dream a little dream of—"}
Polar Bear Fur Mira grunted as she picked up a bowling ball, putting her fingers in the holes and swinging. “Strike!” “Wow mira, You really love bowling huh?" Abby chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Oh shut up. Can you get over 4 pins?" Mira scoffed. “Touche.” Abby mumbled."Want another drink? “ He hummed. "Yeah, Sprite.” Mira nodded. Abby returned with two cups of sprite, handing one to Mira. “Cheers?" “You know I don't do that." Mira scoffed and chugged her sprite down. “You never do." Abby teased. “When will you ever?" “.. Honestly? Probably never." …. “Rumi look! This one's purple just like your hair!” Mira heard a sweet voice, she turned around and saw a shorter girl around her age, black space buns and an oversized slipknot hoodie. To her side was a taller woman, a purple braid in and a few hairclips.she was a bit taller, maybe 5’7? And she was gorgeous, wait- when did she start staring? “Uhh.. Hi?” The purple haired girl waved. God, she felt so stupid. “Uhm. Hey, sorry didn't realize I was staring." Mira chuckled. Smooth. The purple haired girl just nodded and went back to bowling, but stole a glance every few minutes. “You’re staring at those girls.” Abby spoke up. “.. So what? They're pretty." Mira huffed, grabbing a ball. “Ask them out, or, whatever you would do." Abby scoffed, nudging her shoulder. “They're gonna say no." “You sure?" ……… “Hey, I thought you guys looked pretty, could I uh, grab your numbers?” Mira mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck. “Aw! That's sweet! Sure, I'm Zoey!” The shorter girl said enthusiastically . “Do you just give out your number to anyone who says you're pretty?” The taller girl snickered, nudging her softly. “Only the pretty ones!" Mira blushed at that. Pretty? People actually saw her as a girl? “Oh, uh, thank you. I'm Mira." Mira smiled softly. “The name's Rumi." “Mira! Cmon! We’re gonna be late!" Abby yelled as Mira started walking towards him. “Uh, bye guys!” “Bye Mira!" —---------------- Mira smiled as she put the contacts into her phone. Rumi Zoey She pondered making a group chat, or just texting them individually. But, then she decided to make a group chat. —------------------ New Group Chat 6:48 PM Mira: hey!!! im the girl from the bowling alley! Zoey: HII MIRA!!!! WOW I DIDN'T THINK YOU WOULD ACTUALLY TEXT! :3 Mira: yea! well, I don't have many people to talk to. so why not talk to you guys! Rumi: Don't get any ideas. I'm dating Zoey. Zoey: rummmiii :( don't be so protective!! Rumi: So? She could be trying to get with you. Mira: im not interested in dating right now actually Rumi: Mhm. Zoey: well anyways!! I love turtles and the color green! I'm from Burbank, USA! Mira: i love the color pink! :). and, polarbears. but I don't like telling people that. Zoey: WAAA THAT'S SO CUTE >w< Zoey renamed the group to QUEERS! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ Zoey: oh wait sorry!! are you queer? or… Mira: oh yea! I'm a lesbian. Rumi: You sure that's it? Zoey: rumi. Mira: i think I'm gonna head to bed, bye guys! <3 Zoey: bye Mira!! <33 ___________ Zoey to RUMI!! 💜💜7:23 PM Zoey: rumi what the fuck was that. RUMI!!💜: What was what? Zoey: you were so rude to her!! for no reason too!! RUMI!!💜: I didn't mean to. You were the one who decided to talk to a random person btw. Zoey: wtv, gn. Read 7:30 PM. —--------------- Mira sighed as she set her phone down on her nightstand, turning over and looking at her ceiling. She groaned when her phone buzzed, she picked it up again and her annoyance faded as she saw who it was from. —--------------- Zoey to MIRA! 🩷7:50 PM. Zoey: im so sorry for how rumi acted, she just doesn't like meeting new people :( MIRA! 🩷: nonono it's fine! i get it. Zoey: still, she shouldn't have acted like that. MIRA! 🩷: lol. ur sweet 💚 Zoey: aw thank you! 🩷 MIRA! 🩷: im heading to bed now, but goodnight, Zoey <3 Zoey: night Mira!! ^^ —--------------- Mira closed her eyes and hummed, clutching one of her polar bear stuffed animals close to her. She really liked Zoey so far, Rumi? Not so much. Maybe she’ll get around though.	Polar Bear Fur Mira grunted as she picked up a bowling ball, putting her fingers in the holes and swinging. “Strike!” “Wow mira, You really love bowling huh?" Abby chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Oh shut up. Can you get over 4 pins?" Mira scoffed. “Touche.” Abby mumbled."Want another drink? “ He hummed. "Yeah, Sprite.” Mira nodded. Abby returned with two cups of sprite, handing one to Mira. “Cheers?" “You know I don't do that." Mira scoffed and chugged her sprite down. “You never do." Abby teased. “When will you ever?" “.. Honestly? Probably never." …. “Rumi look! This one's purple just like your hair!” Mira heard a sweet voice, she turned around and saw a shorter girl around her age, black space buns and an oversized slipknot hoodie. To her side was a taller woman, a purple braid in and a few hairclips.she was a bit taller, maybe 5’7? And she was gorgeous, wait- when did she start staring? “Uhh.. Hi?” The purple haired girl waved. God, she felt so stupid. “Uhm. Hey, sorry didn't realize I was staring." Mira chuckled. Smooth. The purple haired girl just nodded and went back to bowling, but stole a glance every few minutes. “You’re staring at those girls.” Abby spoke up. “.. So what? They're pretty." Mira huffed, grabbing a ball. “Ask them out, or, whatever you would do." Abby scoffed, nudging her shoulder. “They're gonna say no." “You sure?" ……… “Hey, I thought you guys looked pretty, could I uh, grab your numbers?” Mira mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck. “Aw! That's sweet! Sure, I'm Zoey!” The shorter girl said enthusiastically . “Do you just give out your number to anyone who says you're pretty?” The taller girl snickered, nudging her softly. “Only the pretty ones!" Mira blushed at that. Pretty? People actually saw her as a girl? “Oh, uh, thank you. I'm Mira." Mira smiled softly. “The name's Rumi." “Mira! Cmon! We’re gonna be late!" Abby yelled as Mira started walking towards him. “Uh, bye guys!” “Bye Mira!" —---------------- Mira smiled as she put the contacts into her phone. Rumi Zoey She pondered making a group chat, or just texting them individually. But, then she decided to make a group chat. —------------------ New Group Chat 6:48 PM Mira: hey!!! im the girl from the bowling alley! Zoey: HII MIRA!!!! WOW I DIDN'T THINK YOU WOULD ACTUALLY TEXT! :3 Mira: yea! well, I don't have many people to talk to. so why not talk to you guys! Rumi: Don't get any ideas. I'm dating Zoey. Zoey: rummmiii :( don't be so protective!! Rumi: So? She could be trying to get with you. Mira: im not interested in dating right now actually Rumi: Mhm. Zoey: well anyways!! I love turtles and the color green! I'm from Burbank, USA! Mira: i love the color pink! :). and, polarbears. but I don't like telling people that. Zoey: WAAA THAT'S SO CUTE >w< Zoey renamed the group to QUEERS! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ Zoey: oh wait sorry!! are you queer? or… Mira: oh yea! I'm a lesbian. Rumi: You sure that's it? Zoey: rumi. Mira: i think I'm gonna head to bed, bye guys! <3 Zoey: bye Mira!! <33 ___________ Zoey to RUMI!! 💜💜7:23 PM Zoey: rumi what the fuck was that. RUMI!!💜: What was what? Zoey: you were so rude to her!! for no reason too!! RUMI!!💜: I didn't mean to. You were the one who decided to talk to a random person btw. Zoey: wtv, gn. Read 7:30 PM. —--------------- Mira sighed as she set her phone down on her nightstand, turning over and looking at her ceiling. She groaned when her phone buzzed, she picked it up again and her annoyance faded as she saw who it was from. —--------------- Zoey to MIRA! 🩷7:50 PM. Zoey: im so sorry for how rumi acted, she just doesn't like meeting new people :( MIRA! 🩷: nonono it's fine! i get it. Zoey: still, she shouldn't have acted like that. MIRA! 🩷: lol. ur sweet 💚 Zoey: aw thank you! 🩷 MIRA! 🩷: im heading to bed now, but goodnight, Zoey <3 Zoey: night Mira!! ^^ —--------------- Mira closed her eyes and hummed, clutching one of her polar bear stuffed animals close to her. She really liked Zoey so far, Rumi? Not so much. Maybe she’ll get around though.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75578016?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["NAPR0XEN"], "language": "English", "title": "Polar Bear Fur"}
Christmas With The Abbotts It was the night before Christmas, and the Abbotts had invited you to their family dinner. The weather was fierce, with intense snowfall, dangerously large icicles hanging from the eaves, and roads quickly accumulating snow. Royal and Rhett had spent the afternoon clearing and managing the livestock, and by the time your boyfriend entered the warm, bustling household, it was dark outside. The aroma of freshly baked gingerbread filled the inviting space, while classic Christmas music drifted from the record player. He kicked off his boots as snow melted from his tracks onto his mother’s favorite rug, before tossing aside his gloves and beanie, and leaving his thick, winter jacket on the coat rack to dry. Rhett’s head perks, eyes brightening at the boisterous giggles coming from the kitchen. He follows the noise and leans his shoulder into the wall, observing you and his niece decorating a gingerbread house together. You spot the rugged cowboy in the distance, his arms lazily crossed over his chest, and his face a shade of crimson, with a soft smile. You lower your head, struggling to ignore the butterflies in your stomach when his father treads around the lovesick Abbott. Amy instantly carries the tray of gingerbread men to her grandfather, proudly showing the cookies in their decorated form and how she had made one for everybody. Rhett uses this distraction as an opportunity to sneak behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close, which immediately brings a large smile to your face. “Well, ain’t you cute in an apron...” He places his chin upon your shoulder and watches you adjust the steel icing tip before pushing some of the sweet vanilla frosting onto your finger. “Aww, thanks.” You said, lifting your hand, feeling his mouth surrounding your digit. He swirls his tongue and licks away the sweet substance, driving a warmth straight to your core. Once his lips retreat, you place your hand on his cheek and gasp, “Rhett, you’re so cold! You should get under a blanket and stand by the fire.” “Mhm, I’ve had worse.” Perry lifts his head from where he quietly sits at the end of the table with a steaming cup of coffee. He’d spiked it with a generous pour of whiskey, discreetly, so his daughter’s Christmas memories wouldn’t be dimmed by his sorrow. It was his first year without his wife, but he tried to put on a smile and make the best out of the holiday for Amy. Still, seeing you and Rhett together instantly brought back memories of his spouse and the early days of their relationship, when everything felt new and promising. “Uncle Rhett!” Amy dashes over with homemade cookies as Royal walks past, giving you a nod of greeting, which you reciprocate. “I made you one, see the guy with the belt buckle?” “S‘pposed to be me?” He raised a brow and pulled away from you to peer down at his niece. The gentle tone reflected in his voice made your heart melt. “Yeah, obviously, he looks just like you!”Rhett chuckles and plucks one of the baked goods from the tray; it's still slightly warm from the oven, with the icing on top, somewhat melted. He bites off the man’s head and the chewy goodness strikes his taste buds. He was pleasantly surprised that you’d managed to perfect his mother’s recipe. “Hope ya made s’more.” You tease him, retorting, “Knowing you can be quite the cookie hog with that sweet tooth of yours, we made extra just in case.” His niece returns to her gingerbread house, where she sprinkles powdered sugar on the roof, while he releases a sharp scoff and shakes his head, speaking with dramatic betrayal. “Should’ah known the two of you would start conspirin’ against me…” Though he couldn’t keep up the act long, because seconds later, when nobody's paying attention, he grabs your hips, and spins you around on your socked feet, pulling you into his chest. “Speakin’ of that sweet tooth…” Rhett whispers in your ear, blocking out the jolly music in the distance with his attractive, southern accent that sends a shiver down your spine. You sneak beneath his dark hoodie to rest your hand on his warm, bare stomach. “You wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite before dinner.” “Maybe I do…” With a roll of your eyes, you ignored his devilish comment and began pulling out the peppermint candies and the cinnamon sticks, placing them beside the baked structure. You put a candy cane in your mouth and place a couple of colorful dots on the frosted roof, the way your lip purses around the sugar treat drives your partner utterly insane. He looks towards the unattended tube of frosting, before spreading some on his finger and smearing it onto your sweater's sleeve, which happened to be his, considering it was stolen from his closet. “Oops… looks like ya got some frostin’ on that sweater of yours, outta go clean that up.” Rhett essentially informs the entire room. You slightly raise your elbow to look at the mess, then back at him, where he subtly pitches his finger between his teeth, and	Christmas With The Abbotts It was the night before Christmas, and the Abbotts had invited you to their family dinner. The weather was fierce, with intense snowfall, dangerously large icicles hanging from the eaves, and roads quickly accumulating snow. Royal and Rhett had spent the afternoon clearing and managing the livestock, and by the time your boyfriend entered the warm, bustling household, it was dark outside. The aroma of freshly baked gingerbread filled the inviting space, while classic Christmas music drifted from the record player. He kicked off his boots as snow melted from his tracks onto his mother’s favorite rug, before tossing aside his gloves and beanie, and leaving his thick, winter jacket on the coat rack to dry. Rhett’s head perks, eyes brightening at the boisterous giggles coming from the kitchen. He follows the noise and leans his shoulder into the wall, observing you and his niece decorating a gingerbread house together. You spot the rugged cowboy in the distance, his arms lazily crossed over his chest, and his face a shade of crimson, with a soft smile. You lower your head, struggling to ignore the butterflies in your stomach when his father treads around the lovesick Abbott. Amy instantly carries the tray of gingerbread men to her grandfather, proudly showing the cookies in their decorated form and how she had made one for everybody. Rhett uses this distraction as an opportunity to sneak behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close, which immediately brings a large smile to your face. “Well, ain’t you cute in an apron...” He places his chin upon your shoulder and watches you adjust the steel icing tip before pushing some of the sweet vanilla frosting onto your finger. “Aww, thanks.” You said, lifting your hand, feeling his mouth surrounding your digit. He swirls his tongue and licks away the sweet substance, driving a warmth straight to your core. Once his lips retreat, you place your hand on his cheek and gasp, “Rhett, you’re so cold! You should get under a blanket and stand by the fire.” “Mhm, I’ve had worse.” Perry lifts his head from where he quietly sits at the end of the table with a steaming cup of coffee. He’d spiked it with a generous pour of whiskey, discreetly, so his daughter’s Christmas memories wouldn’t be dimmed by his sorrow. It was his first year without his wife, but he tried to put on a smile and make the best out of the holiday for Amy. Still, seeing you and Rhett together instantly brought back memories of his spouse and the early days of their relationship, when everything felt new and promising. “Uncle Rhett!” Amy dashes over with homemade cookies as Royal walks past, giving you a nod of greeting, which you reciprocate. “I made you one, see the guy with the belt buckle?” “S‘pposed to be me?” He raised a brow and pulled away from you to peer down at his niece. The gentle tone reflected in his voice made your heart melt. “Yeah, obviously, he looks just like you!”Rhett chuckles and plucks one of the baked goods from the tray; it's still slightly warm from the oven, with the icing on top, somewhat melted. He bites off the man’s head and the chewy goodness strikes his taste buds. He was pleasantly surprised that you’d managed to perfect his mother’s recipe. “Hope ya made s’more.” You tease him, retorting, “Knowing you can be quite the cookie hog with that sweet tooth of yours, we made extra just in case.” His niece returns to her gingerbread house, where she sprinkles powdered sugar on the roof, while he releases a sharp scoff and shakes his head, speaking with dramatic betrayal. “Should’ah known the two of you would start conspirin’ against me…” Though he couldn’t keep up the act long, because seconds later, when nobody's paying attention, he grabs your hips, and spins you around on your socked feet, pulling you into his chest. “Speakin’ of that sweet tooth…” Rhett whispers in your ear, blocking out the jolly music in the distance with his attractive, southern accent that sends a shiver down your spine. You sneak beneath his dark hoodie to rest your hand on his warm, bare stomach. “You wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite before dinner.” “Maybe I do…” With a roll of your eyes, you ignored his devilish comment and began pulling out the peppermint candies and the cinnamon sticks, placing them beside the baked structure. You put a candy cane in your mouth and place a couple of colorful dots on the frosted roof, the way your lip purses around the sugar treat drives your partner utterly insane. He looks towards the unattended tube of frosting, before spreading some on his finger and smearing it onto your sweater's sleeve, which happened to be his, considering it was stolen from his closet. “Oops… looks like ya got some frostin’ on that sweater of yours, outta go clean that up.” Rhett essentially informs the entire room. You slightly raise your elbow to look at the mess, then back at him, where he subtly pitches his finger between his teeth, and licks the evidence away. Stifling a giggle, you pull the apron over your head and take his hand. “I’ll be right back.” You said, glancing back with a quick smile as his niece gave you a thumbs up. You quickly hook the peppermint stick into your hot chocolate, before Rhett leads you upstairs until he encounters his mother. She holds the banister and stops for a brief conversation. “Oh, good, you and your father are finally done outside?” “Yeah, animals are warm and fed, and the barn is accessible for now, that is, until it gets snowed over again,” He responds, casual in passing, even though his fist is bunching the fabric at your waist; he’s desperate to have you all to himself, and begins inching you closer toward the unoccupied bathroom, down at the end of the hall. She assumes nothing, thanks her son for his assistance, and heads downstairs, calling out for her husband to check the food’s temperature. The moment the door is shut, you’re already grabbing a hand towel and peering at him through the reflection of the mirror. “Real mature, Rhett, using icing as an excuse to get us alone.” You comment, raising your arm to clean off the material. He instantly slides his hands around the curve of your stomach, holding you like he never wants to let go, and peppering delicate kisses along your neck, trying to restrain himself from leaving marks. “In my defense, you’re absolutely killin’ me out there...” He murmurs against your skin, making you smile as he gently pushes your hips into the counter and cages you in place. “I can’t resist when you’re looking so gorgeous, mh, and you’re so kind, offerin’ my family your time.” Rhett manhandled you, spinning your body around and pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss. His chapped lips steal your favorite gloss, as your tongues intertwine. He was always warm and inviting, a contrast to the cowboy's stubble that raked against your soft skin. The peppermint taste in your mouth leaves him craving more. “I love your family, they’re sweet-” You spoke between his relentless kisses before combing your fingers through his sweaty hair and gently yanking his head back, listening to him make a little noise, almost close to a breathless whine. “You are too, except when you’re causing trouble…” “I have time to make it up to you.” His words are needy, as if he’s forgotten he’s in his parents' washroom, though he doesn’t seem to care. His hands begin to creep up your waist, but you slide them back to your hips. “Shouldn’t I be checking you for frostbite?” Rhett chuckles, his gaze raking over you slowly as he regains his composure. “You ain’t gettin’ where in that car of yours, not tonight…” “Of all days, why does it have to be Christmas?” A smirk spreads across your lips as you tuck a strand of his dirty blonde hair behind his ear. “You know, I would be grateful for a handsome cowboy’s hospitality on a night like this.” “I’d never deny a pretty thing like yourself…” You feel your cheeks warm as his mother’s muffled shout of ‘dinner’ breaks the moment, causing him to groan. “Come on, let’s have some dinner. We can finish this after.” “Hold your horses.” He says, taking the towel from your hand, and gently wipes your sleeve. Your gaze drags over his beautiful features, his blue eyes narrowed, so focused on the task, his lips shiny from yours, and his body slightly bent due to the height difference. “There, better now.” He murmurs, kissing the side of your head and gently swatting your ass cheek. As you held downstairs, Perry gave you a knowing glance before returning to his drink. The family gathers around the table to enjoy a delicious, plated meal. Cecilia, their devoted mother, starts to say grace. Everyone’s heads lowered as she spoke her faith, and even included you in the prayer, expressing her appreciation of you, joining them on this special night. Beneath the linen tablecloth, a hand curled around your thigh and squeezed, prompting you to peek an eye open. Rhett did the same, returning your warm, loving smile.	ao3_english	2025-12-12T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573701	{"authors": ["quickiesgirl"], "language": "English", "title": "Christmas With The Abbotts"}
Soundwave, Leader of the Decepticons! Soundwave was the most loyal Decepticon. That was a statement no one would argue with. Starscream may be the second in command, but he was also an opportunist who tried to kill Megatron multiple times to take control of the Decepticons. It never ended up working, and Megatron only kept Starscream around because otherwise the Seekers might leave the Decepticons, and they couldn’t afford to lose such a large part of their fighting force. And yet, as he watched Megatron ramble about his latest plan to steal Earth’s Energon and beat Prime once and for all, Soundwave came to a realization. Soundwave was the most loyal Decepticon, but his loyalty was to the Decepticon cause. Megatron was not the Decepticon cause. Megatron was, in fact, working against the Decepticon cause. They created the Decepticons to fight the oppression the senate forced upon them. They were all forced into rolls they didn’t want just because their frames were well suited for it. Jobs that forced them into the lowest parts of society. Soundwave had escaped his ‘function’ and made his way to the streets of Kaon where he wandered aimlessly until his cassettes found him. They were a gang back then, spreading terror through Kaon’s streets, and Ravage must have seen something in him that she liked because she took him into her gang despite not being a cassette himself. They taught him how to live. And then he met Megatron who taught him to dream of a better life. One where people could be whatever they wanted instead of having their roles decided by their frames. A world where what happened to him wouldn’t happen to anyone else. He was so proud when they started the Decepticons together. Soundwave easily seceded the leadership role to Megatron. His skills were better put to use managing their communications while Megatron was skilled at inspiring the masses. And when Starscream came with the seekers, demanding the spot as second in command, it was easy for Soundwave to become secede from that role as well and become third in command. He knew Megatron looked to him first for decisions instead of Starscream, no matter how much it infuriated the seeker. And as the war dragged on it was easy to begin ignoring how Megatron didn’t act for the benefit of the Decepticon cause, but rather to get what he wanted—to destroy Optimus Prime. A mech who, despite being a Prime, cared for a people. A Prime that could be negotiated with. Instead Megatron sought Optimus Prime’s destruction and dragged the war on because of it. Soundwave reasoned to himself that Megatron must see something that he didn’t. That he saw the duplicitous nature that Soundwave couldn’t find no matter how much he searched. After all, there had to be a reason why Megatron continued the war for so long. But as he listened to Megatron’s latest plan. To how he focused on killing Optimus Prime and gaining enough Energon to fuel some great weapon with no care for the Decepticons that would be hurt in the attack Soundwave couldn’t lie anymore. Megatron didn’t care for the Decepticons and was instead leading them to ruin. Soundwave was the most loyal Decepticon. It was something everyone knew, just like they all knew Starscream’s bids for leadership would always fail. That was why everyone was surprised when Soundwave pulled out his gun in the middle of the meeting and shot Megatron in the spark chamber. Megatron stared at Soundwave in shock. “Soundwave, you are my most loyal. Why?” He asked, his optics already dimming as his spark struggled to continue pulsing. Not even Hook operating on him immediately would save Megatron, and the doctor was frozen, staring at Megatron in shock. “Soundwave: loyal to Decepticon cause. Megatron: threat to Decepticon cause.” Soundwave answered. Megatron didn’t have the chance to respond as his optics fully dimmed and his body went limp. Soundwave’s processor already turned to the immediate issue—the leadership of the Decepticons. With Megatron dead, Soundwave would have to take the role. Soundwave did not enjoy leadership roles, which is why he easily allowed himself to be the Decepticons’ third in command, but Starscream had proved himself untrustworthy and unable to fulfill the role of leader of the Decepticons several times throughout the war. He was the only real choice if they wanted to make it through the war intact. “Megatron: proved unfit to lead the Decepticons. Soundwave: new leader of the Decepticons.” Soundwave said. “You? Leader of the Decepticons? Don’t make me laugh. I’m the second in command so obviously leadership should go to me.” Starscream said. Soundwave glared at Starscream. “Starscream: proven unfit to lead Decepticons. Soundwave: capable. Soundwave: won position in combat.” “Won the position in combat?” Starscream stuttered. “You shot him, there wasn’t any combat involved!” “Starscream’s attempts to kill Megatron: more cowardly.” Soundwave pointed out. “Soundwave: faced Megatron and succeeded in killing	Soundwave, Leader of the Decepticons! Soundwave was the most loyal Decepticon. That was a statement no one would argue with. Starscream may be the second in command, but he was also an opportunist who tried to kill Megatron multiple times to take control of the Decepticons. It never ended up working, and Megatron only kept Starscream around because otherwise the Seekers might leave the Decepticons, and they couldn’t afford to lose such a large part of their fighting force. And yet, as he watched Megatron ramble about his latest plan to steal Earth’s Energon and beat Prime once and for all, Soundwave came to a realization. Soundwave was the most loyal Decepticon, but his loyalty was to the Decepticon cause. Megatron was not the Decepticon cause. Megatron was, in fact, working against the Decepticon cause. They created the Decepticons to fight the oppression the senate forced upon them. They were all forced into rolls they didn’t want just because their frames were well suited for it. Jobs that forced them into the lowest parts of society. Soundwave had escaped his ‘function’ and made his way to the streets of Kaon where he wandered aimlessly until his cassettes found him. They were a gang back then, spreading terror through Kaon’s streets, and Ravage must have seen something in him that she liked because she took him into her gang despite not being a cassette himself. They taught him how to live. And then he met Megatron who taught him to dream of a better life. One where people could be whatever they wanted instead of having their roles decided by their frames. A world where what happened to him wouldn’t happen to anyone else. He was so proud when they started the Decepticons together. Soundwave easily seceded the leadership role to Megatron. His skills were better put to use managing their communications while Megatron was skilled at inspiring the masses. And when Starscream came with the seekers, demanding the spot as second in command, it was easy for Soundwave to become secede from that role as well and become third in command. He knew Megatron looked to him first for decisions instead of Starscream, no matter how much it infuriated the seeker. And as the war dragged on it was easy to begin ignoring how Megatron didn’t act for the benefit of the Decepticon cause, but rather to get what he wanted—to destroy Optimus Prime. A mech who, despite being a Prime, cared for a people. A Prime that could be negotiated with. Instead Megatron sought Optimus Prime’s destruction and dragged the war on because of it. Soundwave reasoned to himself that Megatron must see something that he didn’t. That he saw the duplicitous nature that Soundwave couldn’t find no matter how much he searched. After all, there had to be a reason why Megatron continued the war for so long. But as he listened to Megatron’s latest plan. To how he focused on killing Optimus Prime and gaining enough Energon to fuel some great weapon with no care for the Decepticons that would be hurt in the attack Soundwave couldn’t lie anymore. Megatron didn’t care for the Decepticons and was instead leading them to ruin. Soundwave was the most loyal Decepticon. It was something everyone knew, just like they all knew Starscream’s bids for leadership would always fail. That was why everyone was surprised when Soundwave pulled out his gun in the middle of the meeting and shot Megatron in the spark chamber. Megatron stared at Soundwave in shock. “Soundwave, you are my most loyal. Why?” He asked, his optics already dimming as his spark struggled to continue pulsing. Not even Hook operating on him immediately would save Megatron, and the doctor was frozen, staring at Megatron in shock. “Soundwave: loyal to Decepticon cause. Megatron: threat to Decepticon cause.” Soundwave answered. Megatron didn’t have the chance to respond as his optics fully dimmed and his body went limp. Soundwave’s processor already turned to the immediate issue—the leadership of the Decepticons. With Megatron dead, Soundwave would have to take the role. Soundwave did not enjoy leadership roles, which is why he easily allowed himself to be the Decepticons’ third in command, but Starscream had proved himself untrustworthy and unable to fulfill the role of leader of the Decepticons several times throughout the war. He was the only real choice if they wanted to make it through the war intact. “Megatron: proved unfit to lead the Decepticons. Soundwave: new leader of the Decepticons.” Soundwave said. “You? Leader of the Decepticons? Don’t make me laugh. I’m the second in command so obviously leadership should go to me.” Starscream said. Soundwave glared at Starscream. “Starscream: proven unfit to lead Decepticons. Soundwave: capable. Soundwave: won position in combat.” “Won the position in combat?” Starscream stuttered. “You shot him, there wasn’t any combat involved!” “Starscream’s attempts to kill Megatron: more cowardly.” Soundwave pointed out. “Soundwave: faced Megatron and succeeded in killing him.” “He’s kind of right.” Astrotrain muttered. “You shut up.” Starscream snapped. “I mean, the few times you did lead us ended in disaster. Soundwave probably has a better idea of what he’s doing.” Dirge pointed out. Starscream puffed up in outrage. “Why you!” “Starscream: wishes for leadership?” Soundwave asked, stopping Starscream before he could start attacking Dirge. Attacking people under your command wasn’t right. They were supposed to protect their people, not hurt them. “Do I wish for—of course I wish for leadership!” Starscream snapped. “Starscream: wishes to fight for leadership? Soundwave: willing to kill.” He wasn’t going to risk Starscream attempting to kill him for his position like he did to Megatron all the time. He was a passable second in command, but Soundwave would not allow treachery under his command. Starscream studied Soundwave. “You’re serious about that.” “Treachery: unallowable. Starscream: accept Soundwave’s leadership, fight for leadership now, or leave.” Starscream’s expression suddenly became much more calculating. “If you become our leader, what are your plans?” A test to see if Soundwave was worth following. Something the rest of the Decepticons should also hear. “Soundwave: seeks the end to functionalism. Soundwave: will see the original Decepticon goals completed. Optimus Prime: proven to be reasonable. Negotiations: will be attempted. If negotiations fail: fighting will resume. Main goal: destroy Autobot opposition.” “You want to talk to the Prime?” Long Haul hesitantly asked. “Optimus Prime: proven to be different than previous Primes.” “You’ve thought this through.” Starscream slowly said before huffing. “Fine, we’ll see what you can do. But if you prove yourself to be incompetent, you’re dead.” “So, what are we doing now boss?” Astrotrain hesitantly asked. “Preparations for attack: on pause. Soundwave: will contact the Autobots.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573711	{"authors": ["WolfeOfLullabies"], "language": "English", "title": "Soundwave, Leader of the Decepticons!"}
I don’t know yet… It was an evening, normal like any other. I had just finished up my day at school and was now headed home after volleyball practice. Taking the normal bus route and texting my mom that I'm on the way, with the news that she would be working overtime I took a stop at a pizza place. grabbing a nice deal for a pepperoni pizza for 6 bucks-which is quite the steal-then kept on heading home. Arriving 15 minutes later, I unlock the front door, and try my best to get in while holding the pizza box in one hand and my keys in the other. Fumbling my way into the house I put all my stuff down in the kitchen and sigh, walking into the living room to turn the tv on, cause of course a guy like me can’t eat without tv. Going back into the kitchen to grab a plate of pizza and crashing into the couch. After I finish eating I hear my moms keys jingle at the door and I feel a strange feeling of relief. While sighing I get up and walk to the front door, opening the door before she can even get her keys in. “Hey mama…how was work?” I asked, clearly seeing the dark and tired lines under her eyes. She hummed “Not bad I guess…” she said with a slight smile, though I could see there was a clear sadness in the way she was holding herself. I move away from the door, giving her space to walk in, closing the door behind her. “Yaknow you've been working too hard lately, it’s worrying me…” I say calmly, grabbing her a plate of pizza while awaiting her reaction. She sighs almost frustrated “James. I told you not to worry over me. Focus on yourself and your studies.” She gives me that look, the one where it says I'm crossing a line almost, but only because she still sees me as her little boy. She takes the plate I made for her and goes to walk into the living room but stops just before the small arch in the doorway to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Sorry honey, I'm just…” she sighs and shakes her head “it was a long day…” I smile softly and shake my head “It's okay mama, I get it.” She hums and pats my head “you should get to bed, we want tomorrow to be a good birthday, right?” Ah, so I had forgotten my birthday again. October 4th, already rolling around this year. I feel a strange sense of anxiety curl around me and I sigh, trying to give my best smile for my mom. “Right, my birthday…”. I look at the floor without her noticing anything wrong. She walks off to the living room to eat dinner and I can't help but feel a bit lost. Sighing before walking off to my room. It's messy and untidy, but not terrible. I was planning to clean today but I got home too late and Low-key didn't feel like doing it. I flop on my bed with a groan, feeling exhausted. Poppin’ in my head phones and playing some groovy tunes on my , I roll over on to my back staring at the ceiling. “Eighteen…” I sigh once again and close my eyes, eventually drifting off into sleep.	I don’t know yet… It was an evening, normal like any other. I had just finished up my day at school and was now headed home after volleyball practice. Taking the normal bus route and texting my mom that I'm on the way, with the news that she would be working overtime I took a stop at a pizza place. grabbing a nice deal for a pepperoni pizza for 6 bucks-which is quite the steal-then kept on heading home. Arriving 15 minutes later, I unlock the front door, and try my best to get in while holding the pizza box in one hand and my keys in the other. Fumbling my way into the house I put all my stuff down in the kitchen and sigh, walking into the living room to turn the tv on, cause of course a guy like me can’t eat without tv. Going back into the kitchen to grab a plate of pizza and crashing into the couch. After I finish eating I hear my moms keys jingle at the door and I feel a strange feeling of relief. While sighing I get up and walk to the front door, opening the door before she can even get her keys in. “Hey mama…how was work?” I asked, clearly seeing the dark and tired lines under her eyes. She hummed “Not bad I guess…” she said with a slight smile, though I could see there was a clear sadness in the way she was holding herself. I move away from the door, giving her space to walk in, closing the door behind her. “Yaknow you've been working too hard lately, it’s worrying me…” I say calmly, grabbing her a plate of pizza while awaiting her reaction. She sighs almost frustrated “James. I told you not to worry over me. Focus on yourself and your studies.” She gives me that look, the one where it says I'm crossing a line almost, but only because she still sees me as her little boy. She takes the plate I made for her and goes to walk into the living room but stops just before the small arch in the doorway to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Sorry honey, I'm just…” she sighs and shakes her head “it was a long day…” I smile softly and shake my head “It's okay mama, I get it.” She hums and pats my head “you should get to bed, we want tomorrow to be a good birthday, right?” Ah, so I had forgotten my birthday again. October 4th, already rolling around this year. I feel a strange sense of anxiety curl around me and I sigh, trying to give my best smile for my mom. “Right, my birthday…”. I look at the floor without her noticing anything wrong. She walks off to the living room to eat dinner and I can't help but feel a bit lost. Sighing before walking off to my room. It's messy and untidy, but not terrible. I was planning to clean today but I got home too late and Low-key didn't feel like doing it. I flop on my bed with a groan, feeling exhausted. Poppin’ in my head phones and playing some groovy tunes on my , I roll over on to my back staring at the ceiling. “Eighteen…” I sigh once again and close my eyes, eventually drifting off into sleep.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75577981/chapters/197631891	{"authors": ["Chip_zed"], "language": "English", "title": "I don’t know yet…"}
DC Brats: A High School Story Overview: The DC area has inspired many of the teen flims we know and love today including 90210 (Winston Churchill) and Mean Girls (National Cathedral). Now, for the first time hear about it from the people who lived it. It's worth noting it's fictional character, but some places may be real. The school the girl's attend, the club, and some other places will all be called other names, such as The Daycare. If you know, you know. Summary: For those who live there, DC or the DMV is like the real Gossip Girl, a place where everyone is down to step on people's toes and spill each other's secrets. Consuelo Winthrop has enjoyed this game far too long and now a mysterious texter tends to expose her for a major secret. She's not a real Winthrop. Simultaneously, she has to deal with her complicated feelings for Atlas and the rest of her friends, the DC Brats. To find out how Consuelo's going to get herself out of this with her reputation intact, please read. Also side note: If you love 2000's teen dramas, this is for you! I love them too! Comment your fav one below!! Themes: Corruption, Gender Roles, Money, Politics, and more! Playlist Fantasize Manchild You Proof undressed Paper Rings End Game exes Monopoly brutal This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things Promiscuous Don't Call Me Angel God is a women Obsessed Nonsense Character Aesethics Consuelo Winthrop The Siren The Siren Brook Asheworth The Devil You Know The Devil You Know Atlas Garner The Mystery Guy The Mystery Guy Tate Kingston The Frenemy Addison Davenport Addison Davenport The Southern Belle The Southern Belle Grace Thompson The Gossip The Gossip Thomas Beckham The Labrador The Labrador Disclaimers: Like I said before this is set up like a tv show so this is the preview. If you want to get to the show, skip this page. This page is song track, closets (which will be updated), and aesthetics of characters. Also, this is my work. I maintain all copyrights. I'm the first to really do something like this about this area. If you like it and do something similar, credit me. Also, disclaimer anything connections between people, things, or places are not intended. This is completly fictional, but deals with problems people do deal with so be nice. Furthermore, updates will come whenever. Seasons are typically ten episodes long, and there will be breaks in between them. Lastly, this school challenges many things wrong with the world, even if Connie won't. This includes sexism, class discrimination, homophobia, and bodyshaming. This book is meant to get people to think about what is wrong with Connie's world that she mostly writes off or ignores. If you're not comfortable reading it, don't. Xoxo, Amb.	DC Brats: A High School Story Overview: The DC area has inspired many of the teen flims we know and love today including 90210 (Winston Churchill) and Mean Girls (National Cathedral). Now, for the first time hear about it from the people who lived it. It's worth noting it's fictional character, but some places may be real. The school the girl's attend, the club, and some other places will all be called other names, such as The Daycare. If you know, you know. Summary: For those who live there, DC or the DMV is like the real Gossip Girl, a place where everyone is down to step on people's toes and spill each other's secrets. Consuelo Winthrop has enjoyed this game far too long and now a mysterious texter tends to expose her for a major secret. She's not a real Winthrop. Simultaneously, she has to deal with her complicated feelings for Atlas and the rest of her friends, the DC Brats. To find out how Consuelo's going to get herself out of this with her reputation intact, please read. Also side note: If you love 2000's teen dramas, this is for you! I love them too! Comment your fav one below!! Themes: Corruption, Gender Roles, Money, Politics, and more! Playlist Fantasize Manchild You Proof undressed Paper Rings End Game exes Monopoly brutal This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things Promiscuous Don't Call Me Angel God is a women Obsessed Nonsense Character Aesethics Consuelo Winthrop The Siren The Siren Brook Asheworth The Devil You Know The Devil You Know Atlas Garner The Mystery Guy The Mystery Guy Tate Kingston The Frenemy Addison Davenport Addison Davenport The Southern Belle The Southern Belle Grace Thompson The Gossip The Gossip Thomas Beckham The Labrador The Labrador Disclaimers: Like I said before this is set up like a tv show so this is the preview. If you want to get to the show, skip this page. This page is song track, closets (which will be updated), and aesthetics of characters. Also, this is my work. I maintain all copyrights. I'm the first to really do something like this about this area. If you like it and do something similar, credit me. Also, disclaimer anything connections between people, things, or places are not intended. This is completly fictional, but deals with problems people do deal with so be nice. Furthermore, updates will come whenever. Seasons are typically ten episodes long, and there will be breaks in between them. Lastly, this school challenges many things wrong with the world, even if Connie won't. This includes sexism, class discrimination, homophobia, and bodyshaming. This book is meant to get people to think about what is wrong with Connie's world that she mostly writes off or ignores. If you're not comfortable reading it, don't. Xoxo, Amb.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573716?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["AmberMalfoy123"], "language": "English", "title": "DC Brats: A High School Story"}
Let’s Hope The Walls Don’t Talk As soon as Suho opened the door to their apartment, he was greeted with the smell of food. Sign 1 that something was unusual: Sieun doesn’t cook. Unless he hasn’t ate in like three days because Suho was too busy to make them actual meals. Suho just cooked them fried chicken last night. There were still leftovers in the fridge. Suho toes his shoes off carefully, head turned towards the kitchen. “Sieun-ah?” “In here!” His boyfriend replies. Chipper. Happy. Definitely in the kitchen. Sign 2 something was off: it was Friday which means Sieun just got back from his least favorite class. Sieun is never in a good mood after class on Friday. Suho pushes past sign two. Maybe Sieun’s class got canceled and that’s why he’s in such a good mood. Suho is a bit of a fool. He pads into the kitchen. Spying Sieun over the heated stove. Tossing something in their wok. Humming as he does so. For all intents and purposes, Sieun seems to be downright cheerful. Maybe the Christmas spirit is real. “Hey baby,” Suho purrs as he pushes past his initial bewilderment. His arms wrap around his boyfriends waist, dragging his back against Suho’s front. Suho’s lips instantly attaching to the soft part below Sieun’s ear that he knows makes his boyfriend melt. Like clockwork, Sieun melts and sighs softly. One of his smaller hands come up to cup behind Suho’s neck. His fingers tangling themselves in the short hairs there. “What’re you making baby?” Suho rasps against Sieun’s skin. Kissing down to where shoulder meets neck. “Smells good.” Sieun shivers a bit before humming. “Mmm just kimchi fried rice baby.” Suho locks up. Sign 3: Sieun does not call Suho baby. It’s never been his thing. He’s tried nicknames on Suho before but he simply prefers calling Suho by his real name. Or, hyung. They both really like hyung. Not baby though. Suho can count on one hand how many times Sieun has called Suho baby. His lips pause in their pursuit. “Baby?” He repeats, a little dumbly. Sieun hums again. His hands moving to stir whatever was in the wok. “Yes, baby?” Suho blinks. No, something is wrong with Sieun. Once could be an accident. Twice he needs to be medicated. “Are you feeling ok?” Suho can’t help but blurt out. Sieun pauses, body stiffening for a split second in Suho’s arms before he turns. Their eyes meet as he flips around in Suho’s arms. Sieun’s eyes are always so soft and full of love. Today is no different. He stretches up and presses a soft kiss to Suho’s mouth. “Why wouldn’t I be Suho-yah?” That’s more like it. Suho returns the kiss with a gentle one of his own. “Just checking,” he mumbles against his boyfriends mouth. Sieun’s mouth twitches into an echoing smile. “Go change. Dinner will be ready soon.” Suho nods once. Plasters another quick on Sieun’s mouth just for good measure. Sieun swats his shoulder and Suho uses that as his cue to move. He pads to their room. Yawns and scratches his abdomen Passes by Sieun lounging on the couch. “Hi baby,” he yawns on his way to the room. His feet barely cross the threshold of their room when he realizes. Suho turns and scampers back into the living room. Sieun’s still there. Curled on the couch. Pillow on his lap. Chewing on a sweatshirt string. Sieun in the kitchen was wearing a t shirt and Suho’s blue apron he stole from work. “Sieun-ah?” Suho asks slowly. His boyfriend (?) tears his gaze away from the book on his lap. Soft, brown eyes meeting Suho’s. Those eyes certainly seem like Sieun’s. “Suho-yah!” Sieun unfurls from his position in the couch like a cat. Raises his arms above his head and yawns. “Didn’t hear you come home hyung.” Suho’s head tilts. “I- We- Huh?” Sieun blinks as he slowly closes the distance between them. “What’s up Suho-yah?” Sign 4: Unless Sieun suddenly developed short term amnesia and changed clothes faster than Suho has ever seen him, there is definitely two Sieun’s in his apartment . Hands come up to grab Suho’s shirt but Suho ducks it. Instantly, Sieun’s eyes darken and twitch. The way they do when when Suho’s done something to hurt his feelings. Suho pointedly ignores it. His mind is spiraling and spiraling fast. He doesn’t want to think about two Sieun’s and if the one in the kitchen is the real Sieun. Or if this one is. Or how this happened. “Hyung why are you acting weird?” Sieun’s plump mouth pinches into one of those pouts that Suho has never, ever been able to resist. “I-I’m not. It’s just-“ Suho’s gaze flicks back to the kitchen. He can’t see the other Sieun in there but he can definitely hear him. And smell the food. There’s a dull throb threatening to build behind his eyes. “Just what?” Sieun steps closer. Suho yelps. “I need to change!” He escapes into their room and slams the door. Harder than probably necessary but there’s a lot happening in his mind right now. He locks the door too. Just in case. His forehead is pressed against the door. Eyes closed. Taking a few deep breaths to try and collect himself. Prepare himself to face a	Let’s Hope The Walls Don’t Talk As soon as Suho opened the door to their apartment, he was greeted with the smell of food. Sign 1 that something was unusual: Sieun doesn’t cook. Unless he hasn’t ate in like three days because Suho was too busy to make them actual meals. Suho just cooked them fried chicken last night. There were still leftovers in the fridge. Suho toes his shoes off carefully, head turned towards the kitchen. “Sieun-ah?” “In here!” His boyfriend replies. Chipper. Happy. Definitely in the kitchen. Sign 2 something was off: it was Friday which means Sieun just got back from his least favorite class. Sieun is never in a good mood after class on Friday. Suho pushes past sign two. Maybe Sieun’s class got canceled and that’s why he’s in such a good mood. Suho is a bit of a fool. He pads into the kitchen. Spying Sieun over the heated stove. Tossing something in their wok. Humming as he does so. For all intents and purposes, Sieun seems to be downright cheerful. Maybe the Christmas spirit is real. “Hey baby,” Suho purrs as he pushes past his initial bewilderment. His arms wrap around his boyfriends waist, dragging his back against Suho’s front. Suho’s lips instantly attaching to the soft part below Sieun’s ear that he knows makes his boyfriend melt. Like clockwork, Sieun melts and sighs softly. One of his smaller hands come up to cup behind Suho’s neck. His fingers tangling themselves in the short hairs there. “What’re you making baby?” Suho rasps against Sieun’s skin. Kissing down to where shoulder meets neck. “Smells good.” Sieun shivers a bit before humming. “Mmm just kimchi fried rice baby.” Suho locks up. Sign 3: Sieun does not call Suho baby. It’s never been his thing. He’s tried nicknames on Suho before but he simply prefers calling Suho by his real name. Or, hyung. They both really like hyung. Not baby though. Suho can count on one hand how many times Sieun has called Suho baby. His lips pause in their pursuit. “Baby?” He repeats, a little dumbly. Sieun hums again. His hands moving to stir whatever was in the wok. “Yes, baby?” Suho blinks. No, something is wrong with Sieun. Once could be an accident. Twice he needs to be medicated. “Are you feeling ok?” Suho can’t help but blurt out. Sieun pauses, body stiffening for a split second in Suho’s arms before he turns. Their eyes meet as he flips around in Suho’s arms. Sieun’s eyes are always so soft and full of love. Today is no different. He stretches up and presses a soft kiss to Suho’s mouth. “Why wouldn’t I be Suho-yah?” That’s more like it. Suho returns the kiss with a gentle one of his own. “Just checking,” he mumbles against his boyfriends mouth. Sieun’s mouth twitches into an echoing smile. “Go change. Dinner will be ready soon.” Suho nods once. Plasters another quick on Sieun’s mouth just for good measure. Sieun swats his shoulder and Suho uses that as his cue to move. He pads to their room. Yawns and scratches his abdomen Passes by Sieun lounging on the couch. “Hi baby,” he yawns on his way to the room. His feet barely cross the threshold of their room when he realizes. Suho turns and scampers back into the living room. Sieun’s still there. Curled on the couch. Pillow on his lap. Chewing on a sweatshirt string. Sieun in the kitchen was wearing a t shirt and Suho’s blue apron he stole from work. “Sieun-ah?” Suho asks slowly. His boyfriend (?) tears his gaze away from the book on his lap. Soft, brown eyes meeting Suho’s. Those eyes certainly seem like Sieun’s. “Suho-yah!” Sieun unfurls from his position in the couch like a cat. Raises his arms above his head and yawns. “Didn’t hear you come home hyung.” Suho’s head tilts. “I- We- Huh?” Sieun blinks as he slowly closes the distance between them. “What’s up Suho-yah?” Sign 4: Unless Sieun suddenly developed short term amnesia and changed clothes faster than Suho has ever seen him, there is definitely two Sieun’s in his apartment . Hands come up to grab Suho’s shirt but Suho ducks it. Instantly, Sieun’s eyes darken and twitch. The way they do when when Suho’s done something to hurt his feelings. Suho pointedly ignores it. His mind is spiraling and spiraling fast. He doesn’t want to think about two Sieun’s and if the one in the kitchen is the real Sieun. Or if this one is. Or how this happened. “Hyung why are you acting weird?” Sieun’s plump mouth pinches into one of those pouts that Suho has never, ever been able to resist. “I-I’m not. It’s just-“ Suho’s gaze flicks back to the kitchen. He can’t see the other Sieun in there but he can definitely hear him. And smell the food. There’s a dull throb threatening to build behind his eyes. “Just what?” Sieun steps closer. Suho yelps. “I need to change!” He escapes into their room and slams the door. Harder than probably necessary but there’s a lot happening in his mind right now. He locks the door too. Just in case. His forehead is pressed against the door. Eyes closed. Taking a few deep breaths to try and collect himself. Prepare himself to face a world of two Yeon Sieun’s. “Suho?” There. Is. No. Fucking. Way. Suho’s eyes open slowly. He swallows. “Suho? What’s wrong?” There’s a tug on the hem of his shirt. Soft but demanding. Entirely Sieun. Suho turns. Sign 5: There is 3 Sieun’s in his apartment. “Who are you?” He blurts. Sieun visibly recoils. His hand drops from Suho’s shirt and his face pinches into a displeased look. “What the hell are you talking about?” That sounds exactly like his Sieun. Hope sparks in Suho’s heart. Maybe this is the real Sieun. Maybe he passed out from exhaustion from work and hallucinated multiple Sieun’s. He reaches for his boyfriend. His fingers slide onto warm skin but Sieun is clearly still not happy with his comment. Sieun makes a noise of displeasure and squirms out of it. “No, what the hell was that? You can’t just ask me who I am and then expect me to not have questions.” And that’s. Well, that’s fair. Suho laughs once. Scratches the back of his neck. There’s no doubt in his mind that this is the real Sieun. The cadence of his voice. His mannerisms. The clearly annoyed look in his eye. It’s all entirely Sieun. None of the uncanny signs the other two were giving Suho earlier. “Have- have you been outside the room lately?” Suho asks softly. Irritation flashes in Sieun’s eyes. Suho braces for something blunt to come flying his way. His arms shoot up to protect his face. The words spilling out of his mouth instantly. “There’s two more of you in the living room and the kitchen!” “What?” “Look!” Suho unlocks the door and rips it open. “See for yourself!” “I swear to god if this is some weird prank Suho-“ “It’s not! I swear on my halmoni I’m telling the truth!” Sieun grumbles something under his breath but marches out of the room regardless. Brushes his shoulder against Suho on his way, for good measure. Suho watches with wide eyes. His Sieun stomps his tiny little body into their living room. Yea, there’s no doubt in Suho’s mind that that one is his. “What’re you looking at?” A voice asks from behind. Suho yelps. Whirls. His eyes widen. Another Sieun has emerged from the bathroom. Hair wet. Shirt off. Sweatpants that look eerily like a pair Suho wears regularly, slung low on his waist. A towel over his shoulder. Suho hadn’t even heard the water running. “Suho?” Suho swallows against the lump in his throat. Pointedly trying to keep his gaze on the other Sieun’s face. And not on the droplets of water racing down his soft tummy and scruffy happy tail, disappearing into his sweats. He’s failing. The other Sieun’s head tilts. Eyes narrowing in that predatory way that only means Suho will be crying later tonight. “Hyung?” Suho is fucked. Sign 6: There is a shirtless Sieun in their bedroom. This isn’t his Sieun. He’s well aware of it. Mostly because Sieun doesn’t make it a habit to run around their apartment shirtless. Unless it’s for convenience because they both know Sieun will be naked in thirty seconds max. That doesn’t mean he’s not still attracted to this Sieun. He still lookslike his Sieun. Smells like him. Sounds like him. That doesn’t mean his cock isn’t slowly starting to stir to life at the sight of his boyfriend wet and shirtless. “How the fuck are you real!?” Even if his real boyfriend is currently in a shouting match with another version of himself in the living room. The other Sieun’s eyes flick behind Suho at the sound of the argument starting to brew. He doesn’t seem too terribly interested though because he quickly he refocuses on Suho. “Are you ok hyung?” The other Sieun asks. Takes a step forward. Pulls the towel off his shoulder. Another drop of water falls from his hair and races down one of his dark nipples. Suho is so, so, so fucked. He nods rapidly. “Y-yea. Yea. Yea I’m fine.” Another step. Suho feels like he’s being hunted. He can hear the sound of an argument brewing behind him. Probably his real Sieun telling the others to get the fuck out. But he can’t really focus on that. Too focused on trying to ignore the current Sieun looking at him like he is lunch. “You seem worried hyungie.” Suho’s half hard. He can’t help it. He’s only human. Suho’s head shakes. “Nmm n-no. No I’m fine.” The Sieun in front of him raises a brow. Tilts his head. Hooks a finger in the waistband of the sweats. And that’s when Suho realizes he’s notably not wearing anything under the sweats. They’re too low on his hips. If he had boxers on, Suho would definitely see the waistband by now. Suho whimpers. Shakes his head. Does this count as cheating? Is it cheating if it’s technically just another version of your boyfriend? Suho’s head hurts. He doesn’t know. He’s not sure he knows which way is up and which way is down anymore. He does know if this Sieun actually keeps pulling his sweats down, he is so, so fucked. This Sieun’s lips start to tug up into a tempting smile. Pulls the sweats down over the edge of his hip bone. Slowly revealing inch after inch of tan skin. If he goes anymore- “Enjoying the show?” A warm body suddenly presses against Suho’s back. Arms wrap around his waist. A chin hooks around his shoulder. A mouth grazes against his ear. Suho gasps at the sudden contact. “S-Sieun-ah?” It comes out as a whimper. He can’t tell if this a new Sieun or one of the others he’s seen already. He does know just by touch alone that this is not his Sieun. “Shhh, watch puppy.” Warm lips graze against Suho’s ear. He shivers and bites back a whimper. Definitely not his Sieun. The wet Sieun merely licks his lips and tugs the sweats lower and lower. Soft hair is exposed on his mound. Any lower and Suho will see this Sieun’s cunt. He whimpers again. Cock stirring in interest but he ducks his head. Squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t know if this counts as cheating but he certainly feels guilty just watching this happen. “Aw, hyung doesn’t want to keep watching his special show.” Suho can hear the pout on the wet Sieun’s face. The Sieun currently holding him clicks his tongue in disapproval. “C’mon puppy. We prepared this just for you.” A warm hand grabs his jaw and forces his head up. Suho shakes his head. Keeps his eyes firmly shut. “He’s still not lookinggggg.” Wet Sieun whines. The body behind him suddenly disappears. Suho gasps at the loss. Eyes flying open on instinct. Sieun. His Sieun is in front of him. Blocking out the sight behind him. “Sieun-ah,” Suho sighs. His Sieun brings his hands up. Cups Suho’s cheeks gently. Suho is helpless to do anything but melt into the touch. Smiles softly. “It’s ok Suho-yah. I give you permission to do what you want with them.” Suho’s eyes flare. His mouth drops open. His cock twitches in interest. “W-what?” Suho breathes. His Sieun stretches up and presses a soft kiss to Suho’s mouth. “Do what you want with them Suho-yah. At the end of the day, you know who you belong to. Right?” Suho nods over and over again. “You. You. Always you.” His Sieun’s smile widens. “Good boy. Go have fun. I’ll be waiting for you.” Suho blinks once. His mind still hasn’t fully comprehended what the fuck is going on. Sieun sounded like he was three seconds away from killing one of the other Sieun’s and now he’s letting Suho fuck them? The previous Sieun reattaches to Suho’s back. Warm lips pressing against Suho’s neck. “We came all this way for you Suho-yah. Enjoy your gift hm?” Teeth nip at the side of his neck and he feels his knees tremble. “No marking,” His Sieun snaps. The Sieun at his back smirks against his neck. Hums once. “Ok ok. No marking.” “Hyung.” Oh. Yea. Suho’s eyes drift towards the other Sieun. The wet Sieun. His sweats are below his hip bones. Sparse happy trail and the starts of his bush starting to peak above the fabric. “Watch me hyungie,” Sieun purrs. Suho’s cock twitches and he relaxes into the other Sieun’s hold. His mind his conflicted. He knows Sieun gave the ok but he still can’t help but wonder why. If this was ok. If this was cheating- Sieun pulls the sweats further down those thick thighs and his cunt is bared to Suho. All the salvia in Suho’s mouth pools beneath his teeth. All Sieun’s have the prettiest fucking pussies apparently. He slumps into the other Sieun’s arms. The all too familiar urge to reach for Sieun overtaking him. As it always does when Sieun bares himself to Suho. The urge to grab those lush hips and pin Sieun down. Not let him up until Sieun’s sobbing and seeing stars. Can barely say his name. Until his pussy twitches from the smallest graze. Until he’s shoving Suho’s head away and squirming back on the bed. Suho wants it. No. He needs it. It hits him then. There’s 5 Sieun’s in his apartment. He’ll never be satiated again. He’s always been greedy with Sieun. Always makes him go round after round. Eats him out like he’s Suho’s last meal. Now, he has to do this with 4 more. “Please,” Suho gasps. The Sieun behind him giggles. “Please Sieun-ah. Please.” “Already begging and we haven’t even touched you,” the Sieun in front of him coos. He tugs his sweats fully off. Kicks them to the side. His entire body laid bare for Suho to take and kiss and eat and- “There’s five of us hyungie.” This Sieun says suddenly. Suho’s head tilts, eye never straying from Sieun’s as this Sieun crosses over to the bed. He crawls on slowly. Scoots up and up until his back hits headrest. He situates himself for a second before he allows his legs to fall open. “Sieunnie-“ Suho’s voice breaks. The pair of lips on his neck drift up. Kiss right below his ear, a shiver racing through Suho’s body. His cock fully hard and kicking in his jeans now. “Do you have the stamina to handle all of us Suho-yah?” The Sieun on his bed muses. “Yes.” He blurts. He doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even know if what he’s saying is true. Not that he really cares. He’ll find away. There’s 5 Sieun’s here. He’ll satisfy every damn one of them. Even if his jaw and dick fall off. “Oh so eager puppy,” the Sieun holding him coos. The lips drift to Suho’s ear and gently nibbles. “I hope you mean that.” Then, he’s released from that Sieun’s hold. He stumbles for a second. Turns his head to stare at the one who just released him. That Sieun smiles, a little meanly. Jerks his head towards the bed. “Go. There’s time for all of us.” The promise and implication makes Suho’s cock jump again. He listens though. Never one to turn down when Sieun is needy and wants him. No matter what Sieun it is, it seems. Suho crawls forward onto the bed. Eyes locked onto the Sieun in front of him. This Sieun runs his tongue along his teeth as he grins. Leans back on the headboard, tilts his hips up towards Suho. Cunt glistening and ready for Suho’s mouth. Suho’s body falls into the familiar rhythm. He assumes every Sieun likes the same things. The same pressure. The same speed. The way he flicks his clit. His hands grab Sieun’s thighs first, never one to be able to resist feeling them. No matter how many times he’s done so before. This Sieun sighs at the contact. His body relaxing and melting into the bed as Suho kneads the muscles. Suho licks his lips and leans forward. Sieun’s legs spread to accommodate his head His teeth graze along the soft skin. Notes the shudder that races through this Sieun. The way his hands twitch against the sheets. Suho nips along the flesh. Careful not to leave any marks. Just in case his Sieun’s warning applied to him too. But Sieun has always liked when Suho takes his time eating him out. The way he teases before he dives in. He licks every place he bites. Savors the taste of Sieun on his skin. Curious to see if Sieun’s taste the same too. He kisses up Sieun’s thigh. Noses along where the folds of his cunt meets the soft skin of Sieun’s thigh. Presses his nose in there and just- breathes. Sieun trembles beneath him. One of his hands drifts to Suho’s hair. His fingers card through it gently, a silent way of demanding Suho get on with it. All Sieun’s are bossy it seems. Suho obeys though. Never one to deny Sieun anything. No matter what Sieun lays before him. He dives in. His tongue swipes through the silky folds. The taste of this Sieun exploding onto his rogue. He can’t stop the groan that falls out of his mouth at the taste. Not the same as his Sieun’s. There’s slight differences but it’s close. It’s still addicting. Still drives him forward. Slurping and tasting and groaning. His tongue slides up, lapping up the slick pulsing out of Sieun. Slides up and up until he finds Sieun’s clit. He presses his tongue flat down on the nub, the way he knows his Sieun likes. Sure enough, Sieun’s back arches and he gasps out. Suho bites back a grin and laps at it. Small little kitten licks. Light pressure. Enough to tease and send some pleasure through Sieun’s body but not the way he really craves. Not yet. He brings a hand up and parts Sieun’s swelling folds, granting easier access. He keeps up the small kitten licks. His cock weeping with every gasp and shudder he pulls out of the man under him. “S-Suho-yah-“ Sieun chokes. Suho flicks his tongue down through Sieun’s folds. Gathering the slick and drinking it down like a man starved. Until he finds Sieun’s hole. He shoves his tongue inside the opening, noting the way Sieun’s hips buck and he properly moans out. From there, Suho’s fucking messy with it. He slurps and thrusts his tongue deep inside Sieun. Curls it the way he knows drives Sieun crazy. Slick and drool pool out of his mouth. He sucks and laps. Groans as the taste and smell of Sieun drowns out everything else. Licks roughly on Sieun’s clit. The way that makes Sieun’s legs shake and his baby start to do those adorable little ‘ah, ah, ah’s’. He loses himself in Sieun. Completely forgets there’s four more wandering around somewhere. Zeroes in on this Sieun. Drives his hips into the mattress to relive the ache of his dick as this Sieun cries and moans so deliciously for him. “S-Suho-yah. AhSuho- Hyung. I-“ Sieun’s breath is stuttering. He’s whimpering and moaning. His thighs are clamped around Suho’s head. Suho knows Sieun’s body better than he knows his own at this point. “You’re close aren’t you?” Suho gasps out. His face is soaked in Sieun. He feels drunk on him. Perfect. The way that both of them fucking love. Sieun nods, a pillow pressed over his face. This version of Sieun seems to be a little shy during sex. Even if he talked a big game. “Come on pretty.” Suho leans forward and grabs the pillow. Sieun whines but Suho slowly pulls the pillow off and tosses it aside. “Let hyung see your pretty face while you cum on his tongue hm?” Sieun stares at him with wide eyes. Ears stained pink. But he nods. Opens his legs back up. “Good boy.” His mouth reattaches to Sieun’s clit and he slurps on the swollen nub. This makes Sieun thrash under him, a sob bubbling out of the smaller man. Suho’s relentless though. As he always is with Sieun. No matter how Sieun thrashes or sobs and pulls on Suho’s head, Suho’s mouth never leaves Sieun’s cunt. Not until he feels Sieun clench around his tongue. Hears the way his breath catches in his throat and he barely manages to choke out Suho’s name. Suho flicks his tongue across Sieun’s clit before slurping on it gently and that does this Sieun in. Sieun cums with a soft cry. Hands clamping down on Suho’s head, holding him firmly in place while he grinds against Suho’s mouth repeatedly. As if Suho would ever leave Sieun. Suho works him through it, as he always does. His harsh strokes of his tongue switch back to the soft kitten licks. Running through Sieun’s swollen folds and gathering the slick. He pulls back when Sieun collapses back against the Sieun’s. Whimpering from overstimulation and pushing weakly on Suho’s head. Only then does Suho retreat. Face shiny and slick of Sieun. He can’t help but smile lazily. No matter the Sieun, he can still make them cum hard enough to see stars. He likes that a lot. “That wasn’t very fair.” Suho’s eyes widen at the voice. He whirls. Three Sieun’s stand behind him. All of their faces set in different versions of irritation. Like Suho’s done something bad. One Sieun, his Sieun, is off to the side. Sitting on the chair they normally use for laundry. His face is impassive. Set into a pout but that’s not an abnormal look for Sieun. Suho blinks. “W-what do you mean?” One of the Sieun’s steps forward. Arms folded over his chest as he stalks forward. Suho shrinks back but the Sieun he just ate out is at his back. Arms wrapping tight around him. Sweaty and panting but obviously there to keep Suho in place. “There’s five of us here,” the other Sieun answers. He kneels on the edge of the bed, eyes flicking to the Sieun currently pining Suho in place. “And yet you only eat out one? You only focus on one? How’s that fair hyung?” Suho shakes his head. “No, no. I wasn’t-“ The advancing Sieun shakes his head. One of his hands come up to press against Suho’s sternum. “No excuses hyung. How are you gonna prove it hm?” Suho whimpers. Slowly starting to realize he may be a little out of his depth here. “That’s ok. We can help you,” Sieun whispers. The Sieun pinning him down suddenly scoots back and then Suho’s back is being pressed into the sheets. “Stay there.” Hands come up to cup Suho’s face. Soft fingers dancing along his cheeks before the face of the Sieun he just ate out pops into view. “Just lay here hyungie. You can do that for us right?” He says so sweetly. Suho nods along, eyes wide. He has no idea what’s happening. Sieun bends down to press a soft kiss to Suho’s nose. Distantly, Suho hears, “I said no kissing either.” The other Sieun jerks back. “Sorry.” Suho whimpers. No. No he wants a kiss. He tries to crane his head up to protest but Sieun presses a hand into his hair and forces his head back down. “Stay puppy.” He hears the sound of shuffling. Muffled voices. He can’t really make anything out. And the Sieun at his head makes it impossible to look at anything besides his pretty face. Not like that’s a bad view but Suho would like some idea on what the fuck is about to happen to him. Sieun merely pins him place. Their eyes staring into each others as soft fingers dance across Suho’s cheek. Suho’s stomach is tight in anticipation. He gets his answer shortly. His answer is a pussy hovering over his face. Suho’s eyes damn near pop out of his head. “Wai-“ The Sieun does not wait. He sets his pussy down on Suho’s face. Suho’s mouth is quickly filled with Sieun’s pussy. Again. He doesn’t hesitate though. Deep down, Suho exists to please Sieun. No matter what Sieun it is or the situation he finds himself in. Suho will do whatever it takes to make Sieun satisfied. He runs his tongue through Sieun’s wet folds. Groaning again as the taste of a new Sieun bursts onto his tongue. Again, different from his Sieun and other Sieun. Just slightly. Just enough. He still tastes like heaven though. Suho drills his tongue immediately into Sieun’s hole, testing the method he uses on Sieun when Sieun is feeling particularly needy and wants to be stuffed. This makes the Sieun on his face arch and gasp. “Oh- oh fu-“ He chokes. Warm hands come back up to cup Suho’s face. Reminding him that they are not alone. “Just like that hyung. Make us feel good hm?” The Sieun cradling his face purrs. Suho whimpers. The words making his dick twitch. Sieun grinds down, matching Suho’s tongue pace. A ragged moan tearing its way out of Sieun’s mouth. Suho’s slurps, licks through Sieun’s folds to get to his clit. He licks it gently, tilting his head to allow a better angle on his clit. Sieun bucks, moaning out high pitched and needy. This Sieun is apparently a screamer. “Fu-fuck. It’s not fair you get this all to yourself,” the Sieun on his face pants out. “He’s mine,” his Sieun merely answers. The possessiveness pulls a whimper out of Suho. Even as his mouth is stuffed with another Sieun. Suddenly, there’s hands on his hips. Suho yelps, and promptly chokes on salvia and Sieun’s slick. The Sieun cradling his head chuckles, pets his jaw. “Shhhh puppy, they’re just taking what they want. That’s ok hm?” Suho trembles under Sieun. Unable to decide where to focus on. His jaw keeps working on the pussy on his mouth. His tongue lapping gently on Sieun’s clit. Noting the way his thighs tremble and he gasps But at the same time, he can feel his pants being tugged down. “Lift your hips,” another Sieun demands. Suho wordlessly obeys. His hands coming up to grab Sieun’s waist. Pressing him down tighter on his face so he can’t keep squirming away from Suho’s tongue the way he suddenly started doing. “Oh! Oh fu-“ He feels the Sieun above him crumple forward. Soft hiccups and moans falling from his lips. Suho feels his pants being yanked off and then his boxers quickly. He moans into Sieun’s cunt as cool air hits his leaking cock. “Fuck-“ someone gasps. Suho whimpers. Digs his fingers into the soft flesh of Sieun’s waist. Slides his tongue down Sieun’s holds and plunges it back into Sieun’s hole. Grabs him tightly as Sieun jerks and moans. “Doing so well hyung. Making him feel so good aren’t you? You like this don’t you? Being surrounded by us,” the Sieun cradling his head suddenly coos into his ear. Suho can only whine and nod, his mouth too busy being flooded with a needy Sieun. Warm fingers card through his hair, sends another shiver down his body. But then he feels something hot and wet pressing against the tip of his dick. Suho moans, hips jerking up on instinct. Seeking that wet heat. He can’t even tell if it’s a mouth or a cunt. Frankly, he doesn’t care as long as it’s Sieun. His dick is rock fucking hard. He needs something. Wet heat swallows him up in response. It doesn’t take much for him to figure out another Sieun is riding him. He chokes on a moan as that Sieun takes his cock down in a single motion. That Sieun moans out breathlessly as their hips meet flush against each other. His fingers dig into the meet of the Sieun on his face as a way to ground him. He’s so hard it hurts. If he relaxes for a split second, he may cum on the first couple strokes. Both of the Sieun’s on top of him moan. Suho can’t stop his hips from bucking up into the wet heat on his cock. Even as he tries to remember to work his mouth against the Sieun on his face. “Fuck you’re deep,” the Sieun on his cock gasps. Suho moans and bucks again. His cock twitching inside that Sieun. The Sieun on his face huffs in irritation. Grinds his hips down harder on Suho’s face. Clearly reminding Suho to focus on two things at once. Suho whimpers. His body feels like it’s on fire. Pleasure pools deep in his stomach and drool leaks out of his mouth. He doesn’t know what to focus on. How to move his body. Where to focus first. “Oh hyungie.” And then there’s thatSieun. Warm lips brush against his forehead. Not a kiss. But there. “Is it too much hm? Can you not handle it puppy?” Suho can hear the pout on that Sieun’s voice. But he can’t answer. Not just because there’s a Sieun on his face that’s demanding he keep eating him out. But because the Sieun on his cock has apparently adjusted to Suho and began to ride him properly. He feels Sieun’s warm walls as he drags himself up and then plunges back down. Both of them moan out, Suho immediately slurping on the soaking walls of the Sieun on his face in a futile attempt to keep pleasing him. “Come on hyungie. You can do better than that.” The Sieun cradling his face sighs. “You ate me out so well. You can do it again. Or are you too pussy drunk?” Suho sobs. The Sieun on his dick picking up the pace. The wet sound of their skin slapping against each other and the high pitched whimpers of that Sieun filling the room. All while he desperately tries to keep sucking on another Sieun’s clit. He almost forgets there’s another Sieun. Almost. Until he feels the bed dip and another warm body press against his side. “I think our Suho is a little pussy drunk?” A new Sieun giggles. Suho can only whimper. The Sieun bouncing on his cock moans out his name. Suho’s hips buck up on instinct. His orgasm creeping ever closer. The Sieun on his face whimpers as Suho’s teeth graze his clit. A move Suho doesn’t do often but makes Sieun lose his mind every time he does. Suho sucks Sieun’s clit into his mouth. Slurping loudly and choking off on a moan as the Sieun on his cock swivels his hips. Both of the Sieun’s let out these cute little gasps that make Suho’s cock jerk. He has to clench his abdomen as the all too familiar of an orgasm creeps every closer. Something tells him these Sieun’s wouldn’t be too pleased with him cumming so soon. “You’re ahso deep S-Suho-yah.” The Sieun on his cock whimpers out. Suho digs his nails into the Sieun on his face as his orgasm threatens to crest. Fuck they can’t just say shit like that and expect him to be normal. The Sieun on his face suddenly rolls his hips down on Suho’s face while Suho licks up. A stuttered moan falls from his lips. “There you go hyung,” the Sieun cradling his head coos. “Listen to both of them moaning for you. Maybe you do know how to please us hm?” The other Sieun that has now pressed against Suho’s side giggles. “Our puppy is so well behaved hm?” “There is no ‘our’!” His Sieun suddenly snaps. Barely able to be heard over the chorus of smalls moans and the slick sound of Suho being ridden silly. The other Sieun just hums and shuffles closer to Suho. Suho’s tongue is plunging into Sieun’s hole while his hips buck up to meet the other Sieun’s rhythm when there’s a sudden pinch to his nipple. He yelps, hips bucking up again. The Sieun on his lap cries out. “Suho!” And Suho’s eyes roll to the back of his head. His nipple gets rolled between fingers, a whole new zip of pleasure racing down his spine. He makes a choked sound into Sieun’s pussy, body spasming. He can’t focus. Sieun is fucking everywhere. His wet heat is still milking Suho for alll he’s worth. Sieun’s cunt is all he can taste. Smell. And now he has Sieun’s fingers plucking at his nipples. He’s helpless to do anything but thrash and whimper. He’s abandoned his task of eating Sieun out. He can’t. He can’t do anything but feel. Someone giggles. Suho doesn’t care. His cock won’t stop twitching. His entire body has pulled taunt. He’ll cum on a hair tigger- Something warm engulfs the nipple currently being played with and Suho ruptures. The pleasure in his body hits its boiling point and Suho can do nothing but drown. He cums with a muffled sob into Sieun’s cunt. Thrashing and twisting away from the stimulation on both his cock and his nipple. Not like it’s any use. Both of the Sieun’s are ruthless. The one on his cock follows Suho’s orgasm quickly with his own. Crying out Suho’s name and grinding his hips down on Suho’s abused cock with tight circles that make Suho’s eyes roll back. The Sieun on his nipple merely moves with Suho’s chest. The wet heat of his mouth never giving Suho a chance to breathe. The Sieun cradling his head merely grabbing his shoulders and pining him in place so he can’t keep squirming. Suho’s gasping and hiccuping into Sieun’s cunt by the time he rides out his orgasm. All but forgotten his task of eating the other Sieun out. His ears are ringing and his body has tipped into the edge of overstimulation. The weight on his lap has vanished but he doesn’t have much time to focus on that. Because the wet heat of Sieun’s mouth is still abusing his nipple. He tries to thrash his way out of it. Pleasure pulsing through his body in little waves that are too much for him to handle right now. He barely hears another Sieun sigh. “Mmm he’s still soft. That won’t do.” Sieun on his face lifts up and Suho gasps. A ragged moan falling from his lips as his nipple his laved over. “Mmm you came without making me cum hyung.” Suho’s eyes flutter open even as another whimper falls from his mouth and he yet again, tries to twist away from the heat of Sieun’s mouth. Sieun frowns down at him. “That’s not very fair. You’re not very good at pleasing us are you?” Suho shakes his head. Tries to open his mouth to speak but all that comes out is another moan as his nipple is abused. “That’s ok,” Sieun shrugs as he shuffles his way down Suho’s body. “We can just use you then. Get ourselves off.” Suho tries to shoot up, words of protest on the tip of his tongue. “That big fucking mouth and this big fucking cock and can’t even use them properly,” the Sieun cradling his head sighs instead. The back of Suho’s eyes start to sting. He shakes his head over and over. Whining both in protest and pleasure as a wet tongue twists around his puffy nipple. “N-no. No I can. I can-“ “Hm.” Sieun straddles his waist. “I don’t think you can hyung. That’s ok. Dumb puppies like you still have their uses.” Suho feels his cock somehow starting to fill again. He sobs out as the mouth on his nipple switches to the other one. “Hyung are you crying?” Sieun gasps. The Sieun on his nipple retreats with a lewd pop and a gasp. Two sets of Sieun’s appear in his watery eyes. Suho’s panting. The back of his eyes are still stinging. The urge to prove himself burning strong through his body. He moves to push himself up. To show them- A hand wraps around his throat. “Aht aht,” one of them hiss. Suho’s eyes widen. Even as his cock begins to stir in interest. The hand on his throat squeezes slightly. “He likes it.” The Sieun crawling onto his body giggles out. “He’s leaking.” “I think our puppy has a bit of a humiliation kink,” the Sieun not grabbing his throat murmurs. Suho watches as the Sieun’s eyes meet. Both of them now ignoring Suho below them “Si-Sieun-ah,” Suho rasps. Begs. The hand on his throat squeezes once in warning. Suho gasps and his eyes flutter a bit. It’s tight. Constricting his airflow a bit more than normal but not enough to make him panic. Sieun’s never choked him before. But he definitely likes it. “S-sieu- oh.” His words die on his tongue as he watches the two Sieun’s lean forward. Their lips meet in a heated kiss and they sigh into each others mouths. If Suho wasn’t fully hard before, he’s rock fucking hard again. Tongue’s slide together. Drool leaks out of their mouths. The hand on his throat squeezes hard enough to drive tears into his eyes. He gasps. “Hyungie you’re such a pervert,” the Sieun on his lap giggles. Suho doesn’t look at him. He can’t. He had two Sieun’s making out in front of him. He wants to burn this image into his mind forever. One of the Sieun’s nibble on the others lip and that Sieun moans softly. Suho’s cock twitches. “Fuck-“ he breathes. There’s the sound of shuffling. And the tight, wet heat is surrounding his cock again. Suho howls. His cock may be hard but he’s so fucking sensitive. He hears a sharp moan and manages to tear his gaze away from the two Sieun’s to watch the other one swallowing his cock up. Sieun’s back arches, his legs spreading wider on top of Suho to take him easier. Suho echoes with a moan of his own, choking on his spit as his throat is squeezed. Tightly. His head is forced backwards, back to the other two Sieun’s. Sieun squeezes tight enough Suho’s airflow is entirely cut off. He gasps, the tears budding in his waterline spill out. Trickle down his cheeks. Sieun’s pull apart. Their lips swollen. A string of salvia connecting their lips. It’s lewd and filthy and Suho feels dirty watching it but it’s also the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen- The pressure on his throat fades and he sucks in a breath. Only to cry out as Sieun’s cunt clenches tightly around him. “Come on Suho-yah. Show me how you use this cock of yours,” the Sieun on his lap whimpers. Dazed and definitely approaching that fucked out stage, Suho lifts his head and blinks blearily at Sieun. He’s swapped to small rolls of his hips. He’s panting and sweaty. Whimpering mostly in frustration. This Sieun must have his Sieun’s stamina. His Sieun is never able to ride Suho for long. Always begging Suho to take over not long after he starts. And like always, Suho gives Sieun what he wants. “Oh poor baby,” Suho coos. His voice is raspy and fucked out but he manages to find the strength to sit up. Pushes himself up into a sitting position. Grabs Sieun’s hips. Meets his eyes. “Do you want hyung to fuck you right baby?” Suho asks sweetly. Sieun nods, eyes wide and watery. “What did you just say?” Both of them freeze. Suho’s hands digging into Sieun’s hip harshly. His head turns slowly, towards his Sieun sitting in the chair. Or well, he was sitting in the chair. He’s now stomping his way over to Suho. Looking definitely angry. The most irritated Suho’s seen him since this whole fucking thing started. “Sieun-ah-“ “Baby?” Sieun spits out. Suho whimpers. Sieun’s hand lashes out, grabs Suho’s chin tightly. “Did you forget who you belong to Suho-yah? Hm? A little pussy and you forget who owns you?” Suho shakes his head. Sniffling as more tears spill out. More than before. “S-Sieun-ah please I’m sorry-“ “Who do you belong to?” Sieun cuts him off. “You,” Suho gasps. Sieun smiles softly. His hand falls off Suho’s chin and for a moment, Suho thinks he’s off the hook. And then a sharp pain bursts through his jaw and the sharp sound of a slap fills the room. Suho’s head is whipped to the side. Eyes wide as tears fall onto the sheets below him. “Don’t ever call anyone besides me baby again.” Suho breaks down. He nods over and over. Hiccups as apologies spill from his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry.” A soft hand pats his cheek, where Sieun had slapped. He looks up, hopeful. Blinking past the tears in his eyes. His Sieun smiles softly. “Go on puppy. Keep going. I’ll be here when you’ve had your fun.” Sieun moves away, even as a whimper of protest falls out of Suho’s mouth. His attention is quickly grabbed back by the Sieun still seated on his cock. A hand on his jaw and his head is being jerked around. “My turn. Focus on me,” this Sieun breathes. He turns his gaze over to his Sieun. Who stares at him from the chair. Head tilted. Eyes narrowed to slits. “Baby-“ Suho tries. “You have three other Sieun’s on you and you still want another?” Sieun clicks his tongue. “You’re so selfish hyung.” Suho gapes. Shakes his head. “N-no. No. Baby-“ “Stop being selfish and please them,” his Sieun snaps. Suho blinks. And then flips them over. In one smooth motion, he has Sieun’s face against the sheets and he’s slamming his cock deep inside his cunt. Sieun cries out underneath him, hands clawing at the sheets under him. “Want me to show you how I use my cock hm?” Suho coos, voice hoarse. He pulls his cock almost fully out, nothing but the tip in before he rams back home. Sieun sobs out, back arching into Suho. “Yea, Sieun-ah that’s it,” Suho purrs. He sets a mean rhythm, grabbing Sieun’s hips and forcing him into a deep arch before slamming home again and again. He picks deep, deliberate thrusts. Aiming for that spongy spot inside Sieun that he knows purely on muscle memory. Makes the Sieun underneath him devolve into nothing more than whimpers and cries. The other two Sieun’s are still positioned at the head of the bed. One of them is on his back. The other between his legs. Suho’s mouth drops open as what they’re doing hits him. They’re kissing again. Slow and sweet. Suho can see tongue again. But the Sieun on his back is rubbing his clit slowly. Whining into the other Sieun’s mouth while his fingers rub the swelling bud. Suho’s cock kicks hard inside Sieun and he has to squeeze the base of it to stave off his orgasm. He hisses, tearing his gaze away from the other two Sieun’s. Desperate to keep his second orgasm at bay. He’s never went longer more than two orgasms at once and he knows these Sieun’s won’t let him off the hook that easy. He has no choice but to switch to slow, deep grinds that make Sieun mewl. His head dropping between Sieun’s shoulder blades so he’s not tempted to stare at the other two again. “AhS-Suho hyung. M-m close-“ Sieun whimpers under him. “Yea?” Suho rasps. He drives his hips forward again, savoring the sharp whine that punches out of Sieun. “Gonna cum on my cock Sieunnie?” Sieun nods rapidly, claws at the bedsheets. “P-please. Please mmmm-“ Suho drives his hips in a little harder and faster. The wet sound of their bodies meeting drowning out the sounds of the other two Sieun’s. His eyes travel over to the chair again. To his Sieun. His Sieun merely stares at him with a narrowed gaze for a moment before waving his hand to the other Sieun’s. “Focus,” he mouthes. Suho whimpers and drops his gaze to the Sieun under him. Driving his hips forward until their flush. This Sieun falls apart under him. Clawing and gasping and whimpering. Moaning our broken versions of Suho’s name. Cunt pulsing around Suho’s cock in the way Suho knows. One of Suho’s hands slip under Sieun’s hips. Forcing them up a little higher so he can rub his clit. His fingers find the swollen nub easy and he wastes no time rubbing it over and over in time with his thrusts. From there, Sieun crumbles. He cums with a sharp cry, cunt spasming tightly around Suho’s cock. Suho, is unprepared for how fucking sensitive his dick is. Sieun’s cunt clamps down tight around Suho’s cock. Pulsing with each wave of his orgasm and Suho is helpless to stop his own orgasm. He hadn’t even realized how close he was until he was spilling deep inside Sieun again, moaning softy and rocking his hips forward softly to work them through it. His cock kicks over and over, cum spurting out with each pulse of Sieun’s cunt. He’s a shaking, sniffling wreck above Sieun. The sensitivity of this orgasm bringing fresh tears into his eyes. Sieun goes limp underneath him with a final soft moan as his orgasm abates. Suho slides out with a soft hiss, his cock almost hurting from sensitivity. And then, that Sieun is gone. Poof. Like he never existed. Vanishes in front of Suho’s eyes. “What the fuck?” Suho gasps. The other two Sieun’s have pulled apart from each other long enough to watch the whole ordeal. “Did you not notice how the other Sieun disappeared after you came in him?” One of them asks. Suho blinks. Looks around the room. Now that they mentioned it, besides his Sieun, they were the only two left. He looks back at the other two. “So, you guys only leave after I’ve came in you?” He asks a little dumbly. They nod. Suho whimpers. Looks at his Sieun. His Sieun merely shrugs. “What- what if I can’t cum again?” Suho breathes out. They both sneer at him. “You will,” one of them answers. “I-I’ve never came more than twice at once. I don’t think I can-“ One of the Sieun’s crawls forward. Grabs him by the back of the neck and jerks him forward. Until their chests touch. “You said you could please us hyung,” he whispers. “Did you lie?” Suho shakes his head rapidly. “N-no. No, I didn’t but-“ “Then give us what we need,” Sieun breathes. The back of his neck is released but Suho doesn’t get the chance to breathe. Sieun presses into his lap. Settles down directly onto Suho’s soft cock. Makes Suho cry out from overstimulation. “We’re not done until you cum for us Suho-yah,” this Sieun breathes. His hips rock down again and again on Suho. Grazing against his soft dick. Tears are stinging behind Suho’s eyes again. “Better cum fast puppy,” Sieun teases. A warm body presses behind Suho again. A chin hooking on his shoulder. This is happening a lot tonight. “Don’t worry. I think he will,” the second Sieun giggles. Suho doesn’t get the chance to ask what they’re planning because fingers grab at his nipples again. White, hot pleasure shoots through his body. He cries out, chest arching up into the touch. Sieun’s nimble fingers plucking away at the swollen buds. Twisting them softly. Rolling them between his fingers. Suho’s head slumps against Sieun’s shoulder as he just- takes it. Takes it all. Every roll of Sieun’s hips. Every pluck on his nipples. Every jolt of pleasure. He’s helpless to do anything but hiccup out moans and whimper as his cock slowly hardens. He loses himself to time. To pleasure. Moans out when Sieun slides his cock inside. Sniffles and begins to cry as Sieun rides him harshly. Bouncing in his lap like Suho’s nothing more than a glorified dildo. And maybe he is by now. His brain feels like mush. He arches into the fingers on his nipples. Tastes salt on his tongue from his tears. Bucks up into Sieun on muscle memory. Brings his hand up to thumb on Sieun’s clit without realizing what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how long it takes them to cum. By the time his pleasure hits its peak and he’s cumming for the third time, he doesn’t even think he knows his own name. It doesn’t last long. It almost hurts. He’s not sure how much cum even comes out. He’s collapsed back into the other Sieun’s arms by the end of it. Face tacky from his tears. Sweaty. Sniffling. Utterly fucked out. He barely hears the other Sieun whisper, “Doing so good puppy. Just one more. You can do one more can’t you?” He sobs. Properly sobs. Shakes his head. Tears falling down his face. Dropping onto the sheets below them. He can’t. He knows he can’t do another round. His body hurts. He’s on fire. Sieun’s never been one who takes no well. No matter what version it is, it seems. “Yes you can,” Sieun hisses. Suho sobs out when he feels the mouth on his dick. Shakes his head. Weakly tries to grab for Sieun’s hair to shake him off. Thrashes around. It’s no use though. His body is spent and even in his most wrecked, will he deny Sieun anything. Even as he sobs with each flick of Sieun’s tongue. Whimpers out in pain as mouths at his head. Cries as he feels himself growing harder somehow. And when this Sieun seats himself on his dick, it’s not gentle. Not that Suho was expecting that. He just hoped this last one would take mercy on him. He was a fool. This Sieun rides him just as hard as the other Sieun’s. Moaning as he hits just the right spots. Whimpers as he rolls his hips down on Suho. Suho can’t even buck up to meet Sieun. He does nothing, absolutely nothing but lay there and sob. The pleasure he was once feeling long since bleeding away to pain. His dick throbbing. The skin raw. Sieun huffs his displeasure. Grabs Suho’s hand and guides it to his cunt. Even in this semi-delirious state, Suho manages to find Sieun’s clit. Rubs it half heartedly. Not at all as enthusiastic or as good as the others. But it doesn’t seem to matter. It still does the job as this Sieun cums with his face pressed into Suho’s chest. The spasming of his cunt does Suho in for the fourthtime. It’s two hot spurts that make Suho sob and thrash. Shakes his head as he feels his orgasm crest. He doesn’t want to cum again. It doesn’t even feel good anymore. It’s straight torture to force another one out. But somehow, he manages to fill another Sieun and the weight on his lap vanishes as soon as Sieun’s orgasm is finished. Suho sobs in relief. An arm thrown over his eyes as they leave. He’s done it. It’s over. He survived with his dick intact. Even if his dignity isn’t. He managed. Somehow. “Suho-yah?” Suho whimpers, far too fucked out to form coherent words at this point. “Suho.” He feels the bed dip and he curls in on himself with a soft whine. He feels a soft hand on his arm. Allows it to slowly be pried off his face. His eyes blink open slowly. Still watery and sticky with tears. Sieun’s face fills his view. His Sieun. “They’re gone. You did it,” Sieun whispers. Suho whimpers again. “You did good Suho-yah.” Sieun brushes strands of Suho’s hair off his forehead. Makes Suho sigh and lean into the touch. This is what he needs. His Sieun. “But you’re not done.” Suho’s eyes fly open. Sieun is smiling so meanly at him. “Did you think I was just going to sit back and watch you fuck different versions of myself without making you fuck me after? Did you think you could cum four different times and I wouldn’t cum at all? That’s not very fair, is it Suho-yah?” “S-Sieun-ah.” His voice is utterly wrecked. “I-I can’t. I can’t- ‘s too much.” He’s slurring. “Yes, you can.” Sieun frowns. He leans forward. Takes up all of Suho’s space. “You can and you will. I had to sit back and watch you fuck different versions of myself stupid. And you’re not even going to let me cum once? You’re so selfish.” Suho breaks. He sobs. Pathetically. Wholeheartedly. Wailing. Sniffling. Tears falling out so fast he can’t see anything. He blubbers. Clutches onto Sieun. Soaks his bare skin. Shakes his head. Tries to speak but can’t get the words out past his sobs. It’s pathetic really. “Shhh puppy. It’s ok. I know you’re trying your best,” Sieun soothes. Warm fingers card through his hair. Soft hands tilt Suho’s head up. Warm lips press against his. Suho melts. He collapses into the arms of his Sieun. Kisses him back even as he sniffles and hiccups. Even as their kiss turns salty from his tears. A kiss from Sieun can heal anything. Even make him hard after four rounds, it seems. Suho hadn’t even realized what was happening until he found himself on his back and Sieun straddling him. A situation that was becoming painfully familiar. He’s not sure he’ll be able to let Sieun ride him for a bit after this. They only break the kiss when Sieun lines himself up with Suho’s twitching cock. His slick folds coat Suho’s cock. Call to him like a siren song. Suho gasps. Hiccups. Shakes his head as Sieun braces his hands on Suho’s shoulds and drops down. Blinding, painful, overstimulating pleasure shoots through his body the second Sieun swallows him up. His Sieun doesn’t take mercy though. No. He rides Suho just as hard as ever. Like it’s round one and Suho has just as much stamina as ever. Clutches onto his shoulders and rides him stupid. “Ah, ah, ah. Fuck. Suho-“ Suho gasps and sobs. Tries to say words. To do anything besides sit there and take it. But his body burns. His cock feels like it’s about to break off inside Sieun. And just like every time, Sieun’s stamina fails him and fails him fast. He’s quickly switching to sharp grinds of his hips that aren’t satisfying in the slightest and they both know it. His moans of pleasure quickly devolve into whines of irritation. His Sieun has never had good stamina. And even in his most fucked out, exhausted, painful state, Suho cannot let his baby go unsatisfied. He doesn’t know how he finds the strength. The ability. But somehow, he manages to heave himself up. Press Sieun’s back into the sheets and fuck him deep and slow. Deep thrusts that push against Sieun’s swollen walls the way he loves. Brushing against that spot deep inside him that makes his toes curl and prettiest noises fall out of his mouth. Their lips find each other. Broken noises falling out of Suho’s mouth. Versions of Sieun’s name. Soft whimpers. Pleas for mercy. Tears dripping down his cheeks. Onto Sieun’s flushed cheeks. Not that Sieun seems to mind. Sieun wraps a hand around Suho’s neck. Presses their bodies flush together. Uses his free hand to grab at one of Suho’s wrists and guides his hand between Sieun’s thighs. Sieun cums with Suho’s name on his lips. Arching up into Suho’s body. Clawing at his back as the prettiest noises of the night fall from his lips. His cunt sucking Suho in tight. Better than any of the others. Their bodies molded together better than any of the other Sieun’s. Because Suho was made for thisSieun and this Sieun only. Suho cums with loud sob. Tears streaming down his face as his most painful orgasm of the night overtakes him it. It lasts maybe two spurs. He doesn’t even think anything comes out of him. Much to Sieun’s displeasure. “Mmm nothing left for me Suho-yah? You’re so selfish,” Sieun grumbles as Suho collapses onto the long ruined sheets Suho whimpers. Can’t even apologize because he’s too fucked out to get the words out. Silently though, he swears he’ll make it up to Sieun. Suho doesn’t remember much after his last orgasm. He’s like 90% sure he passed out after that. When he does come to, they’re in the bath. His body burns from exhaustion. His skin is pink from where Sieun must’ve been rubbing. His Sieun that’s currently behind him. Hands in Suho’s wet hair. Humming softly as he gently massages something into Suho’s scalp. Suho lets his head loll back, his eyes falling shut again. He feels used. Abused. Like he went through hell and back. “You up?” Sieun asks softly. He must’ve felt the difference in Suho’s body language. Suho hums. Not trusting his voice at the moment. “You ok?” Sieun asks. Suho nods again. Nuzzling into Sieun’s touch. “I am now.” And yea, his voice sounds utterly fucked. “I’m sorry. If that… if that was too much.” Sieun whispers softly. Suho’s eyes open slowly. And then he’s turning around in the tub so he can face his boyfriend. Their eyes meet. Sieun’s face is red. “Were you really ok with that?” Suho asks softly. His boyfriend takes a moment to answer. Eyes flicking down to the water. “Yes. I mean that.” Suho waits. He can sense there’s more. “Are you happy with just me though?” Sieun whispers. “You- you don’t wish any of them stayed back right?” Suho clicks his tongue in disapproval. Brings his hands up to cup Sieun’s adorable cheeks. Leans forward and kisses Sieun’s nose. Then his cheeks. Then his forehead. “Oh my dear Sieunnie,” he whispers. “No. I don’t wish any of them stayed back. They may have been you. But they weren’t you. You’re the only one for me Sieun. Not five of you. Only you.You’re the only one I could ever want.” Sieun shivers under him. Then his head tilts up and their lips graze against each other in a soft kiss. Suho cups his boyfriends cheek, running his thumb along the soft skin. When they part, he still cradles Sieun’s face. Presses their bodies as close as he can in this position. Lets Sieun nuzzle into his chest as best as he can. “I guess you need to be visited by 4 Suho’s now hm? To make it fair,” Suho chuckles. Sieun hums. “Now that could be fun.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573726	{"authors": ["tsumufiles"], "language": "English", "title": "Let’s Hope The Walls Don’t Talk"}
Necrocoitus Fuck. Harry glanced at the newspaper, which reported yet another murder in the residential area near Diagon Alley. A recent wave of serial killers, most likely a concept stolen from the Muggle world, was sweeping across the wizarding world throughout Europe and America. The victim this time was an unknown gentleman named John Flume, who apparently sold potion supplies in a small shop near Diagon Alley. There was nothing unusual about him. "I don't understand, what happened to the victim's body?" Hermione frowned, looking at the newspaper. This wave of murders worried her terribly, mainly because of the bad connotation it gave to Muggles, further amplifying prejudices. "Why would someone kill someone just for the sake of killing?" “Maybe he got horny killing Flume?” Hermione looked at him, looking extremely concerned. "Harry, what– what makes you say that?” “What? It’s not like I’m wrong, is it? I mean, statistically, most serial killers kill for sexual gratification.” Hermione didn’t seem convinced at all, because she bit her lip and furrowed her brow in the same way whenever she couldn’t put a particularly complex thought into words. “Harry, you…” she hesitated. “You think it’s sexually exciting to kill someone?” “What? No, Hermione, I’ve never killed anyone.” Harry paused, sighing slightly exasperatedly. A warmth spread from his collarbone to his cheeks, and he felt relieved that it was dark enough that his friend wouldn’t notice the redness in his face. “Of course not. I mean, if I were a serial killer, I’d find killing someone hot. But I'm not.” “Harry. That’s… that’s wrong. People don’t think that way.” “What’s wrong with that? Of course, they think so! I’m not a serial killer, so it’s not hot. I just said that if I were, which I’m not, I’d get horny.” “Stop, stop, stop– just… stop talking for a moment, okay? That’s a very concerning thing to say. Even in jest. And no, people don’t think like that.” “Yeah, I suppose?” “You suppose? Harry, this isn’t a game,” Hermione frowned, her voice trembling slightly but still firm. She took a step back from him, eyes wide with something between fear and disappointment. “It doesn’t matter if you haven’t hurt anyone– if you’re sitting here romanticizing murder like it’s some kind of fantasy… that’s not normal. That’s not okay.” “...” “You... you don’t actually think like that, do you, Harry?” Harry fidgeted slightly under her intense gaze, unable to meet her eyes. He knew Hermione could read him like an open book, and he hated it at times like these. “Of course not,” he said quickly, a little too quickly for it to sound convincing. He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I was just talking nonsense, you know? Just saying stuff without thinking. It doesn’t mean anything.” “If your friends in Slytherin-” The shift in topic caught him off guard. Harry straightened a little. “This has nothing to do with me being in Slytherin.” Hermione's gaze seemed to harden slightly, a flicker of irritation flashing in her eyes. “Doesn’t it?” she asked, her tone sharp. “You don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that you're in the house that’s known for producing the most dark wizards?” Harry bristled at her words, his own irritation flaring. “Oh, not this again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Just because I’m in Slytherin doesn’t mean I’m automatically evil, Hermione.” “I didn’t say you were evil,” Hermione said, her voice softening slightly. “But don’t you think it’s strange? You’re talking about killers and their motivations as if you can understand them.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It worries me that you’re so... detached about it.” Harry's expression darkened. He didn’t need Hermione psychoanalysing him like she always did. “I'm not ‘detached,” he retorted, his voice sharper than intended. “I’m just curious, I guess. There’s nothing wrong with being curious.” * Harry was panting heavily, the cold air of the dark alley cutting through his clothes and causing him to shudder uncontrollably. His muscles were tense, his body thrumming with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. As he looked down at the body beneath him, his vision blurred in and out of focus. It was a man he’d never met, some poor sod who had been chosen randomly as his first victim. He could feel... something. A twisted, sick sense of satisfaction in knowing that he’d had the power to take this man’s life. It was... intoxicating. Addicting, even. He leaned down, the tip of his nose almost touching the victim’s neck. Fuck. Killing someone was actually hot. Shit, he’d just proved Hermione right. His breathing hitched at his own movement with a sharp intake of breath. His hips rolled against the body beneath him, a slow, almost involuntary motion that seemed to come from a place he didn’t even know existed. It was like a sudden release of tension, a wild and desperate need to feel some sort of stimulation after the rush of the kill. The sound of their pants against fabric was	Necrocoitus Fuck. Harry glanced at the newspaper, which reported yet another murder in the residential area near Diagon Alley. A recent wave of serial killers, most likely a concept stolen from the Muggle world, was sweeping across the wizarding world throughout Europe and America. The victim this time was an unknown gentleman named John Flume, who apparently sold potion supplies in a small shop near Diagon Alley. There was nothing unusual about him. "I don't understand, what happened to the victim's body?" Hermione frowned, looking at the newspaper. This wave of murders worried her terribly, mainly because of the bad connotation it gave to Muggles, further amplifying prejudices. "Why would someone kill someone just for the sake of killing?" “Maybe he got horny killing Flume?” Hermione looked at him, looking extremely concerned. "Harry, what– what makes you say that?” “What? It’s not like I’m wrong, is it? I mean, statistically, most serial killers kill for sexual gratification.” Hermione didn’t seem convinced at all, because she bit her lip and furrowed her brow in the same way whenever she couldn’t put a particularly complex thought into words. “Harry, you…” she hesitated. “You think it’s sexually exciting to kill someone?” “What? No, Hermione, I’ve never killed anyone.” Harry paused, sighing slightly exasperatedly. A warmth spread from his collarbone to his cheeks, and he felt relieved that it was dark enough that his friend wouldn’t notice the redness in his face. “Of course not. I mean, if I were a serial killer, I’d find killing someone hot. But I'm not.” “Harry. That’s… that’s wrong. People don’t think that way.” “What’s wrong with that? Of course, they think so! I’m not a serial killer, so it’s not hot. I just said that if I were, which I’m not, I’d get horny.” “Stop, stop, stop– just… stop talking for a moment, okay? That’s a very concerning thing to say. Even in jest. And no, people don’t think like that.” “Yeah, I suppose?” “You suppose? Harry, this isn’t a game,” Hermione frowned, her voice trembling slightly but still firm. She took a step back from him, eyes wide with something between fear and disappointment. “It doesn’t matter if you haven’t hurt anyone– if you’re sitting here romanticizing murder like it’s some kind of fantasy… that’s not normal. That’s not okay.” “...” “You... you don’t actually think like that, do you, Harry?” Harry fidgeted slightly under her intense gaze, unable to meet her eyes. He knew Hermione could read him like an open book, and he hated it at times like these. “Of course not,” he said quickly, a little too quickly for it to sound convincing. He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I was just talking nonsense, you know? Just saying stuff without thinking. It doesn’t mean anything.” “If your friends in Slytherin-” The shift in topic caught him off guard. Harry straightened a little. “This has nothing to do with me being in Slytherin.” Hermione's gaze seemed to harden slightly, a flicker of irritation flashing in her eyes. “Doesn’t it?” she asked, her tone sharp. “You don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that you're in the house that’s known for producing the most dark wizards?” Harry bristled at her words, his own irritation flaring. “Oh, not this again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Just because I’m in Slytherin doesn’t mean I’m automatically evil, Hermione.” “I didn’t say you were evil,” Hermione said, her voice softening slightly. “But don’t you think it’s strange? You’re talking about killers and their motivations as if you can understand them.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It worries me that you’re so... detached about it.” Harry's expression darkened. He didn’t need Hermione psychoanalysing him like she always did. “I'm not ‘detached,” he retorted, his voice sharper than intended. “I’m just curious, I guess. There’s nothing wrong with being curious.” * Harry was panting heavily, the cold air of the dark alley cutting through his clothes and causing him to shudder uncontrollably. His muscles were tense, his body thrumming with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. As he looked down at the body beneath him, his vision blurred in and out of focus. It was a man he’d never met, some poor sod who had been chosen randomly as his first victim. He could feel... something. A twisted, sick sense of satisfaction in knowing that he’d had the power to take this man’s life. It was... intoxicating. Addicting, even. He leaned down, the tip of his nose almost touching the victim’s neck. Fuck. Killing someone was actually hot. Shit, he’d just proved Hermione right. His breathing hitched at his own movement with a sharp intake of breath. His hips rolled against the body beneath him, a slow, almost involuntary motion that seemed to come from a place he didn’t even know existed. It was like a sudden release of tension, a wild and desperate need to feel some sort of stimulation after the rush of the kill. The sound of their pants against fabric was loud in the silence, and the sensation sent a new wave of heat through him. Shit. He couldn’t see himself in the dark of the alley, but he could imagine the scene. The sight of his body on top of the lifeless form, the movements of his hips as he ground against it, the way his hands gripped the fabric of the man’s shirt tightly. Merlin, what would Voldemort say if he saw that? Harry stilled for a moment, his hips freezing mid-roll. Voldemort, oh god... He closed his eyes, picturing Voldemort. Imagining his dark eyes watching him, his lips curving into a cruel smirk at the sight of Harry, his enemy, taking his pleasure from the body beneath him. He'd call Harry weak. His Lord would find it ridiculous and extremely distasteful that Harry would allow himself to be carried away by feelings – very personalemotions, that is – rather than reason. And not only that, Harry is leaving many loose ends and running a huge risk of being caught by Aurors and going to Azkaban. If anyone catches him now, there's no excuse that can save him. The scene itself is completely illegal. Or maybe, Harry grounded down again with a quiet whimper escaping him, maybe He’d reward me. He imagined His hand on his back, the soft whisper of His voice in his ear. “You’ll make a fine addition to My ranks, Harry.” He began to move again, hips grinding more forcefully against the dead body. He was so lost in the moment, so caught up in the twisted fantasy, that it almost felt like Voldemort himself was there, watching. He could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. “My Lord,” he gasped aloud, as he ground down against the dead body, chasing the release it brought him. “Yes, my Lord, please…” His body trembled as he reached the peak of his pleasure, his head tilting back in the dark alleyway as a muffed scream tore through him; no sound came out, only ragged breaths and the quiet thud of his heartbeat in his ears. He collapsed forward slightly, arms trembling as they held him up over the corpse. He felt empty yet full. Terrified yet euphoric. Harry staggered back, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He just killed someone. And then he masturbated over the corpse, thinking about his archenemy. “Oh, God,” he choked out, bile rising in his throat. “Oh, God—” He stumbled, his legs suddenly feeling like jelly. He hit the concrete wall, leaning heavily against it. After a few minutes, Harry got up, somewhat dazed. He needed to clean up this mess and think about what to do with his body. Hermione was right. Slytherin was doing him bad. * “Who’d have guessed… The boy-who-lived, Dumbledore’s golden boy and the Light’s icon, likes to indulge in necrophilia when no one is looking.” “Shut the fuck up, you don’t know shit about me,” Harry cursed. “How did you get in my room?” “How dare you speak to me like that,” Voldemort hissed in a low voice. “You think I don’t know what I’m talking about? You think I haven’t seen the darkest of men fall to their baser instincts?” He leaned in close until their faces were inches apart, his crimson eyes boring into Harry's green ones. “You’re no better than a common animal,” Voldemort spat out with disdain. “Rutting against a corpse like some mindless beast.” “Go to hell, Voldemort” Harry shouted, his voice trembling with defiance despite the fear coursing through him. “You don’t get to judge me. You’ve killed hundreds, thousands! You’re a monster!” He tried to pull back, but Voldemort’s grip was unrelenting. “Even my own Death Eaters wouldn’t stoop so low as to practice necrophilia,” The Dark Lord said with a disgusted tone. “Although... you would make a fine addition to my ranks. No one judges proclivities in my ranks, regardless of how depraved they may be.” “I’d rather die than join you.” “You'd rather die, hm?” he mused cruelly. “Considering your new... preferences, I suppose that would be rather enjoyable for you, wouldn’t it?” Harry whimpered, his hand moving over the fabric of his pants, his imagination taking over. He could almost feel Voldemort’s breath on his skin, his cold eyes watching him as he touched himself – his breath hitching in short gasps between each of Voldemort’s sentences. “And yet,” Harry imagined Voldemort saying, “Here you are.” Harry collapsed, falling even further in his bed. His limbs trembled, and he could still feel parts of his thighs throbbing. What a mess, all of this, a tremendous, enormous fucking mess. What would Voldemort really say if he saw him like this? Beyond his bizarre, sudden fantasy with the Dark Lord (which he almost thought were real for a moment), he wouldn’t know. You-Know-Who was the most fickle constant that existed, and he didn’t want to risk finding out either. Here he was, indeed.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573731	{"authors": ["necromancis"], "language": "English", "title": "Necrocoitus"}
Jack of Spades “C’mon, Danny, I just want to support my friends,” Bosco urged. “I’m not paying a hundred dollars to see this band I’ve never heard of,” Daniel refused. Bosco groaned. “You don’t have to, just drop me off!” “I’m not letting you go to a concert by yourself,” Daniel said, “So I would have to go with you, which means you’re not going.” “You suck!” Bosco spat, “This is June and Charlie’s band, you know how much I…” He trailed off. “They said they could get me backstage passes, for me and whoever I bring. And as embarrassing as it is to bring my… parental figure, they also know how big a control freak you are, so I’m not sure they’ll be surprised.” Bosco mostly refused to call Daniel dad, and honestly, Daniel probably preferred it that way. He wasn’t a dad, he was someone who was borderline forced into taking someone in through foster care. He just happened to have the role of a dad. Which meant cooking, chauffeuring, paying, guiding, and overall controlling Bosco’s life. Bosco got along with Henley’s kids, which was great, but also got along with her ‘adopted’ kids, which consisted of June and Charlie. They weren’t actually her kids, but they were at one point fostered by the girl she liked, and they were fairly close. They were each a year older than Bosco, and were in a band. Apparently a famous enough band that they were going on tour. Their first stop was in Chicago, where they all lived. Which was the concert Bosco wanted to attend. “This is probably gonna be my last chance to see them in person before they leave for tour, they’re going to be so busy between then and when they take off,” Bosco explained. “C’mon, man, please!” “Bosco, I said no already,” Daniel insisted. “You’re ruining my life!” Bosco exclaimed, marching off. “Very cliche teenager of you!” Daniel called after him, even though Bosco was still considered an adult at 18. Bosco turned around. “I’m betting Henley will be there,” He tried. “She could accompany me, then you wouldn’t have to go.” “I’m not entrusting you to Henley,” Daniel said, starting to get annoyed with this whole thing. “Fine,” Bosco said, “You want me to never be happy, and you hate me. Got it.” “I’ve never felt more like a father than just now, thanks,” Daniel said. Daniel was hoping Bosco had dropped it, but he got a call later that night from Henley, who ripped into him about letting Bosco go to this concert. In the end, Daniel caved. Which is how Daniel ended up at a concert. Surrounded by, primarily, teenagers. “Danny, we gotta get to the front to get backstage,” Bosco said. Daniel silently groaned as they made their way through the already thick crowd, even though it was still a while before they started. Daniel didn’t get it. They made it to the front, somehow, and were met by security. Security let them through as soon as they showed off their backstage passes. “This is awesome,” Bosco breathed as they walked through the halls to get to the greenroom. They knocked, because of course they did, and the door opened up. Henley. “Hey, guys! I can’t believe you made it,” She said excitedly. “Well, believe it, you forced me to do this,” Daniel responded. Henley rolled her eyes. She let them in, revealing the room filled with snacks and big comfy couches. “Bosco!” Daniel heard, and then suddenly Charlie and June appeared in front of them. They hugged him together and Daniel fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew about his son’s massive crush on the two of them, this probably didn’t do it much good. “Hey, guys,” A new voice said, “You must be Bosco and Danny, I’ve heard a lot about you guys.” “I’m sorry, who are you?” Daniel asked on instinct. The guy smiled. “Dude!” Bosco said, backhanding his dad’s arm. “That’s Jack Wilder. The frontman for the band. Jack of Spades. It’s in the name,” He said. “It’s great to meet you, man, I’m a huge fan.” “Glad to hear it,” Jack said, shaking his hand. “Though, it is refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t know me,” Jack said, looking at Daniel. “Feels like all the people I meet these days knows me, it’s exhausting. I’m Jack, nice to meet you.” “Right,” Daniel said plainly, shaking Jack’s hand too. “I hear you two like magic,” Jack said. “The only thing we have in common,” Bosco confirmed with a nod. “Why? You know magic?” Daniel asked. Jack bobbed his head as the rest of the band snickered. “Not technically,” He said, “But I can do this,” He said, pulling a phone out of his back pocket. “That’s my-” Daniel said, reaching for it. Jack pulled it back. “I’ll give it back if you let me put my number in,” He said with a wink. “What?” Daniel asked, confused, clearly not getting what everyone else in the room understood. “That’s ridiculous, just give me my phone back.” “Ah, it was worth a shot,” Jack said before tossing Daniel his phone. “It’s not that impressive,” June said. “We can all do it,” She said, pulling another phone from her pocket. “Stop stealing my phone,” Bosco said, reaching for it, but June pulled back too. “Aw,	Jack of Spades “C’mon, Danny, I just want to support my friends,” Bosco urged. “I’m not paying a hundred dollars to see this band I’ve never heard of,” Daniel refused. Bosco groaned. “You don’t have to, just drop me off!” “I’m not letting you go to a concert by yourself,” Daniel said, “So I would have to go with you, which means you’re not going.” “You suck!” Bosco spat, “This is June and Charlie’s band, you know how much I…” He trailed off. “They said they could get me backstage passes, for me and whoever I bring. And as embarrassing as it is to bring my… parental figure, they also know how big a control freak you are, so I’m not sure they’ll be surprised.” Bosco mostly refused to call Daniel dad, and honestly, Daniel probably preferred it that way. He wasn’t a dad, he was someone who was borderline forced into taking someone in through foster care. He just happened to have the role of a dad. Which meant cooking, chauffeuring, paying, guiding, and overall controlling Bosco’s life. Bosco got along with Henley’s kids, which was great, but also got along with her ‘adopted’ kids, which consisted of June and Charlie. They weren’t actually her kids, but they were at one point fostered by the girl she liked, and they were fairly close. They were each a year older than Bosco, and were in a band. Apparently a famous enough band that they were going on tour. Their first stop was in Chicago, where they all lived. Which was the concert Bosco wanted to attend. “This is probably gonna be my last chance to see them in person before they leave for tour, they’re going to be so busy between then and when they take off,” Bosco explained. “C’mon, man, please!” “Bosco, I said no already,” Daniel insisted. “You’re ruining my life!” Bosco exclaimed, marching off. “Very cliche teenager of you!” Daniel called after him, even though Bosco was still considered an adult at 18. Bosco turned around. “I’m betting Henley will be there,” He tried. “She could accompany me, then you wouldn’t have to go.” “I’m not entrusting you to Henley,” Daniel said, starting to get annoyed with this whole thing. “Fine,” Bosco said, “You want me to never be happy, and you hate me. Got it.” “I’ve never felt more like a father than just now, thanks,” Daniel said. Daniel was hoping Bosco had dropped it, but he got a call later that night from Henley, who ripped into him about letting Bosco go to this concert. In the end, Daniel caved. Which is how Daniel ended up at a concert. Surrounded by, primarily, teenagers. “Danny, we gotta get to the front to get backstage,” Bosco said. Daniel silently groaned as they made their way through the already thick crowd, even though it was still a while before they started. Daniel didn’t get it. They made it to the front, somehow, and were met by security. Security let them through as soon as they showed off their backstage passes. “This is awesome,” Bosco breathed as they walked through the halls to get to the greenroom. They knocked, because of course they did, and the door opened up. Henley. “Hey, guys! I can’t believe you made it,” She said excitedly. “Well, believe it, you forced me to do this,” Daniel responded. Henley rolled her eyes. She let them in, revealing the room filled with snacks and big comfy couches. “Bosco!” Daniel heard, and then suddenly Charlie and June appeared in front of them. They hugged him together and Daniel fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew about his son’s massive crush on the two of them, this probably didn’t do it much good. “Hey, guys,” A new voice said, “You must be Bosco and Danny, I’ve heard a lot about you guys.” “I’m sorry, who are you?” Daniel asked on instinct. The guy smiled. “Dude!” Bosco said, backhanding his dad’s arm. “That’s Jack Wilder. The frontman for the band. Jack of Spades. It’s in the name,” He said. “It’s great to meet you, man, I’m a huge fan.” “Glad to hear it,” Jack said, shaking his hand. “Though, it is refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t know me,” Jack said, looking at Daniel. “Feels like all the people I meet these days knows me, it’s exhausting. I’m Jack, nice to meet you.” “Right,” Daniel said plainly, shaking Jack’s hand too. “I hear you two like magic,” Jack said. “The only thing we have in common,” Bosco confirmed with a nod. “Why? You know magic?” Daniel asked. Jack bobbed his head as the rest of the band snickered. “Not technically,” He said, “But I can do this,” He said, pulling a phone out of his back pocket. “That’s my-” Daniel said, reaching for it. Jack pulled it back. “I’ll give it back if you let me put my number in,” He said with a wink. “What?” Daniel asked, confused, clearly not getting what everyone else in the room understood. “That’s ridiculous, just give me my phone back.” “Ah, it was worth a shot,” Jack said before tossing Daniel his phone. “It’s not that impressive,” June said. “We can all do it,” She said, pulling another phone from her pocket. “Stop stealing my phone,” Bosco said, reaching for it, but June pulled back too. “Aw, but your lockscreen is so cute!” She teased, turning the phone on to show off the picture of the three of them. Bosco snatched it back from her. “We all do magic, these two are just thieves,” Charlie said to Daniel. “It’s the hobby that brought us all together, really,” He said wistfully. “Yeah,” Jack agreed, “I would’ve never met these two, or Lula if it weren’t for magic.” “I would’ve never kept this one if it weren’t for magic,” Daniel joked, motioning to Bosco with his head, though no one else in the room was fully sure it was a joke. “Where is the elusive Lula anyway? I was beginning to think Henley made her up.” “She’s flirting with Henley as we speak,” June said, pointing to where Henley and Lula were sitting on one of the couches. Lula fed Henley a potato chip. “I see,” Daniel said stiffly. “Pardon him, I don’t think he’s used to the idea of Henley with a woman,” Bosco said, “He’s not homophobic or anything, he just didn’t know Henley was bi until Lula.” “She told me she was bi, I just never saw any proof of it,” Daniel said. “No one has to prove anything to you,” June said. “No, that’s not what I meant,” Daniel said. “Everyone just relax,” Jack said. He put his hand on Daniel’s arm, making him freeze up. “Don’t mind her, she’s nervous because this is her first big concert like this. Tensions are high.” “Come on,” Charlie said, taking June’s hand, “Let’s go stuff our faces before we go onstage,” He said with a smile, pulling June and Bosco to the snack table. “So what’s up with those two?” Daniel asked, “I’ve only heard of Charlie and June from Bosco, which is to say, as little as he can physically tell me.” Jack laughed. “They have a little flirtationship going on,” He said, “They’re not fully together, but they’re also not single really. Hell, I’m sure Bosco’s in the same boat.” “What do you mean?” Jack froze, feeling awkward. “I mean… well, you know those two have it for him, right?” He asked. “I’m not understanding,” Daniel said. Jack sighed. “Charlie and June want to date your kid,” He said quietly, as to not let the kids hear them. “Oh,” Daniel said. “Oh! I mean, I knew Bosco liked them, I just assumed he’d end up with one of them, not… both of them, I suppose.” “Yeah, it’s not really something most people think about,” Jack said, “But it’s a thing. What about you, you’re single, right?” He asked, like he was legitimately interested in knowing the answer. “Well, yes,” Daniel said, “But I don’t have time for a relationship, with my job and Bosco,” He said. “What is it that you do, exactly?” Jack asked. “I’m a high school teacher,” Daniel said, “So not exactly the glamorous life you’re living.” “No, but it’s a living,” Jack said. “If I didn’t do this, I’d probably be back in New York, picking pockets,” He said. “You do seem weirdly adept at doing that,” Daniel said. “You think you could make a living off of it?” “No, I’d be out on the street. But at least I could eat.” “What about winter?” “I’d be fucked,” Jack said. The two shared a soft laugh. “I was serious about putting my number in your phone,” Jack said suddenly. “Why?” Daniel asked. “Well, all our friends seem to get along,” Jack said, motioning to the folks around them. “Maybe we’d get along too.” “Oh, they’re not my friends,” Daniel said, “Henley and I used to work together, and she’s been a thorn in my side ever since. Bosco’s my kid, and that’s all the people I know.” “Well, I’d like to get along with you,” Jack said. “You don’t even know me,” Daniel said simply, “I’m a control freak, I’m neurotic, I’m not good company.” “Who said that’s for you to decide?” Jack asked. “You don’t have to give me your number, I just thought maybe. You’d want updates on Charlie, June and Bosco’s relationship,” He said. Daniel’s face morphed into confusion. “What are you talking about?” Daniel asked. “Do you think Bosco would tell you anything if something happened?” Jack asked, “I’m willing to bet he wouldn’t. But June and Charlie tell me everything. I could tell you everything.” Daniel debated it. After Bosco turned 18, he stopped monitoring his text messages, sort of as a sign of respect, and to let Bosco feel like a real adult. He did keep his location on, but that was more of a safety thing, or at least that’s what Daniel claimed. And Jack was right. Even though Bosco was enamoured with June and Charlie, he’d almost never tell Daniel if something happened on purpose. At best he’d let something slip by accident. “Fine,” Daniel said. “But only for any updates about Bosco,” He said. “No, in order to get updates, you have to talk to me. Once a week.” “Jack—” “That’s the deal, take it or leave it. Otherwise you’ll never know about your son’s love life.” Jack had to try not to laugh at how ridiculous that sounded. But if Daniel was really a control freak, he’d want to know. “Fine,” Daniel said. They exchanged numbers. Jack had a big grin on his face the whole time. “You guys should get back out there, we’re gonna go onstage soon,” Jack said, getting Bosco’s attention too. “Right,” Bosco said. “C’mon, Danny, Henley.” “We’re coming,” Daniel said. “I’ll meet you guys out there,” Henley said. “You guys are welcome to come backstage again after the show, but fair warning, we might be tired,” Charlie said. Daniel and Bosco headed out, and Henley approached Jack. “You got Daniel’s number,” She observed. “Why?” “I dunno,” Jack said with a shrug, “He’s pretty cute.” “He’s a total control freak, if you let him into your life, he’ll try to take it over,” Henley warned. Jack shrugged. “Not much he can do to control me while I’m all over the country,” Jack said. “And I think I can handle him.” “Alright, Jack,” Henley said, “I’m just trying to give you a warning.” She turned to Lula. “I’m gonna head out there.” “Okay,” Lula said. “Good luck,” Henley added before placing a kiss on Lula’s cheek and heading out. “You two seem to be getting along,” Jack teased. “Shut up,” Lula responded, shoving him in the arm. “It’s so loud out here, how are we even going to hear the music?” Daniel exaggerated. “There are speakers,” Bosco responded. “And it’ll probably quiet down a little bit when they come out.” “Probably,” Daniel repeated. Soon enough, the band came out. “What’s up, Chicago!” Jack called, and the crowd cheered. “As you know, I grew up in New York, but this has been my home for the better part of five years. And this has always been the home of my band. It’s my honour and my pleasure to start the first leg of our tour here. Thank you for having us.” The crowd cheered again, somehow louder than the first time. There was more to the introduction, but Daniel didn’t pay much attention to it. Jack introduced June, Lula and Charlie, something about how they didn’t get enough attention. Which was fair, but if he wanted to give them more attention, maybe he shouldn’t have named the band after himself. That’s what Daniel thought, anyway. After the introduction, Jack started their first song, In the Deck. It was kind of enthralling seeing Jack like this. He was in his element, beautiful and graceful, but strong and intense. Daniel couldn’t keep his eyes off him. He was hypnotising. He didn’t want to be attracted to him, but it was inevitable like this. Women must’ve been swarming the man. He suddenly understood what he meant by saying he was glad to meet someone who didn’t know him. The music was alright. Not quite in Daniel’s interest, but he could see some of these songs getting stuck in his head. Maybe having to text him once a week won’t be so bad. Jack: This is Jack. Time for your weekly check-in. How’s work? Daniel: Not as fun as yours, I’m sure. Lot’s of disrespectful kids who don’t like following the rules. But they’re not so bad these days, it’s later in the school year. It’s worse at the beginning. For me at least, I’ve heard the opposite from other teachers. What about you, how’s tour? Jack: Exhausting, but rewarding. Charlie and June are having a lot of fun. Daniel: That means underage drinking, doesn’t it? Jack: Uhhhhh Daniel: I feel like this counts in telling me things about my son’s relationship with them. I don’t want him around bad influences. Jack: They aren’t drinking that much, and they’re always supervised by me and Lula. And did you not drink at their age? Daniel: I did, but that doesn’t mean I want Bosco to. Jack: Well, lucky for you, Charlie and June are over 300 miles away and can’t peer pressure him into drinking. Congrats man. Daniel: How long are you guys going to be on tour anyway? Jack: Six months. It’s two shows a week, one show in each state. It’s a lot of sitting in a bus. Daniel: Sounds like it. Do you sleep there too? Jack: Nah, we got hotels. Thank god, I think I’d die if I had to sleep in the same room as Lula for six months. She sleep talks. Daniel: Why do you know that? Jack: We used to date back when I first moved to Chicago. She was the only reason I didn’t go homeless. And then it was pure luck that our music went viral and that I was able to start making our living off of that, like two years after we started living together. Daniel: That is lucky. Jack: I didn’t even have a drummer or guitarist at first, I put together the instrumental with my computer. I can’t play an instrument to save my life, but I’m good with the music programs. Daniel: How’d you meet June and Charlie then? Jack: I knew them already. Lula and I were fostering them. I got a job to help support us, but we wanted to help kids who needed it. Charlie and June were inseparable, so we took them both in. This meant them sharing a room, and also me and Lula sharing a room. It was torture lol Jack: Anyway, Charlie always wanted to learn guitar, so he learned, and June already knew drums. She had only entered fostercare recently, so I think she learned as a kid. As soon as they learned I made music they wanted in on it. Daniel: From what I know about them, that sounds about right. Daniel: I thought you said you never would’ve met Charlie and June without magic. Jack: Well, I never would’ve met Charlie and June if I didn’t move to Chicago. And Lula and I met over a magic forum, so. Daniel: Ah, I see. Jack: So how’d you get into magic? Daniel: Seriously? That’s what you’re spending this week talking about? My dead end hobby? Jack: I also like magic, I’m just wondering how you got into it. I can answer the question first if you want. Daniel: Sure, go ahead. Jack: When I was 13 I saw this magician called Magicolio and I thought he was so cool. He was like 16, he was smooth, he knew what he was doing. He was confident. But most importantly, people willingly gave him money. Just for doing magic. Jack: And while I wasn’t exactly a homeless kid, my family really was struggling. So I thought maybe I could do it to earn some extra money, since I couldn’t get a job, I was too young. Jack: Soon I learned it was easier to steal money off of people than to get it naturally. Sometimes I’d do tricks just to pickpocket people. So I did that for a while. I’m still good at it, so it’s a good party trick, but it doesn’t go further than that. Daniel: Magicolio? Where was this exactly? Jack: Here in Chicago. My dad brought me along for a business trip, it was a desperate attempt to get a sale. Daniel: So you… started doing magic… because you saw some fifteen year old kid doing magic. Named Magicolio. Jack: Yeah, that’s what I just said Daniel: Oh boy… Jack: ??? Daniel: Yeah, that was me. Magicolio was my magic persona when I was 15. I did it behind my parents back while they were at work. Jack: You’re fucking lying, no way Daniel: I wish I were lying. This is the most embarrassing moment of my life. Jack: Aww, don’t be embarrassed. I was a huge fan. Daniel: That’s part of the embarrassing part. Jack: What about you? Why did you start doing magic? Why’d you do magic behind your parents back? Daniel: My parents used to control every aspect of my life. What I did, who I interacted with, where I went, what I ate, what I watched, my hobbies. And one day when they were at work, I snuck out to see the magicians on the street. I begged some to teach me, and eventually one did. I was a fast learner and got good fast. And magic involved so much control, it’s like it was what I needed. Some control. Daniel: It was easier to sneak out during work days, when my dad was at work and my mom was having her affair time. When I was left pretty much unattended. Daniel: One day I was caught though, and everything I could possibly use for magic was taken away from me. Well, everything they could think of, you can pretty much do magic with anything really. I needed their money, so I couldn’t do too much magic all throughout the rest of high school and college. But once I moved out, I started doing magic again. I adopted Bosco and we started doing magic together. Now magic has a specific, and special place in my heart. Jack: Sounds more special than my story. Daniel: Yeah, well, your story involved pickpocketing and scamming people. Jack: Fair enough. Daniel hated to admit it, but he actually enjoyed texting Jack every week. It had been a month, and it was probably the highlight of his week at this point. He always texted on a Wednesday, saying that it was the middle of the week. But Daniel wanted to text him more, he just didn’t know how to say it. Being vulnerable wasn’t exactly his strong suit. Luckily, he didn’t have to start texting on an off day, because Jack did it for him. On a Friday, he got a text from Jack. Jack: JUNE AND CHARLIE JUST TOLD ME THEY HAVE A VIDEO DATE WITH BOSCO Daniel: When Jack: Tonight Daniel: Don’t you have a concert tonight? Jack: Yeah, after that. Daniel: Won’t it be like 11 by the time you guys stop? Bosco’s supposed to go to bed at 10:30 Jack: Yeah, well, you can’t possibly expect him to follow that, do you? Daniel: Of course I do. The wifi shuts off at 10:30. Jack: Idk how he’s planning on calling them then. That’s just the information I have. Daniel: I appriciate that. Daniel: How’s your day going? Is rehearsal going well? Jack: As well as ever. I’ve been trying to write a new song though and I’ve been struggling. I might ask June and Lula to help, they’re pretty good with words. Daniel: Oh, you write your songs? Jack: Yeah, who’d you think did it? Daniel: I don’t know, I never really thought about it. Jack: Yeah, I write all our songs. But I know June’s been urging me to let her write one. And sing one. I’m just worried that the fans will rip her apart. Daniel: Why? Jack: Because she’s just a kid. I’m used to when people hate on me,it happens all the time. But if it happens to her, I don’t want her getting hurt. Daniel: People hate on you? Jack: Sure, all the time. They say I’m different now that I have a band, that my original music is better, or just straight up that I’m a bad singer, bad song writer. I’m used to it all though. It’s not like I wasn’t bullied growing up, but that was mostly about being poor. Daniel: I see. What about June, has she been bullied? Jack: Well, yeah, but I don’t want her to have to go through that again. And I know she wants a song about Charlie and Bosco, she wants to write a poly love song. Which I’m all for, I think it’s a lovely idea, I just think she’ll get ripped apart for it. Daniel was typing out a reply when Merrit McKinney, a fellow teacher, started talking to him. “What’s with that smile on your face?” He asked. “Let me guess, a girl. No, no, a boy.” “Stop it,” Daniel said. Merritt was a psychology teacher for a pre-college class. He was supposed to be a psych teacher at The University of Chicago, but his brother screwed him out of that job. Now he worked at some high school where Daniel had to deal with all his psychology teacher-ness. “I can see it on your face,” Merritt said. “You’re talking to a boy. You like him, more than you like most people. Though I know that’s not saying a lot.” “Merritt, stop, I’m not interested in your whole psych teacher thing.” “You met maybe a month ago? Through your little kid.” “He’s not a little kid, and he’s hardly mine,” Daniel said, hoping to divert the subject. “He’s in a band, isn’t he? I never saw you going for someone just because they were in a band.” “I don’t care that he’s in a band, Merritt, he’s just good conversation. Passes the time. And his friends are friends with Bosco, so it’s in my best interest to be friends with him,” Daniel explained. Deep, deep down he knew though. He did have a little crush on Jack. Not anything too big, nothing that would make him even sort of think of pursuing it. But somewhere, deep down, he wanted something. He wanted a kiss before bed. He wanted to fall asleep on call. He wanted to have someone to hold, and he wanted that person to be Jack. It was weird. He wasn’t used to feeling like this. Crushes weren’t something he just got. He used to sort of have a thing for Henley, but it didn’t feel like this. This felt more natural. Like it was real, and the thing with Henley was just a fake. “Sure thing, Danny boy,” Merritt said. “Invite me to the wedding, will you?” “Never gonna happen.” “Don’t worry, I won’t come, I’ll just send a gift,” Merritt joked. “I meant the wedding, smartass,” Daniel retorted. That night, when 11 o’clock hit, he visited Bosco’s room. He was ‘asleep in bed.’ The call must’ve not started yet. Daniel: You guys done with the show yet? Jack: Like just now, yeah. We’re heading back to the hotel rn. Why? Daniel: Bosco’s pretending to be asleep. Jack: Why don’t you just let them call? Bosco clearly likes them. Daniel: He could’ve asked me. I would’ve understood, but instead he’s going behind my back. Jack: Would you have though? Or would you have just refused it. Daniel: But I do understand. I mean, we’re sort of friends, we text all the time, I understand the desire to still interact with someone after they’re done with their job and it’s late at night. Jack: Aww, you like interacting with me. Daniel: Not what I said. Jack: But you implied it. I’m taking that as a win. And you said we’re sort of friends. From J Daniel Atlas, that’s totally a win. Daniel: Whatever, think what you want to think. Jack: And that’s basically admitting I’m right! So many wins today. Daniel decided he’d leave it be this time. If this shit ever happened again, he’d be confronting Bosco for sure, and letting him know that he understood his relationship with these people, and if he really really needed to call them so late at night, he could turn the wifi back on for him. After all, Bosco was an adult, and though he had to respect curfew, and Daniel would prefer he keep his sleep schedule in check, there were always exceptions. But in the future, he hoped they’d just call on days when they don’t have concerts. Jack: Lula’s asking how long ago Henley and her ex husband got divorced. Daniel: Like six years ago. She knows Henley’s into her, why don’t they just ask each other out already? Jack: I think Lula’s waiting for Henley to make the first move, since Henley would probably wear the pants in the relationship. But she does seem to be getting a little tired with the song and dance they keep doing. Apparently they call most nights just to fall asleep together, and at this point it’s like, you two are basically dating. Just make it official. Daniel: I think I knew that. Henley tells me a lot of stuff about Lula, I just tend to tune it out. Jack: Real friend behaviour right there. Daniel: Sarcasm. Jack: Yes. Daniel: Maybe I’ll nudge Henley into making a move. That way you don’t have to like. Keep listening to Lula complain about not technically having a girlfriend. Jack: That would be great. Jack: What about you, do you have a girlfriend? Daniel: We are not talking about this. Daniel: How’s the song writing coming along? Jack: Better. June started helping me, she’s really excited about being credited for a song, even though it’s a co-writing position. Daniel: Makes sense. I’m glad it’s coming along well. What’s the song about anyway? Jack: It’s kind of about a bunch of stuff, but mostly the pressures that come with being the oldest child in a poor family. Something I know a lot about. Daniel: You have siblings? Jack: Yeah, four of them. They’re all younger than me though. The youngest is eight years younger than me. Daniel: Your parents must’ve been busy. Jack: Gross dude Daniel: I meant because they’d be working to support five kids, asshole. Jack: Ohhh. Well, my dad was, he worked a lot. But my mom was a stay-at-home mom. My family didn’t believe in women working. Daniel: Oh boy Jack: Yeahhh. My dad actually made decent money, it’s just that there were so many of us that it didn’t matter. And y’know, living in New York. Daniel: They crammed all of you into an apartment? Jack: Yep. Unpleasant. Daniel: I believe you. I was an only child. Jack: Yeah, I know. Daniel: You know? How do you know? Jack: I mean, mostly I can just tell, but also, you said your parents controlled every aspect of your life. I’m sure if they had two kids they could probably still do that, but if they had three of more, they probably wouldn’t be able to, especially if they were working all the time. Daniel: God, you’re reminding me of Merritt. Jack: Your psych teacher coworker? Oh, geez, you hate that guy. Daniel: Yes. Jack: I’ll stop. Daniel: Good. Jack: It’s official, Charlie, June and Bosco are partners. Daniel: Oh. Jack: Are you okay? Daniel: No, I’m fine. I knew it would happen, they all clearly like each other. I’m just still surprised somehow. Jack: They’ve been going on video call dates for a while now, you know that. Daniel: Yes, I do. It’s just weirder to hear that my sort of kid has a boyfriend and a girlfriend. Jack: Is it because you don’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend? Daniel: Didn’t I already say we weren’t going to talk about that? Daniel: Bosco finally told me about his relationship. Jack: Two weeks later? Oh boy Daniel: Yeah. I didn’t want to pressure him into telling me, so I haven’t brought them up in a while. But as soon as I did, he used it as a segue to talk about it. Jack: It’s nice that you didn’t pressure him into telling you. Daniel: Well, I already knew, so what does it matter if he knows that or not. Jack: Less nice. Daniel: That is what people say about me, yes. Jack: Does Bosco know we talk? Daniel: I avoid telling him. When he told me they were dating I just pretended like I didn’t know. Though I didn’t act surprised because seriously, that boy likes them so much. Jack: Right. Well, just so you know, my band knows that we talk. Daniel: Right, I’m sure you can’t shut up about me. Jack: Right, well, you don’t have to make fun of me for it. Daniel: I was joking. Jack: Oh. Another three months passed. Merritt still made fun of Daniel any time he got that look on his face, and after hearing him listening to Jack of Spades, deduced that it was Jack Wilder that he seemed so gone for. They talked almost every day now, though sometimes it was just about Bosco, Charlie and June. Occasionally about Lula and Henley, who eventually got their shit together. Bosco called Charlie and June nights they didn’t have concerts, after a long talk about why Daniel didn’t want them always calling on concert nights. He didn’t understand why Charlie and June wanted to talk after a long night of music playing anyway, they must’ve been exhausted. That’s how Jack always seemed after concerts anyway. Not that Daniel stayed up on nights specifically to talk to Jack after his concerts. That would make him a hypocrite. Okay, maybe he did on this night, but that didn’t mean he did on other nights. Daniel: Text me when you're done with your concert. It wasn’t the first time he had sent that text, but he still liked to send it, just in case Jack forgot. The response didn’t come in until a couple of hours later, usually, when they got back to the hotel. Jack: All done for the night. It wasn’t so bad tonight, but I think the audience was smaller than usual, which is kind of a bummer. Daniel: I’m sure the next one will be bigger. Jack: Thanks. Jack: Hey, you wouldn’t want to call, would you? Daniel: What? Really? I’m not sure I’d be great company. Jack: I just got done with a concert, neither am I. Daniel: Real convincing. Jack: Please? Damnit. Daniel: Fine. The call came in pretty quickly after Daniel sent that message, but he waited a moment before he picked up. “Danny!” Jack said happily, if not tiredly. “Jack,” Daniel said, much less cheerfully. Someone who really knew him would know he was happy though. “Why did you want to call exactly?” “Oh, come on, Danny, I’ve only heard your voice like once in my whole life. I wanted to hear it again.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I hear your voice all the time,” Daniel joked before he even realised what he was implying. There was a small pause. “You listen to our music?” He asked cheekily. Another pause as Daniel hesitated. “No,” He said. “You do! That is so sweet,” Jack said. “No, it’s not sweet, I just like your music.” “And that’s sweet,” Jack argued. “What’s your favourite song?” “I’d rather not answer that question.” Daniel’s favourite song was a love song that was sung to the listener. Rather, the listener was supposed to be whoever the love song was to. “Oh, c’mon, it can’t be that embarrassing. They are my songs after all, so it’d be more embarrassing that I wrote it than you liking it.” “I’d still like not to answer,” Daniel pleaded. “Okay, alright, as you wish,” Jack relented. “But really, it’s not fair you get to hear my voice all the time, and I’ve only heard yours once. Unfair.” “Sure,” Daniel said. “Anything you want to talk about in particular?” He asked. “Just tell me about your day. I’m probably going to fall asleep soon,” Jack said. “Then why did you want to call?” Daniel asked. “I wanted to hear your voice, remember?” “Yeah, yeah,” Daniel dismissed. Daniel began to talk about his day as Jack stayed silent, and he talked for longer than he probably should've, since Jack probably fell asleep right away. He didn't hang up before going to sleep. He didn't even know why, it just felt rude to somehow. Besides, he fell asleep pretty naturally. He got pretty tired while he was talking and by the time he shut his eyes, he was practically asleep already. Unfortunately, being on call meant the alarm on his phone didn’t go off properly in the morning. Which meant he woke up to… “Danny!” Bosco pounded on his door. “Dude, you gotta get up! We gotta get to work!” Bosco scheduled his job specifically so that he worked a similar shift to his father, so they could drive together. “Dude!” He said, pounding on the door. He pushed the door open. “What the fuck is happening,” He muttered quietly as he witnessed the sight before him. His dad, sleeping on the bed, laying on his stomach. Beside him was his smart phone, plugged in, silently pulsing with an alarm. Bosco sighed and pushed his dad off his bed. “Ow!” Daniel groaned as he hit the floor. “What was that for?” “We’re running late,” Bosco said, dismissing Daniel’s alarm. “What was that?” A tired voice asked through Daniel’s phone. Bosco froze, seeing the name on the contact. “Jack?” He asked. He looked at his dad. “As in Jack Wilder?” He asked. “Uhhh,” Daniel hesitated. “Yes, yeah, that’s who that is.” “Since when are you two friends?” Bosco asked. “Since the concert,” Daniel admitted. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Bosco asked. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating June and Charlie sooner?” Daniel shot back. “Do not turn this back around on me,” Bosco said, “Fuck, we can’t have this conversation right now. Get ready for work, you have fifteen minutes before we’re detrimentally late,” He said before leaving the room and slamming the door behind him. “Did I get you in trouble?” Jack asked. His voice was deep with sleep and it made Daniel feel things that he couldn’t afford to feel right now. “Maybe a little,” Daniel said. “Aw, I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to.” “I know, Jack,” Daniel sighed. “Look, I gotta go, gotta get ready for work,” He said. “Okay,” Jack said, “I’ll text you.” “I don’t doubt it.” Bosco was giving him the silent treatment. Which wasn’t super uncommon for them, but he wouldn’t even look at Daniel. Daniel wanted to talk about it, but he didn’t know how to go about it if he was going to behave this way. Daniel: Bosco’s mad at me now. Jack: This is my fault, isn’t it? Daniel: If by your fault you mean that he’s mad at me because you borderline forced me to exchange numbers, then yes, it’s your fault. Jack: I can talk to him if you want. Daniel: No, that would probably just make things worse. Daniel: Let me talk to him first. Jack: I’ll be here when that backfires then. Daniel: Asshole Jack: Right back at ya Daniel took the opportunity of dinner to talk to Bosco. It was the expectation that they ate together for dinner, but as soon as Bosco got his dinner, he tried to retreat to his room. “Bosco, we need to talk about this,” Daniel called after him. “You want to talk about this?” He asked, “Maybe you should’ve brought it up sooner. Like three months sooner,” He said. “You usually don’t care about my friendships,” Daniel argued. Bosco put his plate down. “What fucking friendships? Henley?” Bosco asked, “It’s different, you’re only friends with Jack to invade my personal life. To hear about Charlie and June. And don’t even try to lie and say otherwise, because I’m not that stupid.” Daniel took a breath. “Okay, yeah, it started like that,” Daniel said, “But I like Jack now, we’re friends. We barely talk about you guys.” “But you still do, right?” Bosco asked, “You knew I was dating Charlie and June before I even told you, didn’t you?” Daniel stayed silent. “You did! This is so fucking unfair! You don’t get to invade my privacy like this because June and Charlie trust their friend! You can’t keep doing this!” “I’m not going to stop being friends with Jack, Bosco,” Daniel said. Bosco pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not asking for you to stop being his friend, I’m asking for you to stop having him be your little reporter!” Bosco said. Daniel hesitated. “Is that really that hard for you, are you fucking kidding me?” “Bosco, how am I supposed to trust you to just tell me things?” “You trust me because I’m your son!” Bosco shouted. “I know we don’t like to say it, and I know it’s like a barely thing. But you need to just trust me sometimes, okay? I’ll tell you stuff about my relationship when I’m ready to, just like you will. We’re fucking family, act like it.” “Alright,” Daniel sighed, “You’re right, okay? You’re right.” Bosco smiled. “That’s a first from you,” He said. “Yeah, yeah,” Daniel said. “I know I need to work on my trust, but you need to tell me things as soon as they happen.” “Within the week,” Bosco offered. “Deal,” Daniel said. “And you’re right,” He said. “You are my son.” “Yeah, yeah, you’re my dad or whatever,” Bosco said, turning away slightly. Jack: Did you talk to Bosco? Daniel: Yeah, we’re all good though. Daniel: You need to stop telling me about Charlie and June though. That was the deal. Jack: Oh. Jack: Does that mean we have to stop talking? Daniel: No Daniel: We can keep talking Tour was ending soon. It was all Jack could talk about, how excited he was to be home, but conflicted because he wanted to see his fans more. He claimed that he’d have to get a drink with Daniel once they were home, but Daniel wasn’t sure about that. He was a teacher, and they didn’t like teachers going out to bars, at the risk of a parent seeing them. Not that Merritt ever respected that, so he didn’t know if there’d really be so much harm. They called more after that first time, Daniel making sure to set an alarm on a physical alarm clock so that specific events didn’t repeat themselves. Bosco stuck to his word and told Daniel when things happened with Charlie and June, including a very awkward morning where Bosco confessed that he listened to Charlie and June drunkenly have sex the night prior. Daniel was looking forward to seeing Jack in person, but he was also nervous. Over the course of the last six months, he has begrudgingly accepted the fact that he might sort of have feelings for Jack. It started as a crush, but it felt deeper now somehow. Like something he’d never felt before. It was kind of all very surreal to him. Crushing on a rockstar, meanwhile he was just some random high school teacher in Chicago. But he had to assume Bosco was in the same situation, being with two of the band members himself. And that was another thing. He never told Bosco about his feelings for Jack, why would he? Bosco would just be annoyed, and probably tell him not to pursue it. Not that Daniel was going to pursue it anyway, but if he told Bosco, he’d have to face relentless teasing and making fun of him. And Daniel just didn’t want to deal with that. It didn’t help that Jack was a solid seven years younger than him, which at their ages wasn’t the biggest deal, but it still gave Daniel pause. He’d never dated someone so much younger than him before. The worst part is, Jack seemed… kind of interested? He flirted with Daniel all the time, with various compliments and pick up lines. He spoke to Daniel in a tone that drew him in and made him feel like he was the only person in the world. Jack made him feel like that often. Feel special and important. He’d joke about writing a song about Daniel and Daniel would roll his eyes, as if Jack weren’t actually serious about it. Daniel would probably die on the spot if Jack really wrote him a song. “You know I’m not joking, right? I’ve tried to start it,” Jack said. “I don’t know what that song could possibly have as words.” “Apparently I don’t either,” Jack said with a laugh. “I don’t want to get June’s help either, she’d just make fun of me.” “For writing a song about one of your friends?” “Something like that.” Daniel heard the sheets rustling as Jack turned over in his bed. “I really do wanna write you a song though. Sounds fun.” “I won’t stop you,” Daniel said, “I just don’t see why you’d want to do that.” “I have my reasons,” Jack said cryptically. Daniel just sighed. “Three more shows. Then I’m home.” “I’m sure Bosco will want to meet up with Charlie and June, we could do something together then,” Daniel offered. “Totally,” Jack agreed, “I’m guessing you mean all together though. Not just the two of us.” “I’d like to keep an eye on my kid, yes,” Daniel said. Jack nodded, not that Daniel could see it. “Right,” He said, “Y’know, I’m sure Lula could keep an eye on them. And we could go out and do something.” “I can’t go out anyway, Jack, I’m a teacher. They don’t want me going to bars,” Daniel said. “We don’t have to go to a bar,” Jack said, “We could go to a restaurant,” He offered. “Jack…” “No, it’s alright,” Jack said, “We can all hang out together. My apartment should be big enough for all of us. We can hang out there.” “Thank you, Jack.” “Sure,” Jack said, though it had an edge to it. “We should get to sleep. You have work in the morning. “Right,” Daniel said. “Goodnight, Jack,” He said softly. He could almost hear Jack smile. “Night, Danny.” “You look excited,” Merritt said, exactly three shows later and four days later. “What? No, I don’t,” Daniel said, but it was clearly a lie. He was jittery. He was excited to see Jack in person. Part of him regretted saying that he wanted all of them to hang out together, because he absolutely wanted Jack to himself. Though, he couldn’t trust himself to not do anything stupid if it was just the two of them. “Sure you do,” Merritt said. “Let me see.” “Oh god, not this again,” Daniel muttered. “Your little boyfriend comes back from tour tonight,” Merritt said. “How could you possibly know that?” “Well, I didn’t, until you just confirmed that,” Merritt said, “So you two finally got together?” “No, we are not together, I just knew who you were talking about because you always refer to him that way,” Daniel said, “And every time I say, ‘he’s not my boyfriend’ and every time you seem to not believe me, so I figured why even bother,” He said. Merritt shrugged. “Give it time,” He said. “I’m sure if I could meet him, get a read on this guy, I could tell for sure whether he likes you. Then you might not be so scared to make a move.” “I am not scared,” Daniel said, “I’m just not interested.” A complete lie. “Sure thing, buddy,” Merritt said, “I’ll believe that when you can say it without your voice shaking like that.” Daniel sighed. “Just leave me alone, alright? I’m preparing for class, you should be doing the same.” “Alright, alright,” Merritt said, “But you let me know if anything changes.” “Absolutely not.” “Oh, you won’t have a choice in the matter,” Merritt said. He motioned to his face. “Your face will tell me everything I need.” Bosco was especially excited for them to return. He was practically bouncing off the walls at work. Daniel was excited, but probably not as much as he was nervous. At least Bosco had experience hanging out with his friends in person. Not only had Daniel only met Jack once or twice in real life, depending on how you looked at it, he also didn’t have much experience in terms of other friends. He didn’t know how to behave, not to mention his massive crush on him. He was afraid he was going to mess it all up somehow. But that didn’t stop him from driving Bosco down to their apartment a couple hours after they got home. It probably would’ve been sooner, but they had to get off work. Well, Bosco had to get off work, Daniel had been off work for an hour. “Stop doing that,” Bosco commented. “Doing what?” Daniel asked. “That,” He said, pointing to where Daniel was tapping on the steering wheel. “I didn’t even notice,” Daniel said, making his fingers stop. “I thought I could say I’m just as nervous as you, but I don’t think that’s true,” Bosco said with a laugh. “You’re a complete wreck, man,” He said. “I can’t help it, alright? I’m not used to having real friends, let alone real friends that are hot rockstars, okay?” Daniel said, a bit defensive. “Not gonna comment on that,” Bosco said quickly, mostly to himself, “Look, Jack is your friend. Just because you’re meeting up in person, it’s not going to be that much different from calling. You can trust me on this, I’ve also had a long distance friendship for the past six months.” “Yes, but you knew them before,” Daniel said, “I barely knew Jack before we started texting.” “I’d argue that you didn’t know him at all, but continue.” “There wasn’t more, and also, you’re supposed to be helping,” Daniel said. Bosco snickered. “Am I?” He asked. “Don’t be a dick, Bosco.” “You’re one to talk,” He returned. He laughed a little more before clearing his throat. “No, look, okay, it’ll all be fine. For god knows what reason, Jack seems to actually like you as a person, so even if you’re awkward— which let’s be honest, you almost definitely will be— he’ll be okay with it. You’ll be fine. Now get over yourself and go inside.” “Yeah, alright,” Daniel grumbled as he opened his door. They had to be buzzed into Jack and Charlie’s apartment. It used to be Jack, Charlie, June and Lula’s apartment, but as of last year, June and Lula moved out. But it was still pretty big, and could fit all of them easily. Not like Daniel and Bosco’s small apartment, which was clearly only fit to have two or maybe three people living in it. When they got into the apartment, the band was sitting around the coffee table and Daniel felt immediately out of place. “Danny, Bosco!” Lula called, “It’s very good to see everyone else’s friends!” She said. “Henley couldn’t come?” Bosco asked. “She’s busy with her kids,” Lula said, “And it feels too early to meet them as her girlfriend.” “As if you weren’t practically dating before,” Jack said. Lula lightly shoved him in the arm. “Shut up, as if you’re not—” Jack shoved her much harder. “Bosco!” June said, waving her boyfriend over. “Want a drink?” “I don’t think I’m allowed,” Bosco said, looking back at his dad. Daniel sighed. “Just for tonight, and not more than three,” Daniel said. Bosco smiled a silent thank you and sat between his partners. Jack was getting him to loosen up, he had to admit. He would’ve never let Bosco drink before Jack. Though, it was supervised, and it was just hard seltzer it looked like. “Pomegranate or boysenberry?” Charlie asked, holding two cans. “I don’t know what either of those things taste like,” Bosco said. Charlie smiled and handed him a can. “C’mon, Danny, sit down,” Jack said, scooting over to give way for him to sit. Daniel hesitated, but sat next to Jack. “You want a drink? I got real stuff, not just their kiddie crap,” He said. “No, I’m driving,” Daniel said, “Can’t drink.” “Alright, alright, I won’t peer pressure ya,” Jack said, putting his hands up. There was some music playing in the background that came into focus as Daniel awkwardly went silent. “So how’s it been being back from tour in the past couple hours?” Bosco asked. “I don’t think it’s hit yet,” June said, “Give me a couple days, then I’ll have an answer.” “It’s been alright,” Charlie said, “It’s nice knowing we can actually see you in person now,” He added. “Okay, relax,” Daniel spat, still protective of his kid. He felt Jack’s hand on his back, and it became impossible for him to relax himself. “Hey, they’re just excited to see their boyfriend,” Jack said, “Calm down. How about we go to my room, so they don’t bother you,” He suggested. “I don’t want to leave them unsupervised,” Daniel refused. “Lula will be here,” Jack said. Daniel sighed. “Ten minutes,” He caved, as he always did with Jack. Jack smiled and pulled Daniel out of his seat and toward his room. “Use protection!” June called out after them, and Daniel could hear Charlie, Bosco and Lula all giggling over it. “No, I changed my mind, I want to go back out there,” Daniel said as Jack shut the door. “Nah, man, you said ten minutes,” Jack said, “Relax, control freak, give your kid ten minutes with his partners. And Lula’s out there, nothing will happen.” “I know,” Daniel sighed, “I know, okay. You’re right.” “That’s it,” Jack said. “And I thought you might be more comfortable talking about your day if we were alone,” He said. “Well, yeah,” Daniel said. “I’m used to talking to you alone, not in front of three kids and a Lula.” “Tell me about your day,” Jack said, sitting them both down on his bed. So Daniel started talking about his day as he usually did as they were winding down for bed. Merritt was especially bad today, knowing somehow that Jack was coming back this day. Jack stared with his full attention on Daniel the whole time, but Daniel didn’t even seem to notice, instead staring at a spot on the floor. It was only when he finally looked up at Jack that he realised just how Jack was looking at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Daniel asked. Jack smiled. “I really want to kiss you right now,” He confessed. Daniel’s eyes widened. “Wait… what?” He asked, absolutely not expecting that. “I would like to kiss you right now,” Jack repeated. Maybe Daniel was crazy, but it felt like he was leaning closer. “Can I?” He asked. Daniel didn’t answer, opting instead to simply close the gap between them. Jack put his hands on Daniel’s face and hip, pulling him closer. Daniel wasn’t fully sure what to do with his hands, but opted for clutching Jack’s biceps, which were much bigger than he expected. “I’m surprised you didn’t know,” Jack said when they pulled away. He swiped his thumb over Daniel’s cheekbone. “I thought I was being so obvious.” “You might’ve been,” Daniel said, “I was too distracted by my feelings for you to notice.” Jack smiled. They kissed a little more before leaving the room, finding Charlie, Bosco and June all piled on top of each other in a cuddle pile, and Lula on her phone in a seat adjacent to them. “Finally!” June called, seeing Daniel and Jack’s hands clutched together. They let go. “No, no, no, you can’t hide it,” She said, “You’re finally together, right?” “I think so?” Jack answered, looking at Daniel. “If you want to,” Daniel said, as if Jack hadn’t already made it clear. “Of course I want to,” Jack said. “Then yes, I’d say we’re together,” Daniel said. Jack turned back to his bandmates. “Yes,” He said. “Ugh, great,” Bosco scoffed, “It was bad enough you two just being friends, now you’re more than friends?” “Yeah, well, I don’t like this,” Daniel motioned to Bosco and his partners, “anymore than you like this,” He motioned to himself and Jack. “Guess we’re even then,” Bosco said. They left the apartment a couple hours later, though Jack urged them not to. Charlie and June each kissed Bosco on the cheek, and Jack squeezed Daniel’s hand before they left. Daniel: Do you want to call when I get home? Jack: Miss me already? Daniel: Shut up. Daniel: Sorry for the late reply, was driving. Daniel: So are we calling or what? Jack: Sure thing.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573746	{"authors": ["lab_trash"], "language": "English", "title": "Jack of Spades"}
Tell Me There's an Issue? Some nights, after really long shifts, Mimi didn't come right home to her uncle's apartment. Instead, she'd take her drones and sailed through Eastside to the old recording studio. Her favorite spot in all of Neo-To. She used to go there and have a smoke (until Gentu learned what cigarettes are and begged Mimi to quit), but nowadays she just sat up there on the roof, watching the setting sun illuminate the skyline in a warm glow. And she'd undo her hair tie and let it flow in the wind. God, it felt good. Or, at least, better than going home and having to weigh her friends down with her own load. One evening, she was flying over to her spot when she noticed a young man waving her down. "Mimi! Hey!" She touched down, leaning her drone against an old fan box. "Rebel??" Mimi spoke over the slowing whirr of the propellers, "Why are you up here? How did you get up here?" "The fire escape?" he gestured to the rickety stairway before offering a take-out cup to her, "And I brought you coffee." The mechanic's face turned sullen as guilt clouded her eyes, and she reluctantly took the beverage from his hands. "Cool, thanks, I'll be home soon..." Mimi dragged herself behind a radiator, bringing her knees to her chest as her shoulders tensed. Rebel stood awkwardly nearby before, to her own frustration, he joined her. She almost wanted to snap at him to get him to leave so she could have a single moment to decompress and not deal with anyone... but she didn't. Mimi didn't even know why herself. He shifted his weight as he sat more cross legged. "You look tired," he murmured, "Are you okay?" "Mhm, yeah, fine!" She glared, eyes almost narrowing, "Just dandy..." Mimi groaned, her face scrunching up as she drank the now chilled beverage, "How'd you even know I was up here? Were you following me?" Rebel let out a nervous breath, "Well, you know how you built Gentu that jetpack thingy a few months ago?" "Mhm..." "I might have bribed him to use it, and see where you keep disappearing off to," He explained, "Dimi says-" "You told my uncle?!" Mimi scowled, "Rebel! You know I always come home! Did you guys think I'd just abandon you like that stunt you pulled a month ago?!" And then her face dropped the second she uttered those words. She watched as her friend's sympathetic, worried smile hardened into a grimace. "No! You-!" she tried to backtrack. Rebel almost spat back at her before collecting himself. "Mimi, look, I'm still sorry about that," he began, "But we're all worried about you. Gentu misses hanging out, and it's like I never see you anymore. Even your uncle is stressed about this! I don't know what's going on, or why you're hiding up here, and nothing's going to get better if you keep running away. You can't push it away forever..." His hand barely grazed hers before settling atop it, "So please, can you just tell me what's up?" Mimi's gloved hand stilled, and her eyes caught his for a beat. Her voice was hesitant as she spoke, "... one of my drones almost crashed today." Rebel nodded, "Really? What happened?" She hunched over as her hand pulled away from his to reach the coffee, "We were over by the Garden District when the wind picked up and I guess messed with Mark's gyroscope? I don't know..." “It delayed everything, and then I was down a drone so I had to leave it at the warehouse, and I just... eurgh..." Rebel gave an amused huff at the end of her monologue. Mimi almost stiffened as he sat closer before remembering he wasn’t a threat. Her shoulders sagged as she sighed, “It’s exhausting… I’m exhausted. Every single day feels like it’s getting harder and harder. I’m struggling to do deliveries, my inventions keep falling apart… I’m so…” “Tired?” Rebel added to her thought. “Yeah, tired…” She nodded. Another weary exhale escaped her as she slumped at Rebel’s side, “Goddamn… and I feel bad for doing this too, I should be out there! It doesn’t make sense…” His hand came to pat the top of her head, and silently rested there for a beat. “Mimi, if there’s anyone who deserves a break, it’s you. You push yourself so hard, and care so much about what you do! I want you to be able to keep going without feeling like this,” he reassured her, “And you can always fall back on us, we’re all still a band. I’m here for you.” The world felt like it slowed down, finally hearing their silent pleas for their worries to halt. Mimi rested her eyes as her frustrated breaths mellowed out. “... I suppose you’re right.” she mused, “Thanks.” And mere moments after she spoke, her elbow knocked into his, “But quit following me around, I’m starting to think you’re slacking at work…” “Hey!” Rebel laughed, quickly trying to mess up her hair, “You’d rather me be heartless?” Her sour expression finally melted into a smile, “If it means you stop being smart with me!” For once, Mimi actually didn’t mind heading home before dark. And as they flew back to the little pizzeria at the corner, she hoped her dear Rudy would follow	Tell Me There's an Issue? Some nights, after really long shifts, Mimi didn't come right home to her uncle's apartment. Instead, she'd take her drones and sailed through Eastside to the old recording studio. Her favorite spot in all of Neo-To. She used to go there and have a smoke (until Gentu learned what cigarettes are and begged Mimi to quit), but nowadays she just sat up there on the roof, watching the setting sun illuminate the skyline in a warm glow. And she'd undo her hair tie and let it flow in the wind. God, it felt good. Or, at least, better than going home and having to weigh her friends down with her own load. One evening, she was flying over to her spot when she noticed a young man waving her down. "Mimi! Hey!" She touched down, leaning her drone against an old fan box. "Rebel??" Mimi spoke over the slowing whirr of the propellers, "Why are you up here? How did you get up here?" "The fire escape?" he gestured to the rickety stairway before offering a take-out cup to her, "And I brought you coffee." The mechanic's face turned sullen as guilt clouded her eyes, and she reluctantly took the beverage from his hands. "Cool, thanks, I'll be home soon..." Mimi dragged herself behind a radiator, bringing her knees to her chest as her shoulders tensed. Rebel stood awkwardly nearby before, to her own frustration, he joined her. She almost wanted to snap at him to get him to leave so she could have a single moment to decompress and not deal with anyone... but she didn't. Mimi didn't even know why herself. He shifted his weight as he sat more cross legged. "You look tired," he murmured, "Are you okay?" "Mhm, yeah, fine!" She glared, eyes almost narrowing, "Just dandy..." Mimi groaned, her face scrunching up as she drank the now chilled beverage, "How'd you even know I was up here? Were you following me?" Rebel let out a nervous breath, "Well, you know how you built Gentu that jetpack thingy a few months ago?" "Mhm..." "I might have bribed him to use it, and see where you keep disappearing off to," He explained, "Dimi says-" "You told my uncle?!" Mimi scowled, "Rebel! You know I always come home! Did you guys think I'd just abandon you like that stunt you pulled a month ago?!" And then her face dropped the second she uttered those words. She watched as her friend's sympathetic, worried smile hardened into a grimace. "No! You-!" she tried to backtrack. Rebel almost spat back at her before collecting himself. "Mimi, look, I'm still sorry about that," he began, "But we're all worried about you. Gentu misses hanging out, and it's like I never see you anymore. Even your uncle is stressed about this! I don't know what's going on, or why you're hiding up here, and nothing's going to get better if you keep running away. You can't push it away forever..." His hand barely grazed hers before settling atop it, "So please, can you just tell me what's up?" Mimi's gloved hand stilled, and her eyes caught his for a beat. Her voice was hesitant as she spoke, "... one of my drones almost crashed today." Rebel nodded, "Really? What happened?" She hunched over as her hand pulled away from his to reach the coffee, "We were over by the Garden District when the wind picked up and I guess messed with Mark's gyroscope? I don't know..." “It delayed everything, and then I was down a drone so I had to leave it at the warehouse, and I just... eurgh..." Rebel gave an amused huff at the end of her monologue. Mimi almost stiffened as he sat closer before remembering he wasn’t a threat. Her shoulders sagged as she sighed, “It’s exhausting… I’m exhausted. Every single day feels like it’s getting harder and harder. I’m struggling to do deliveries, my inventions keep falling apart… I’m so…” “Tired?” Rebel added to her thought. “Yeah, tired…” She nodded. Another weary exhale escaped her as she slumped at Rebel’s side, “Goddamn… and I feel bad for doing this too, I should be out there! It doesn’t make sense…” His hand came to pat the top of her head, and silently rested there for a beat. “Mimi, if there’s anyone who deserves a break, it’s you. You push yourself so hard, and care so much about what you do! I want you to be able to keep going without feeling like this,” he reassured her, “And you can always fall back on us, we’re all still a band. I’m here for you.” The world felt like it slowed down, finally hearing their silent pleas for their worries to halt. Mimi rested her eyes as her frustrated breaths mellowed out. “... I suppose you’re right.” she mused, “Thanks.” And mere moments after she spoke, her elbow knocked into his, “But quit following me around, I’m starting to think you’re slacking at work…” “Hey!” Rebel laughed, quickly trying to mess up her hair, “You’d rather me be heartless?” Her sour expression finally melted into a smile, “If it means you stop being smart with me!” For once, Mimi actually didn’t mind heading home before dark. And as they flew back to the little pizzeria at the corner, she hoped her dear Rudy would follow her back up there tomorrow.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573756	{"authors": ["CloudyTheGoat"], "language": "English", "title": "Tell Me There's an Issue?"}
(Snow)Men At Play “Where's Alex?" James asked Pato, who was sitting his laptop up on the coffee table in the great room. "Outside on one of the pool loungers, I think. Sunning himself." James glanced over at the patio windows and watched the next round of snow falling. Yeah, the sun was out. But... "Hold up. It's snowing!" "I am pretty sure Alex is not out there in Human form. Then again he does do some weird things somedays." "Oh. Yeah. Makes sense." While looking around, he couldn't see the Snow Leopard anywhere but Alex had a habit of blending in to his surroundings now that it was Winter. "I bet he would enjoy some company, sweetheart. I told him we could build a snowman after my video call." "That Felidae out there is pretty damn smart and talented but he is not making a snowman." "I think he planned on me making it and then him destroying it. You know how much he loves pouncing on things. Certainly, since we finished your playground." Sighing, James said, "I hate that you call it our playground. It's our habitat." "That you two play in." After that first snowfall, Pato had decided that James and especially Alex needed somewhere to just act on their Shifter instincts. Him and Alex had talked about it for a couple of years but now that James was here too, he wanted to make it happen. So, with the help of Felix, Pato had sent him and Alex away for the day and overnight to the Rosenqvist house. And when they returned, it was to a whole new backyard. Several large boulders were added. Along with a couple of new pine trees in the far corner, a perfect hiding spot (for either of them.) A set of wooden planks from two low areas on the back fence to what James lovingly called 'Alex's Pouncing Post' (it was a multi-level platform structure close by the house for perching and observing... and yes, pouncing as Alex was very wont to do in Panthera form.) The fence had also been built up in a couple of spots because they both liked to chase one another and used those walls to spring off of. There were also currently several long branches just randomly tossed. They mostly just chewed and clawed at those (and sometimes toss bits of them at Pato.) Before he thought too much about it, James was slipping off his clothes and Shifting. He couldn't laugh in Canidae form but that is what he would have done when he spied his partner. The Snow Leopard was basically on his back on the lounger, in a snow pile, all four feet in the air, batting at the snowflakes falling around him. There was no doubt Alex hadn't heard him come out but he was being ignored. James knew what was going to happen though as he stalked low and closer. While he wasn't as keen to his Shifter as Alex was, the Felidae had tells. One of which was his tail, which had started swishing very gently. And darn it. He thought he could dodge the attack. Nope. How Alex had perfected smirking in Snow Leopard form, James would never figure out. A large lick was given to his muzzle and then they were off. Alex was extremely agile, those long powerful hind legs and big paws giving him a slight advantage at jumping, turning and vaulting. But James still gave a good chase. He loved that they could just give in to their other sides. Let nature take over. Alex was normally so reserved and composed. But in his Shifter form he was so playful and carefree (especially in the Winter, Pato warned him that the Felidae would curl up by the AC unit in the summer. James of course knew some of this already, they were best friends, but Alex had opened up so much around him the last six months.) They were currently at a standoff and James knew he was in trouble because Alex had the high ground. He was going to get tackled again. The beautiful Panthera was sitting, perfectly perched on the top platform. Just staring down at James. James barked at Alex and got a chuff in return. One of those that meant Alex would move when he was good and ready. Pato came out before Alex could do his dive onto James. Their human partner was always spared from pouncing, at least from the post. Alex leapt on Pato plenty in the bedroom (not that Pato minded one bit, nor did James. Alex pounced very spectacularly.) "Heys guys! Do you want to build a snowman?" Pato asked, smiling widely. James swore Alex rolled his eyes at him with the loud puff he let out. He was actually surprised the Snow Leopard gave recognition to the comment because that admitted Alex knew the reference. "Come down and help, Alex. You're the one going to wreck it, sweetheart." They both watched as the Felidae stretched and then very gracefully jumped to one of the wooden pathways and made his way down. He rubbed his muzzle with James once more and then against Pato's thigh, purring. Pato rolled three snowballs as best as he could with a Snow Leopard and Canadian Timber Wolf trying to assist him. "You two are not much help. Should have just left you on your pouncing post, Alex, you're being a	(Snow)Men At Play “Where's Alex?" James asked Pato, who was sitting his laptop up on the coffee table in the great room. "Outside on one of the pool loungers, I think. Sunning himself." James glanced over at the patio windows and watched the next round of snow falling. Yeah, the sun was out. But... "Hold up. It's snowing!" "I am pretty sure Alex is not out there in Human form. Then again he does do some weird things somedays." "Oh. Yeah. Makes sense." While looking around, he couldn't see the Snow Leopard anywhere but Alex had a habit of blending in to his surroundings now that it was Winter. "I bet he would enjoy some company, sweetheart. I told him we could build a snowman after my video call." "That Felidae out there is pretty damn smart and talented but he is not making a snowman." "I think he planned on me making it and then him destroying it. You know how much he loves pouncing on things. Certainly, since we finished your playground." Sighing, James said, "I hate that you call it our playground. It's our habitat." "That you two play in." After that first snowfall, Pato had decided that James and especially Alex needed somewhere to just act on their Shifter instincts. Him and Alex had talked about it for a couple of years but now that James was here too, he wanted to make it happen. So, with the help of Felix, Pato had sent him and Alex away for the day and overnight to the Rosenqvist house. And when they returned, it was to a whole new backyard. Several large boulders were added. Along with a couple of new pine trees in the far corner, a perfect hiding spot (for either of them.) A set of wooden planks from two low areas on the back fence to what James lovingly called 'Alex's Pouncing Post' (it was a multi-level platform structure close by the house for perching and observing... and yes, pouncing as Alex was very wont to do in Panthera form.) The fence had also been built up in a couple of spots because they both liked to chase one another and used those walls to spring off of. There were also currently several long branches just randomly tossed. They mostly just chewed and clawed at those (and sometimes toss bits of them at Pato.) Before he thought too much about it, James was slipping off his clothes and Shifting. He couldn't laugh in Canidae form but that is what he would have done when he spied his partner. The Snow Leopard was basically on his back on the lounger, in a snow pile, all four feet in the air, batting at the snowflakes falling around him. There was no doubt Alex hadn't heard him come out but he was being ignored. James knew what was going to happen though as he stalked low and closer. While he wasn't as keen to his Shifter as Alex was, the Felidae had tells. One of which was his tail, which had started swishing very gently. And darn it. He thought he could dodge the attack. Nope. How Alex had perfected smirking in Snow Leopard form, James would never figure out. A large lick was given to his muzzle and then they were off. Alex was extremely agile, those long powerful hind legs and big paws giving him a slight advantage at jumping, turning and vaulting. But James still gave a good chase. He loved that they could just give in to their other sides. Let nature take over. Alex was normally so reserved and composed. But in his Shifter form he was so playful and carefree (especially in the Winter, Pato warned him that the Felidae would curl up by the AC unit in the summer. James of course knew some of this already, they were best friends, but Alex had opened up so much around him the last six months.) They were currently at a standoff and James knew he was in trouble because Alex had the high ground. He was going to get tackled again. The beautiful Panthera was sitting, perfectly perched on the top platform. Just staring down at James. James barked at Alex and got a chuff in return. One of those that meant Alex would move when he was good and ready. Pato came out before Alex could do his dive onto James. Their human partner was always spared from pouncing, at least from the post. Alex leapt on Pato plenty in the bedroom (not that Pato minded one bit, nor did James. Alex pounced very spectacularly.) "Heys guys! Do you want to build a snowman?" Pato asked, smiling widely. James swore Alex rolled his eyes at him with the loud puff he let out. He was actually surprised the Snow Leopard gave recognition to the comment because that admitted Alex knew the reference. "Come down and help, Alex. You're the one going to wreck it, sweetheart." They both watched as the Felidae stretched and then very gracefully jumped to one of the wooden pathways and made his way down. He rubbed his muzzle with James once more and then against Pato's thigh, purring. Pato rolled three snowballs as best as he could with a Snow Leopard and Canadian Timber Wolf trying to assist him. "You two are not much help. Should have just left you on your pouncing post, Alex, you're being a bratty cat." James playfully yipped at him and then sat and watched, tail wagging. Alex just growled out a breath and then hung his head. "If you want it done faster Alex, then Shift. Four hands is better than two hands and two paws. Oh wait, you'd be naked. Don't do that. While I do love warming your cock, I don't want it to be for the wrong reasons." He got a slight yowl and pitiful mewl. "When we all go back inside, I can certainly warm your cock then, baby. Or suck it. Whatever you want. But for now. Snowman." It took him a moment but then he had the three slightly different sized snowballs on top of each other. He'd set it up pretty close to the platform because like he told James, he knew what was going to happen. They both watched as Alex scaled back up to the top and put the poor miserable snowman in his sights. Front crouched low. Ready to spring. Totally still. Until he was flying gracefully through the air and Pato's hard work was no more. Both Alex and James completely demolished the remaining bits of snow balls. Tearing into them with teeth and claws. Alex swiping with his tail. "Enjoy that?" A couple of yips and a purr as both his Felidae and Canidae partners rubbed their heads against his waist again. "How about we head in and take a hot shower. Then we can curl up on the couch and I can figure out how to warm Alex's cock in my ass and do yours in my mouth James." A playful push on his ass and a grab of his coat sleeve directed him towards the house.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573776	{"authors": ["Forged_In_Fire"], "language": "English", "title": "(Snow)Men At Play"}
journal of the dovahkiin I started a new VR Skyrim playthrough. I down loaded a mod list called Abubu's NPC Kan MOD right now I have managed to escape Helgen, its became a ruin of dragon fire and corpses now. I chose Ralof to help me escape through the forts dungeon , we managed to fight back against the imperials. I think we may be the only survivors of this disaster. Ralof and I walk along the path to the closets town our path runs along side the river coming out of lake Ilinalta. this new VR set is really immersive I can hear the cool howling winds weaving into and out the trees, the smells of the forest and feel the weight of my armour on my skin. most of all I have an overwhelming horniness. by the time we get to town its late, the sun will set soon. Ralof takes me to his sisters house, Gerdur. we catch her up to speed on the events of Helgen. the inside of her house is small its filled with food barrels that have a pungent cheese smell. as the others converse I look around the small home. there is only one room its L shaped. the warm fire place is the first thing that you see when you enter the house, round the corner is a bed and kitchen. after my small self governed tour I look back at gurder her ass is huge and round. I place my hands on her hips and move in close her soft fabrics are covered by wood chips and dirt, my hands lower down to the hem of her dress and I expose her cheeks. they feel like they are melting into my palms as I squish them. I feel my dick press against the furs that I'm wearing. I trace my finger against the rim of her underwear before plunging my finger deeper. my finger feels its way around the inside of her warm and wet pussy. she starts moaning pretty loud but other than that no reaction, from her or anyone inside the house. I take my finger out of her and begin to suck on it. I begin to remove my chest armour I don't want it to get in the way when I'm fucking her, then I ask "I can have anything I need right, what if I need you?"(persuade) "Nah. I don't think so." she replies "what if I paid you? you look like you would be a good whore." "That doesn't change anything." Gerdur snaps back, I go back to touching her and she adds "Last warning. Leave, now." I leave her house into the dusky knight street. walking round own for a little bit it, no one has commented on my lack of clothes, not sure I would even be able to collect them from Gerdur floor anyway. I continue on only wearing gloves, boots and an iron helmet. my exposed dick twitches with excitement I desperately need to find some one to fuck. walking up to the centre road of town I spot a young girl near the house with the forge. her soft face is illuminated by the fires of the forge. the small interact screen reads her name as Dorthe. she I stood near the fence standing idly. I go up and start a conversation "You're naked!" are the first words that leave her mouth. she looks up to me with bright eyes. before adding "Papa says I'm not ready for weapons. So I make lots of horseshoes and hobnails." "how about we play a game" I respond, I walk closer to her caressing her youthful face she about waist hight. "really, what game? I will play any game" she jumps. I move my hand to the back of her dress and lead her into the street Infront of her house. I push her down onto her hands and knees before lifting her by her hips so she is level with my crotch. she arches her bac in response, to be able to keep her hands on the floor and stabilise herself. then her dress naturally falls over her back. with my right hand I quickly lower her panties to her thighs. my already hard dick feels like its much larger just at the sight of her tiny cunt. slowly I press into her allowing the folds to consume my entire length. She feels tight and soft against my cock . eventually I'm able to push my entire penis into her and my hips contact with her ass, causing a small slap. I pick up the pace, pounding her ass in the street as the towns residence wander by ignoring the assault. one of these NPC happens to be Dorthes mother. she starts speaking to her daughter as if nothing is happening, chastising the girl for some random thing. the conversation is mostly one sided. moans are erupting from the girl preventing her speech. I can feel myself about to go over the edge. I pull out but just to the tip. Then I slam back into her and rape her as hard and fast as I can. her small frame shakes and screams. my cock throbbing out my cum into her crevice. I begin to move away from her. allowing her to stand. she leaks cum down onto her peach coloured thigh. " Papa says I'm too friendly with strangers, but you seem all right." Dorthe recites through whimpering breaths. I grab her dress wiping the rest of my cum onto her dress. as I clean myself I notice a young boy coming closer. its Frodnar, Gerdurs son, he walks to us looking at the sight. he has brought his dog ,Stump, with him. running up to Dorthe he yells "Hey, no fair! Get her, Stump!" stumps	journal of the dovahkiin I started a new VR Skyrim playthrough. I down loaded a mod list called Abubu's NPC Kan MOD right now I have managed to escape Helgen, its became a ruin of dragon fire and corpses now. I chose Ralof to help me escape through the forts dungeon , we managed to fight back against the imperials. I think we may be the only survivors of this disaster. Ralof and I walk along the path to the closets town our path runs along side the river coming out of lake Ilinalta. this new VR set is really immersive I can hear the cool howling winds weaving into and out the trees, the smells of the forest and feel the weight of my armour on my skin. most of all I have an overwhelming horniness. by the time we get to town its late, the sun will set soon. Ralof takes me to his sisters house, Gerdur. we catch her up to speed on the events of Helgen. the inside of her house is small its filled with food barrels that have a pungent cheese smell. as the others converse I look around the small home. there is only one room its L shaped. the warm fire place is the first thing that you see when you enter the house, round the corner is a bed and kitchen. after my small self governed tour I look back at gurder her ass is huge and round. I place my hands on her hips and move in close her soft fabrics are covered by wood chips and dirt, my hands lower down to the hem of her dress and I expose her cheeks. they feel like they are melting into my palms as I squish them. I feel my dick press against the furs that I'm wearing. I trace my finger against the rim of her underwear before plunging my finger deeper. my finger feels its way around the inside of her warm and wet pussy. she starts moaning pretty loud but other than that no reaction, from her or anyone inside the house. I take my finger out of her and begin to suck on it. I begin to remove my chest armour I don't want it to get in the way when I'm fucking her, then I ask "I can have anything I need right, what if I need you?"(persuade) "Nah. I don't think so." she replies "what if I paid you? you look like you would be a good whore." "That doesn't change anything." Gerdur snaps back, I go back to touching her and she adds "Last warning. Leave, now." I leave her house into the dusky knight street. walking round own for a little bit it, no one has commented on my lack of clothes, not sure I would even be able to collect them from Gerdur floor anyway. I continue on only wearing gloves, boots and an iron helmet. my exposed dick twitches with excitement I desperately need to find some one to fuck. walking up to the centre road of town I spot a young girl near the house with the forge. her soft face is illuminated by the fires of the forge. the small interact screen reads her name as Dorthe. she I stood near the fence standing idly. I go up and start a conversation "You're naked!" are the first words that leave her mouth. she looks up to me with bright eyes. before adding "Papa says I'm not ready for weapons. So I make lots of horseshoes and hobnails." "how about we play a game" I respond, I walk closer to her caressing her youthful face she about waist hight. "really, what game? I will play any game" she jumps. I move my hand to the back of her dress and lead her into the street Infront of her house. I push her down onto her hands and knees before lifting her by her hips so she is level with my crotch. she arches her bac in response, to be able to keep her hands on the floor and stabilise herself. then her dress naturally falls over her back. with my right hand I quickly lower her panties to her thighs. my already hard dick feels like its much larger just at the sight of her tiny cunt. slowly I press into her allowing the folds to consume my entire length. She feels tight and soft against my cock . eventually I'm able to push my entire penis into her and my hips contact with her ass, causing a small slap. I pick up the pace, pounding her ass in the street as the towns residence wander by ignoring the assault. one of these NPC happens to be Dorthes mother. she starts speaking to her daughter as if nothing is happening, chastising the girl for some random thing. the conversation is mostly one sided. moans are erupting from the girl preventing her speech. I can feel myself about to go over the edge. I pull out but just to the tip. Then I slam back into her and rape her as hard and fast as I can. her small frame shakes and screams. my cock throbbing out my cum into her crevice. I begin to move away from her. allowing her to stand. she leaks cum down onto her peach coloured thigh. " Papa says I'm too friendly with strangers, but you seem all right." Dorthe recites through whimpering breaths. I grab her dress wiping the rest of my cum onto her dress. as I clean myself I notice a young boy coming closer. its Frodnar, Gerdurs son, he walks to us looking at the sight. he has brought his dog ,Stump, with him. running up to Dorthe he yells "Hey, no fair! Get her, Stump!" stumps follows his command and leaps towards the girl. knocking her down. the dog starts humping her. his red rocket smacking into her stomach. The entire time she is laughing. looking at the quest screen I see I need to head to Whiterun. its a city just round the bend. I ready my flames spell and leave over the bridge just outside of town. its not to long, the town is still in visible distance, when I stumble upon a wolf attacking a deer. it growls . standing ready to attack. it howls as it darts forward. a blast of fire shoots out of my palms. burns rip across the wolf. stead fast the wolf charges through. I start to move back. then the wolf falls down, panic sets down and I start to breathe. I pick myself back up and begin to walk forward when I hear more barking. yet another wolf has started chasing me. I run past an imperial patrol who have a Stormcloak prisoner of war. they take out there weapons and start attacking the wolf. I don't look back to see how that turns out. just keep running forward till I reach the Honningbrew meadery. across from where the meadery sits, in-between whiteruns gate, Is a battle. a giant slams down his hammer against the ground. three warriors bravely run towards the giant, weapons raised, screaming battle cries. the two with swords are knocked aside by the giants club. it darts forward towards the archer. her name bar reading Aela the huntress. she doges the slamming down of the giants hammer. grabbed by the monsters grubby hand. it drops its bone club with a thud against the floor. and rips of her fur armour stripping her nude. the giants meat is then planted onto her face and along her muscular body. the penis is oddly small for a giant ,it big , about the size of a horse's, but not what I was expecting. the monster soon lifts her onto his cock and uses her as a human flesh light. the sex is quick and the giant soon cums thick ropes that leak out of Aela the giant then falls down paralysed. the rest of the companions on the field run and defeat the giant. that happening right Infront of me has turned me on heavily. I rush into the town . maybe I could get some whore to let me cum on her face. suddenly I'm stopped by the guards. two of them block my path preventing passage. they tell me that the city is off limits for non-citizens. I'm horny and annoyed so I yell some obscenities. "What? Do you think you can take the entirety of the Whiterun guard? the first guard taunts. I will attempt to persuade them by warning about what happened in helgen. they appear shocked and say "well alright, but I've got my eye on you". one of them pushes the door open. with a large creaking sound I see the road leading to the market place. I practically run into the area. ravenous and leaking precum I look for the nearest person. daylight is peaking up through the distant mountain. I see a mature lady setting up a produce stall. she takes food out of a barrel placing it onto her store. her white dress is covered in food juice. I go up behind her. I instantly yank down her tunic and dress revealing her ample bosom and pinning her arms. I would normal take my time but right now I'm insatiable. I reach my hand around her groping her breasts heavily. my right hand twists and pulls at her nipples. her tits are huge and firm. her areola are large and pink. the market place isn't too busy but there are some others who pass by."I hope you're looking at me like that because you want to buy something?" she responds to my advances. I ask her if she wants me to fuck her. "Life's hard enough with all these men propositioning me. But that bard is the worst." "I can pay you a fair sum" she accepts and I give her 20 gold, stolen from that Gerdur bitch. I walk over to one of the barrels he was just using. sit down on it so that when she is on her knees her breasts are on hight with my crotch. the imperial woman pushes her boobs together sandwiching my cock between them. my dick is still sensitive from fucking Dorthe. pleasure shoots up through me and I groan, she begins to say about the bard who has been harassing her with constant flirtations. mid sentence I Place my palms on the back of her head sifting my fingers through her hair. I slowly lower her head onto my tip. I bob her head up and down. slowly bit by bit I inch further into her mouth. she begins to gag as my manhood hits the back of her throat. I pull her hair so she can only suck the tip. she begins to swirl her tongue under my foreskin. I can feel myself getting close so I push into her as far as it can go and begin to fuck her face as hard as i can. an orgasmic wave crashes onto of me. my balls constrict as I begin to shoot ropes of hot salty from my dicks tip onto her tongue. I purposefully move out of her mouth and shoot the last rope onto her face. a large white streak stretches from her hair over her eye and to her chin. her mouth is open and cum leaks down onto her lips. a bowl of my semen sits on her tongue. "because that was so good I will sort out your situation with the bard". she then swallows my bitter seed. her mouth opens all of it gone. I lean into kiss her. once the kiss is planted she speaks "If you want to try, go right ahead. I don't think anything will get through that thick skull of his, though." I leave her by herself and walk toward the tavern. a sign hangs down flapping in the Skyrim wind. the sign reads "The Bannered Mare" before I even enter I know that the room is filled with lute music and the smells of fragrant venison stew. I step into the warmth and look around. A couple people from the tavern say things like "Whoa... Not even I'm that drunk..." and "Well now! Aren't you putting on quite the show?". at the counter sits a beautiful ginger haired Nord I walk up to her and she says "What can I get you?" I get her to point out the location of Mikael. a blond haired bard singing the taverns songs, not very well ill add. I wait for him to finish his song, before I go up to him and begin to try to persuade him. while I wait I ask Ysolda, the lady at the counter if I can get a room. it only costs ten gold, so I reach into my purse and provide it. then he finishes his dullen song "If it's a lady you're looking for, you'd best look elsewhere. Once Mikael gets them, they're got." You need to leave Carlotta alone. "Carlotta put you up to this, didn't she? I'm sorry, but that fiery widow is mine. She just doesn't know it yet." She's not yours. Stop this nonsense. (Persuade) "Maybe you're right. I guess I just didn't want anyone to think I couldn't handle one Nord lass. On my honour, I won't bother Carlotta ever again." I wont get the reward from Carlotta yet. I go into my room save the game and log off for now.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573766	{"authors": ["Mr_Pickwick"], "language": "English", "title": "journal of the dovahkiin"}
Fracture —•— “You killed me!” Morgana screams, shoving rage through the bitterness clogging her throat, the tears scalding her face. Her feet impact the ground, collapse it in radial craters, with each step forward. “You killed me, Merlin! You left me to die!” Nails bite into her palms. Blood drips — splat patter — from her knuckles. She feels it, can’t stop feeling it, even when she can’t hear it past the rush and the roar as it fills her ears, can’t hear it past the thundering thud of each triple-time heartbeat. She stops where the lash of his aura rakes across her skin, tears at her clothes. “Do you hear me!!!” she shrieks through the blur. Tears drip salt upon her lips, and she whirls, stomach a knot, covers her head, feels the magic bite and clench and bruise, don’t whimper don’t cry because— because— it’s for your own good, sister The pulse of magic surrounds her— different the same different —and a crack of thunder wrenches a cry from her chest. She spins, cowering… and then snarls as her eyes snag on a familiar, lean form. “It’s your fault,” she rasps, the words jagged and bloody, and the red tide drowns the fractal fear. Her spine snaps straight, and she jabs a finger at Merlin, feels the bite of his magic. “Your—! It’s all your fault!” “I died! I died and I died and I died! And my sister”—she spits the word, flinches, drags the bloody ocean back around her like a cloak—“killed and killed and killed to bring me back! My soul splintered, Merlin! Look at me!!” She pounds her chest with her fist, feeling the blood splash across her breast. “Look at me!! Look at the person you destroyed!! I am your monster. I hate—” Her voice catches, chokes, sobs. Her throat burns, explodes. “I hate you!” she screams, and her voice tears open the sky. “I hate you!!” The ground rumbles and cracks. “I hate you I hate you I hate hate hate you!!!” Thunder strikes. Ozone and crackling flames fill the air. “I want you to die!” Her throat screams, a mirror of her agony. “I want you to break and shatter and scream and die and die and die like I did! And I hate, hate, hate that you won’t!! I—” Her voice trembles. Her belly trembles, she’s weak, weak, weak, she’s— weak, sister “I hate— you!” The last word is a trembling sob, and she falls to her knees. “I just want to die.” Burying shaking, bloody fingers in her hair, she pulls. “I just want to die!” she screams through gritted teeth. She throws her head back, bares them at the gods-angry sky. “Just kill me already!!! Just kill me like you already did before! Let me die!!!” Lightning cracks, shattering her vision, blinding her, and she falls back upon the ruined ground. “I want—” Her voice breaks. “I want—” It trembles, cracks. “Let me die.” She buckles beneath silent sobs. “Please… please, just—”	Fracture —•— “You killed me!” Morgana screams, shoving rage through the bitterness clogging her throat, the tears scalding her face. Her feet impact the ground, collapse it in radial craters, with each step forward. “You killed me, Merlin! You left me to die!” Nails bite into her palms. Blood drips — splat patter — from her knuckles. She feels it, can’t stop feeling it, even when she can’t hear it past the rush and the roar as it fills her ears, can’t hear it past the thundering thud of each triple-time heartbeat. She stops where the lash of his aura rakes across her skin, tears at her clothes. “Do you hear me!!!” she shrieks through the blur. Tears drip salt upon her lips, and she whirls, stomach a knot, covers her head, feels the magic bite and clench and bruise, don’t whimper don’t cry because— because— it’s for your own good, sister The pulse of magic surrounds her— different the same different —and a crack of thunder wrenches a cry from her chest. She spins, cowering… and then snarls as her eyes snag on a familiar, lean form. “It’s your fault,” she rasps, the words jagged and bloody, and the red tide drowns the fractal fear. Her spine snaps straight, and she jabs a finger at Merlin, feels the bite of his magic. “Your—! It’s all your fault!” “I died! I died and I died and I died! And my sister”—she spits the word, flinches, drags the bloody ocean back around her like a cloak—“killed and killed and killed to bring me back! My soul splintered, Merlin! Look at me!!” She pounds her chest with her fist, feeling the blood splash across her breast. “Look at me!! Look at the person you destroyed!! I am your monster. I hate—” Her voice catches, chokes, sobs. Her throat burns, explodes. “I hate you!” she screams, and her voice tears open the sky. “I hate you!!” The ground rumbles and cracks. “I hate you I hate you I hate hate hate you!!!” Thunder strikes. Ozone and crackling flames fill the air. “I want you to die!” Her throat screams, a mirror of her agony. “I want you to break and shatter and scream and die and die and die like I did! And I hate, hate, hate that you won’t!! I—” Her voice trembles. Her belly trembles, she’s weak, weak, weak, she’s— weak, sister “I hate— you!” The last word is a trembling sob, and she falls to her knees. “I just want to die.” Burying shaking, bloody fingers in her hair, she pulls. “I just want to die!” she screams through gritted teeth. She throws her head back, bares them at the gods-angry sky. “Just kill me already!!! Just kill me like you already did before! Let me die!!!” Lightning cracks, shattering her vision, blinding her, and she falls back upon the ruined ground. “I want—” Her voice breaks. “I want—” It trembles, cracks. “Let me die.” She buckles beneath silent sobs. “Please… please, just—”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75573786	{"authors": ["Phoenix Reborn (Artemystic)"], "language": "English", "title": "Fracture"}
Why Is There No Smut For This Ship? “I don’t have much time-” Rufus started, but he didn’t get a chance to finish as Vincent dropped to his knees in front of him. “Then I will simply have to be quick~” Vincent said, smirking behind his mustache. He nuzzled Rufus’s abdomen as his hands unbuckled his belt. His strong, lithe hands smoothed under Rufus’s shirt and pushed it up, revealing his muscular stomach. “I can already tell this won’t take long.” Vincent said with a wink as he cupped the bulge in Rufus’s trousers with his hand. “Can you blame me? Youstay soft when an attractive man is on his knees in front of you.” Rufus sniped back, reaching down to run his hand through Vincent’s dark hair. Vincent smirked up at Rufus, his mustache curling with his smile. He pulled Rufus’s trousers down and hummed softly as he ran his hands over Rufus’s underwear. “These are nice. What are they made of?” “Mist Valley Silk. Jason won’t shut up about it.” Rufus said, rolling his eyes. Vincent chuckled and looked up at Rufus through his eyelashes and leaned in to lick a stripe up Rufus’s clothed cock. “I might need to invest in a pair… They make you look delicious.” Vincent said, his voice very nearly a purr. Rufus swallowed dryly as he looked down at Vincent. Fuck, he really wasn’t going to last very long like this! Vincent hadn’t even gotten him out of his clothes and he was already throbbing! Vincent leaned in and caught the waistband of Rufus’s boxers with his teeth and pulled them slowly down, tucking them underneath his balls. “This is always my favorite part…” Vincent murmured as he nuzzled Rufus’s cock, pressing tiny kisses and kitten licks across his length. “Fucking… Tease!” Rufus grunted, his fingers digging into Vincent’s shoulder. One of his hands fastened tightly on Vincent’s shoulder, the other went to cup the back of his head. He didn’t pull his hair or force him closer, he just held on for stability. Honestly, the wall was mostly keeping him upright. “Perhaps. But I am your favorite tease, am I not?” Vincent asked sweetly as he kissed along Rufus’s cock. He smiled sweetly up at Rufus as he made his way from the base to the tip with licks and kisses. “I think I’m- fuck- obligated to say you are when you’re on your knees in front of me…!” Rufus groaned. Vincent chuckled and wrapped his fingers around Rufus’s cock, stroking him slowly. “Then maybe I should earn my title.” Vincent said, puffing up proudly before he took Rufus into his mouth. He sucked gently, starting slow as he bobbed on the first few inches. Fuck, he loved the way Rufus filled his mouth! He listened to Rufus groaning above him as he took him deeper inch by inch. His mustache tickled against Rufus’s abdomen as he took him to the base, his tongue working along the underside. “Gods… Vincent! Just like that, don’t stop..!” Rufus growled, his fingers wrinkling Vincent’s tunic as he clutched his shoulder. Vincent smiled around the cock in his mouth and licked along the bottom, eager to tease more delicious sounds out of his lover. Vincent opened his eyes and looked up at Rufus. His dark skin hid his flush, but he was biting his lip hard to keep his noises subdued. They werein Vincent’s office in the Adventure Society Campus, after all. The door wasn’t even locked! Vincent hummed softly, his tongue vibrating gently along Rufus’s cock. Rufus let out a muffled grunt and tossed his head back, knocking his skull against the wall. Vincent winced in sympathy but didn’t stop or slow down. Rufus had said he only had a little bit of time. Vincent hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder!Rufus gritted his teeth hard to muffle his groan. Vincent bobbed his head faster, sucking from the bottom to the very tip of Rufus’s cock. Vincent loved the feeling of Rufus throbbing on his tongue, filling his mouth until his jaw ached! Rufus carded his fingers through Vincent’s hair, tugging slightly at the tangled curls. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving in his Vitesse style shirt. Vincent blinked slowly up at him before taking Rufus down to the root and sucking hard. He knew Rufus liked the feeling of his throat, the tight clutch as he swallowed around him! Vincent furrowed his brow and focused on avoiding gagging as he sucked and swallowed hard, bringing Rufus as much pleasure as possible. “Vincent! N-not going to last..!” Rufus growled through gritted teeth. Good, Vincent thought to himself. He worked his tongue against the bottom of Rufus’s cock, eager to feel him spill. He needed this just as much as Rufus did, needed to feel his pleasure! Vincent grabbed Rufus’s hips and held him in place as he bobbed his head faster, slurping every inch of Rufus’s cock. Rufus couldn’t hold back his sounds any more, gasping and groaning as Vincent worked him over. His hand tightened in Vincent’s hair, holding on for dear life! Vincent knew a second before Rufus did when he was coming. He felt the familiar pulse on his tongue, the way Rufus’s length twitched a second	Why Is There No Smut For This Ship? “I don’t have much time-” Rufus started, but he didn’t get a chance to finish as Vincent dropped to his knees in front of him. “Then I will simply have to be quick~” Vincent said, smirking behind his mustache. He nuzzled Rufus’s abdomen as his hands unbuckled his belt. His strong, lithe hands smoothed under Rufus’s shirt and pushed it up, revealing his muscular stomach. “I can already tell this won’t take long.” Vincent said with a wink as he cupped the bulge in Rufus’s trousers with his hand. “Can you blame me? Youstay soft when an attractive man is on his knees in front of you.” Rufus sniped back, reaching down to run his hand through Vincent’s dark hair. Vincent smirked up at Rufus, his mustache curling with his smile. He pulled Rufus’s trousers down and hummed softly as he ran his hands over Rufus’s underwear. “These are nice. What are they made of?” “Mist Valley Silk. Jason won’t shut up about it.” Rufus said, rolling his eyes. Vincent chuckled and looked up at Rufus through his eyelashes and leaned in to lick a stripe up Rufus’s clothed cock. “I might need to invest in a pair… They make you look delicious.” Vincent said, his voice very nearly a purr. Rufus swallowed dryly as he looked down at Vincent. Fuck, he really wasn’t going to last very long like this! Vincent hadn’t even gotten him out of his clothes and he was already throbbing! Vincent leaned in and caught the waistband of Rufus’s boxers with his teeth and pulled them slowly down, tucking them underneath his balls. “This is always my favorite part…” Vincent murmured as he nuzzled Rufus’s cock, pressing tiny kisses and kitten licks across his length. “Fucking… Tease!” Rufus grunted, his fingers digging into Vincent’s shoulder. One of his hands fastened tightly on Vincent’s shoulder, the other went to cup the back of his head. He didn’t pull his hair or force him closer, he just held on for stability. Honestly, the wall was mostly keeping him upright. “Perhaps. But I am your favorite tease, am I not?” Vincent asked sweetly as he kissed along Rufus’s cock. He smiled sweetly up at Rufus as he made his way from the base to the tip with licks and kisses. “I think I’m- fuck- obligated to say you are when you’re on your knees in front of me…!” Rufus groaned. Vincent chuckled and wrapped his fingers around Rufus’s cock, stroking him slowly. “Then maybe I should earn my title.” Vincent said, puffing up proudly before he took Rufus into his mouth. He sucked gently, starting slow as he bobbed on the first few inches. Fuck, he loved the way Rufus filled his mouth! He listened to Rufus groaning above him as he took him deeper inch by inch. His mustache tickled against Rufus’s abdomen as he took him to the base, his tongue working along the underside. “Gods… Vincent! Just like that, don’t stop..!” Rufus growled, his fingers wrinkling Vincent’s tunic as he clutched his shoulder. Vincent smiled around the cock in his mouth and licked along the bottom, eager to tease more delicious sounds out of his lover. Vincent opened his eyes and looked up at Rufus. His dark skin hid his flush, but he was biting his lip hard to keep his noises subdued. They werein Vincent’s office in the Adventure Society Campus, after all. The door wasn’t even locked! Vincent hummed softly, his tongue vibrating gently along Rufus’s cock. Rufus let out a muffled grunt and tossed his head back, knocking his skull against the wall. Vincent winced in sympathy but didn’t stop or slow down. Rufus had said he only had a little bit of time. Vincent hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder!Rufus gritted his teeth hard to muffle his groan. Vincent bobbed his head faster, sucking from the bottom to the very tip of Rufus’s cock. Vincent loved the feeling of Rufus throbbing on his tongue, filling his mouth until his jaw ached! Rufus carded his fingers through Vincent’s hair, tugging slightly at the tangled curls. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving in his Vitesse style shirt. Vincent blinked slowly up at him before taking Rufus down to the root and sucking hard. He knew Rufus liked the feeling of his throat, the tight clutch as he swallowed around him! Vincent furrowed his brow and focused on avoiding gagging as he sucked and swallowed hard, bringing Rufus as much pleasure as possible. “Vincent! N-not going to last..!” Rufus growled through gritted teeth. Good, Vincent thought to himself. He worked his tongue against the bottom of Rufus’s cock, eager to feel him spill. He needed this just as much as Rufus did, needed to feel his pleasure! Vincent grabbed Rufus’s hips and held him in place as he bobbed his head faster, slurping every inch of Rufus’s cock. Rufus couldn’t hold back his sounds any more, gasping and groaning as Vincent worked him over. His hand tightened in Vincent’s hair, holding on for dear life! Vincent knew a second before Rufus did when he was coming. He felt the familiar pulse on his tongue, the way Rufus’s length twitched a second before filling his mouth with bitter seed. Rufus hunched over Vincent, clinging to his scalp and shoulderas he came down Vincent’s throat with a choked off growl. “F-fuck…” Rufus groaned leaning against the wall as his legs trembled. Vincent pulled back, sucking Rufus clean before coming off with a wet pop. “With time to spare,” Vincent said, hoarse but smug. He began to tuck Rufus back into his boxers before pulling his trousers up and fastening his belt. “W-wait- what about you?” Rusus asked, running a hand over his scalp to wipe away the sweat. “No time.” Vincent said, shaking his head. “You'll just have to make it up to me tonight~” Vincent winked up at Rufus, licking his lips. Rufus swallowed, his throat bobbing as he nodded wordlessly.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75569541	{"authors": ["The_King_In_Yellow"], "language": "English", "title": "Why Is There No Smut For This Ship?"}
it's hurting, but that's okay Luca had vowed to never think about middle school. He would veer conversations away from that time period, scold his mind when memories warred with the present, and force his body forward. He was an NHL player for Ottawa, a team that was making strides to reach the playoffs; he could not be weak, or at least show it. But his past was staring at him from across the arena, and he felt his will crumbling. “You alright?” Wyatt, Ottawa’s goalie, asked. Luca’s eyes widened as he forced himself to look away from the packed crowd, away from his former teacher. They were in the middle of a pivotal game, but everything had become insignificant when he saw him. Why was he here? Was he here for me? No, he couldn’t be. I was too old now, too known. “Luca,” Wyatt said, placing a firm hand on the distracted forward. He held back a flinch at the sudden contact as his eyes met with the concerned man in front of him. “I—” His thoughts were racing, his body was buzzing, and his heart was thumping erratically as he found the man once more in the crowd. He needed to snap out of it. There was a game going on, and he was chatting with the goalie like it was a physical education class, not an NHL game that would be a deciding factor for the playoffs. Luca was panicking. Wyatt followed his gaze and must have noticed his focus on the full arena. “What’s wrong?” “My— He—” Luca gasped as tears began forming in his eyes. “Why is he here?” He cried out as he fought to stay on his feet. He didn’t know what to do. He knew he needed to get his head back in the game, but he was frozen. He felt the same way he did all those years ago when his teacher gave him compliments too loosely, touching him too carelessly. He needed to get out of here. Luca ignored Wyatt as he skated back to the bench; he disregarded his coaches and teammates as they called for him, but he didn’t care. He reached the tunnel and rushed to the locker room. He had to leave. He couldn’t be in the same building as him. He would— Once Luca got to the bench overlooking his locker, he collapsed into a heap. He ripped his helmet off, not caring where it ended up as he threw it across the room. His breaths were coming in unsteady waves, forcing him to gasp. As tears continued cascading down his face, sobs were ripped from inside of him. He was so pathetic. He had let down his team. He could have ignored it. He could have continued playing as if he wasn’t there, yet he ran away like a child. Luca was so consumed with his self-deprecating thoughts that he didn’t notice when someone sat down next to him, placing an arm around his shoulders. He jolted, whipping his head to face the other man. How had he found Luca so quickly? But it wasn’t him. “Ilya,” he cried out as he allowed himself to settle in his captain’s embrace. “I’m so sorry. I know I let down the team. I can go back out there. I just—” Even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to. “No, you stay,” Ilya said. “Tell me what happened.” Luca couldn’t. He hadn’t told anyone—he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. It was a secret. A dark, disgusting, twisted secret that he swore Luca to obey from that first day. “I can’t,” he whispered as he wiped away the tears that were dripping from his chin. Ilya sighed. “You are scared. Wyatt says you look at crowd and freeze. You do not have stage fright,” he said. Luca wrapped his arms around his abdomen, creating a pseudo layer of protection. “I saw someone I know,” he admitted. Ilya nodded. “I will get security to throw them out. They will be banned from arena.” Luca’s eyes widened. “You can’t! He— He’ll know it was me! He will— He will ruin me! Please, Ilya!” He hadn’t realized he was practically clawing at his captain's sweaty jersey until Ilya held his wrists in place. “If you are afraid of someone, they need to leave. No one scares my rookie.” Luca debated it. He was almost twenty now. Maybe if he finally confessed his sins, the memories that haunted him would finally seize. But if he found out, Luca’s NHL career would be over. He made eye contact with Ilya and saw nothing but trust. He could do this. Ilya wouldn’t judge him. He may even say it was normal. Luca felt excitement coursing through his veins. This could all be a misunderstanding. “My former teacher was here,” Luca admitted. Ilya nodded, urging Luca to continue. With a deep breath, he did. Luca told Ilya how he was struggling with math in middle school, how his teacher kindly offered to tutor him after class, how he would complement his work even when it was wrong or poorly done, how high fives became soft caresses on his cheek, his shoulder, how Luca had fallen in love. “He was always telling me how good I was doing, and he would hug me for so long. I was scared he would be mad when I told him I had a crush, but he wasn’t. He gave me his phone number and said I could come to his house that weekend. He knew my parents weren’t around much, so they wouldn’t care.” Luca was nervous about Ilya’s	it's hurting, but that's okay Luca had vowed to never think about middle school. He would veer conversations away from that time period, scold his mind when memories warred with the present, and force his body forward. He was an NHL player for Ottawa, a team that was making strides to reach the playoffs; he could not be weak, or at least show it. But his past was staring at him from across the arena, and he felt his will crumbling. “You alright?” Wyatt, Ottawa’s goalie, asked. Luca’s eyes widened as he forced himself to look away from the packed crowd, away from his former teacher. They were in the middle of a pivotal game, but everything had become insignificant when he saw him. Why was he here? Was he here for me? No, he couldn’t be. I was too old now, too known. “Luca,” Wyatt said, placing a firm hand on the distracted forward. He held back a flinch at the sudden contact as his eyes met with the concerned man in front of him. “I—” His thoughts were racing, his body was buzzing, and his heart was thumping erratically as he found the man once more in the crowd. He needed to snap out of it. There was a game going on, and he was chatting with the goalie like it was a physical education class, not an NHL game that would be a deciding factor for the playoffs. Luca was panicking. Wyatt followed his gaze and must have noticed his focus on the full arena. “What’s wrong?” “My— He—” Luca gasped as tears began forming in his eyes. “Why is he here?” He cried out as he fought to stay on his feet. He didn’t know what to do. He knew he needed to get his head back in the game, but he was frozen. He felt the same way he did all those years ago when his teacher gave him compliments too loosely, touching him too carelessly. He needed to get out of here. Luca ignored Wyatt as he skated back to the bench; he disregarded his coaches and teammates as they called for him, but he didn’t care. He reached the tunnel and rushed to the locker room. He had to leave. He couldn’t be in the same building as him. He would— Once Luca got to the bench overlooking his locker, he collapsed into a heap. He ripped his helmet off, not caring where it ended up as he threw it across the room. His breaths were coming in unsteady waves, forcing him to gasp. As tears continued cascading down his face, sobs were ripped from inside of him. He was so pathetic. He had let down his team. He could have ignored it. He could have continued playing as if he wasn’t there, yet he ran away like a child. Luca was so consumed with his self-deprecating thoughts that he didn’t notice when someone sat down next to him, placing an arm around his shoulders. He jolted, whipping his head to face the other man. How had he found Luca so quickly? But it wasn’t him. “Ilya,” he cried out as he allowed himself to settle in his captain’s embrace. “I’m so sorry. I know I let down the team. I can go back out there. I just—” Even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to. “No, you stay,” Ilya said. “Tell me what happened.” Luca couldn’t. He hadn’t told anyone—he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. It was a secret. A dark, disgusting, twisted secret that he swore Luca to obey from that first day. “I can’t,” he whispered as he wiped away the tears that were dripping from his chin. Ilya sighed. “You are scared. Wyatt says you look at crowd and freeze. You do not have stage fright,” he said. Luca wrapped his arms around his abdomen, creating a pseudo layer of protection. “I saw someone I know,” he admitted. Ilya nodded. “I will get security to throw them out. They will be banned from arena.” Luca’s eyes widened. “You can’t! He— He’ll know it was me! He will— He will ruin me! Please, Ilya!” He hadn’t realized he was practically clawing at his captain's sweaty jersey until Ilya held his wrists in place. “If you are afraid of someone, they need to leave. No one scares my rookie.” Luca debated it. He was almost twenty now. Maybe if he finally confessed his sins, the memories that haunted him would finally seize. But if he found out, Luca’s NHL career would be over. He made eye contact with Ilya and saw nothing but trust. He could do this. Ilya wouldn’t judge him. He may even say it was normal. Luca felt excitement coursing through his veins. This could all be a misunderstanding. “My former teacher was here,” Luca admitted. Ilya nodded, urging Luca to continue. With a deep breath, he did. Luca told Ilya how he was struggling with math in middle school, how his teacher kindly offered to tutor him after class, how he would complement his work even when it was wrong or poorly done, how high fives became soft caresses on his cheek, his shoulder, how Luca had fallen in love. “He was always telling me how good I was doing, and he would hug me for so long. I was scared he would be mad when I told him I had a crush, but he wasn’t. He gave me his phone number and said I could come to his house that weekend. He knew my parents weren’t around much, so they wouldn’t care.” Luca was nervous about Ilya’s reaction. He was sure there would be disgust and admonishment on the star players face, but instead there was agony… and rage? “Luca,” Ilya began, “that was illegal.” Luca aggressively nodded his head. He knew that was the main issue. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t have pressured him, but I loved him so much, and he said he loved me too.” Ilya’s face scrunched in confusion. “Luca, what exactly did your teacher do?” “Well…” Luca hesitated. It was embarrassing. “We, uhm, had sex.” Ilya stood abruptly and slammed his fist into the closest locker. He said something in Russian before facing the rookie. “I need to call police.” Luca rose from the bench, careful not to trip on his skates. “No, no. You can’t. Ilya, please, I promised.” Ilya shook his head. “He groomed you.” Luca froze. No, no. “No, that’s not true! I loved him! I was the one who forced myself on him; he didn’t want to hurt my feelings.” Ilya took a deep breath before he said, “Luca, why did you say he would ruin you?” “He has photos,” he whispered. Luca remembered when those photos had been taken. While laid out on a bed or in the shower or kneeled on the floor, there was always a camera in his teacher's hand. Luca had felt so gorgeous, so treasured. He never thought about the images being used against him, but when the end of the school year came and their time together was up, he had brought out a photo album. “Look at you, Luca,” his teacher had whispered into his ear. He wanted Luca to flip through the entire album of photos. As he did, the threats started. “You are my good boy, yes? And you will keep what we are a secret.” Luca had aggressively nodded. “Of course. Not until I am eighteen, right?” He asked, hopefully. His teacher had laughed, a deep, full laugh. “Oh, my precious boy. We are done now. And these photos…” He pointed to one in particular. It was of Luca sleeping in bed, naked. “Well, you wouldn’t want other people seeing these, would you?” Luca had been heartbroken. He had believed when promises of a life together had left his teachers lips, but he was instead pushed to the side. A few months later, Luca had begged to be taken back. But who he thought was the love of his life snapped, “You’re too old now.” Ilya was seething. “He needs to be arrested.” Luca hated that tears were still dripping from his cheeks as he said, “No.” “Luca, he probably still is doing this,” Ilya said, nearly frustrated. “We get police, tell them, and he hurts no one else.” Luca bit his lip. He knew that he wasn’t the only one. There had been numerous photo albums next to his own, but who would believe him? How could his parents, his friends, his teammates look at him the same? He was dirty and broken and used. And there were the photos. If there was any suspicion that Luca had broken his promise, the intimate images would spread like wildfire. He couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t. “I made a promise,” he said adamantly, ignoring the way his voice broke. Ilya placed his hands on the young forwards shoulders as he said, “Promise or not, you fear him. You freeze on ice and have panic attack. You blame yourself, not him.” Ilya shook his head and took a deep breath. “I will be here with you.” Luca thought about it. Ilya had confirmed his fears that what his teacher did was not normal. He wanted Luca to break his promise, to confess to the police. If he did this… He was scared—so, so scared. But Ilya was looking at him like he was brave, like he wasn’t a boy who spent a year being manipulated and played with. Maybe… Maybe Luca could do this. He took a deep breath and made eye contact with his captain. “Call them.”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75569551	{"authors": ["madomtomlinson"], "language": "English", "title": "it's hurting, but that's okay"}
Unavoidable Katsuki had always carried that damned dream like a burning brand pressed against her ribs. Ever since she could form a sentence, she wanted to be a hero — not just any hero, but the one standing at the top. Higher than All Might. Louder than the crowds. Unshakable. Unbreakable. Untouchable. And when she and Izuku were kids, she believed — with the stubborn, stupid faith of a child — that they would rise together. The Wonder Duo. Two little brats from the same neighborhood ready to stomp the world flat beneath their shoes. Then she turned five. Five years old and still quirkless. It felt like the universe had spat on her shoes and told her to mop the floor with her pride. Meanwhile Izuku — that green-haired bastard — erupted with a quirk strong enough to make every adult in a five-block radius coo at him like he was some divine gift dropped straight from hero heaven. Telekinesis. Clean, powerful, flashy. People loved flashy. They loved him. Katsuki wanted that. Wanted the applause, the admiration, the looks that said you can do anything. She wanted it enough to chew steel if someone asked. But all she got was a diagnosis in cold, bored words: quirkless. No miracle late awakening. No rare mutation. Nothing. Just a lifetime sentence written before she even learned to read. Izuku changed after that. Like a switch flipped behind those earnest green eyes. By the time they hit elementary school, he wasn’t just distant — he was cruel. Took the lead in pushing her around. Joined the other kids when they mocked her. He even threw in the extra venom: You’re quirkless. And even if you had a quirk, you’d never be a hero. You’re a girl. Katsuki didn’t let those words land without payment. Oh, she paid them back with interest — fists first, questions never. Quirkless didn’t mean helpless. It didn’t even mean slow. Her fists found noses; her boots found shins; her temper found every suspension letter the school could print. She couldn’t ignite explosions, so she ignited hell with her bare hands. But life kept rolling, cruel as ever. Izuku was accepted into U.A. with soaring grades and a shiny recommendation that made half the faculty weep. Katsuki watched from the outside, jaw tight, knuckles white, noticing something off about his power — too potent, too sudden, too convenient. Then the truth dripped out years later: All Might himself had handed him One For All like a god choosing a champion. Tch. Of course the universe bent over for Izuku Midoriya. The war came and went, and Izuku’s legend ballooned until it cast a shadow over the whole damned country. Statue in the capital. Annual specials. Documentaries with dramatic lighting. By twenty-eight, he was the Number One Hero, the most powerful and most adored face of Japan. And in Katsuki’s eyes, still the biggest asshole she’d ever known. As for her? She carved her way up the world without quirks, fanclubs, mentors, or divine handouts. College — boring and ordinary. Work — brutal and slow. She clawed at every rung, refused to be small, refused to be forgotten. Today she sat as Head of Finance in a company that practically bled money, and she was the one who made sure it didn’t die. Not useless. Never useless. No matter how many times Izuku had spat that poison at her when they were kids. They hadn’t spoken since he entered U.A., and Katsuki preferred it that way. The silence between them was cleaner than anything they ever had. He lived on television screens now — heroic smiles, speeches about hope, interviews where he acted like he’d been born pure and righteous instead of forged in childhood cruelty. She muted the TV most of the time, but sometimes his voice slipped through. And every time it did, something deep in her chest curled, sharp and furious, like a blade warming itself for the day it would strike. Even with the past gnawing at her heels, Katsuki managed just fine. Her life was boring — painfully, stubbornly normal — but it was hers, and she’d built every inch of it with her bare hands. A stable job, a steady apartment, a routine that didn’t try to murder her. Not exciting, not heroic, not worth a biography… but good. Solid. Safe. Sure, a little adventure would’ve been nice, something to rattle the cage and keep her blood from turning into office-grade sludge. But she’d long accepted she wasn’t getting that kind of nonsense anymore. Not in this life. Then she arrived at work one goddamn Tuesday morning and found him standing in the lobby. Izuku Number One Bastard Midoriya, the country’s golden pet, surrounded by a storm of people — mostly women — clinging to every breath he exhaled. They laughed too loudly at his stupid jokes, flicked their hair like trained peacocks, and adjusted their skirts as if his gaze were sunlight and they were angling themselves for maximum exposure. Deku might have been a hero, but he had a reputation, even the media didn’t bother to sugarcoat it: womanizer, serial flirt, PR nightmare wrapped in freckles and self-righteous	Unavoidable Katsuki had always carried that damned dream like a burning brand pressed against her ribs. Ever since she could form a sentence, she wanted to be a hero — not just any hero, but the one standing at the top. Higher than All Might. Louder than the crowds. Unshakable. Unbreakable. Untouchable. And when she and Izuku were kids, she believed — with the stubborn, stupid faith of a child — that they would rise together. The Wonder Duo. Two little brats from the same neighborhood ready to stomp the world flat beneath their shoes. Then she turned five. Five years old and still quirkless. It felt like the universe had spat on her shoes and told her to mop the floor with her pride. Meanwhile Izuku — that green-haired bastard — erupted with a quirk strong enough to make every adult in a five-block radius coo at him like he was some divine gift dropped straight from hero heaven. Telekinesis. Clean, powerful, flashy. People loved flashy. They loved him. Katsuki wanted that. Wanted the applause, the admiration, the looks that said you can do anything. She wanted it enough to chew steel if someone asked. But all she got was a diagnosis in cold, bored words: quirkless. No miracle late awakening. No rare mutation. Nothing. Just a lifetime sentence written before she even learned to read. Izuku changed after that. Like a switch flipped behind those earnest green eyes. By the time they hit elementary school, he wasn’t just distant — he was cruel. Took the lead in pushing her around. Joined the other kids when they mocked her. He even threw in the extra venom: You’re quirkless. And even if you had a quirk, you’d never be a hero. You’re a girl. Katsuki didn’t let those words land without payment. Oh, she paid them back with interest — fists first, questions never. Quirkless didn’t mean helpless. It didn’t even mean slow. Her fists found noses; her boots found shins; her temper found every suspension letter the school could print. She couldn’t ignite explosions, so she ignited hell with her bare hands. But life kept rolling, cruel as ever. Izuku was accepted into U.A. with soaring grades and a shiny recommendation that made half the faculty weep. Katsuki watched from the outside, jaw tight, knuckles white, noticing something off about his power — too potent, too sudden, too convenient. Then the truth dripped out years later: All Might himself had handed him One For All like a god choosing a champion. Tch. Of course the universe bent over for Izuku Midoriya. The war came and went, and Izuku’s legend ballooned until it cast a shadow over the whole damned country. Statue in the capital. Annual specials. Documentaries with dramatic lighting. By twenty-eight, he was the Number One Hero, the most powerful and most adored face of Japan. And in Katsuki’s eyes, still the biggest asshole she’d ever known. As for her? She carved her way up the world without quirks, fanclubs, mentors, or divine handouts. College — boring and ordinary. Work — brutal and slow. She clawed at every rung, refused to be small, refused to be forgotten. Today she sat as Head of Finance in a company that practically bled money, and she was the one who made sure it didn’t die. Not useless. Never useless. No matter how many times Izuku had spat that poison at her when they were kids. They hadn’t spoken since he entered U.A., and Katsuki preferred it that way. The silence between them was cleaner than anything they ever had. He lived on television screens now — heroic smiles, speeches about hope, interviews where he acted like he’d been born pure and righteous instead of forged in childhood cruelty. She muted the TV most of the time, but sometimes his voice slipped through. And every time it did, something deep in her chest curled, sharp and furious, like a blade warming itself for the day it would strike. Even with the past gnawing at her heels, Katsuki managed just fine. Her life was boring — painfully, stubbornly normal — but it was hers, and she’d built every inch of it with her bare hands. A stable job, a steady apartment, a routine that didn’t try to murder her. Not exciting, not heroic, not worth a biography… but good. Solid. Safe. Sure, a little adventure would’ve been nice, something to rattle the cage and keep her blood from turning into office-grade sludge. But she’d long accepted she wasn’t getting that kind of nonsense anymore. Not in this life. Then she arrived at work one goddamn Tuesday morning and found him standing in the lobby. Izuku Number One Bastard Midoriya, the country’s golden pet, surrounded by a storm of people — mostly women — clinging to every breath he exhaled. They laughed too loudly at his stupid jokes, flicked their hair like trained peacocks, and adjusted their skirts as if his gaze were sunlight and they were angling themselves for maximum exposure. Deku might have been a hero, but he had a reputation, even the media didn’t bother to sugarcoat it: womanizer, serial flirt, PR nightmare wrapped in freckles and self-righteous charm. Seeing it in person was somehow worse. So much worse. Katsuki’s jaw ticked. Her morning coffee curdled in her stomach. “Hey, what are you doing lurking back here? Not gonna ask for his autograph?” Camie’s voice slithered in from her right. Katsuki turned to find the woman sashaying toward her with a mocking smile plastered across her glossy lips. Of course the bitch was enjoying every second of this. Camie knew exactly how much Katsuki despised Deku. She savored it like candy. Katsuki grunted, dragging her glare away from the hero and pinning it onto the woman now practically blocking her path. “What the hell is that bastard doing here?” Camie blinked, exaggerated, like she was dealing with an idiot. “Duh? Did you forget our company is one of the biggest marketing agencies in Japan? Deku’s migrating to us.” Her smile stretched, satisfied and dripping sugar that Katsuki could practically taste as venom. She looked back at the swarm around Izuku — the cameras, the synchronized gasps, the shine of his stupid green eyes. He was soaking it in like it was oxygen. Signing notebooks, posing for selfies, giving out that rehearsed grin the whole country worshiped. Camie leaned in, voice low and smug. “I’ll be his personal legal advisor.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, like the bitch she was. “Jealous yet?” She even had the audacity to wink. Katsuki’s fists curled so hard the leather of her bag strap creaked. Jealous? The only thing she felt was the violent urge to shove Camie through the wall and drop-kick Deku back onto the street where he belonged. And unfortunately… her day had only just started. Camie rolled her eyes so hard Katsuki swore she heard the friction. “Oh, Kitty, please, I’m joking. Why are you so pissed? You’re the finance gremlin. You won’t even have to talk to him!” Camie whined, trailing after her as Katsuki stormed down the corridor. Katsuki took the long route, pointedly avoiding the lobby and the hero circus clogging it. Their heels clicked sharply across the polished floor — two rapid, irritated metronomes beating in uneven harmony. Katsuki’s shoulders were rigid, the muscles in her jaw locked so tight she felt the pulse in her teeth. “Shut up. Seeing that son of a bitch on TV every damn day was already hell. Now I’m gonna have to risk running into that idiot here?” Her voice came out rough, half-growled, all venom. Camie snorted, covering her mouth like she was trying to mute her amusement. She failed. Miserably. “Oh, don’t be sad, princess. If you get too grumpy, I can personally drag him to your office so he can look at you!” she chirped, her voice dipped in that acidic humor Katsuki always wanted to punt down a flight of stairs. Camie was — annoyingly — one of the few people Katsuki tolerated. And only God knew why. The woman was too bright, too loud, too stupidly friendly for Katsuki’s taste, yet somehow she had wormed her way into Katsuki’s life and planted a permanent flag. Camie was also a damn good lawyer — easily the best in the company — which was the only reason Katsuki allowed her within a ten-meter radius without assaulting her daily. “Shut up, bitch,” Katsuki snapped, jabbing the elevator button hard enough the plastic groaned under her finger. Her reflection in the panel glared back at her — sharp eyes, stiff shoulders, every inch of her vibrating with the kind of fury she hadn’t felt since she was a kid hearing Deku call her worthless. Camie leaned on one hip, smirking like this was the most entertaining morning she’d had in months. Katsuki felt the familiar fire climbing up her spine — not heroic, not hopeful, just raw, unfiltered rage warming her bones. Because of course he would show up here. Of course her peace couldn’t last. Of course Izuku Midoriya would find a way to ruin her Tuesday. The elevator chimed with a polite little ping, completely at odds with Katsuki’s mood. She stormed inside, Camie slipping in right behind her with the grace of someone who had never once taken anything seriously. “Hmmm… how about karaoke tonight?” Camie mused, already leaning into the mirror-lined wall to touch up her lipstick with her finger. “You promised you’d come with me last week, but you didn’t!” she whined dramatically, like a toddler denied candy. Katsuki snorted and jabbed the button for the ninth floor. “I never said I’d go. I said I’d think about it.” “That’s basically a yes,” Camie declared, turning toward her with bright, accusing eyes. “You left me alone with the entire legal department! Alone, Katsuki. Alone with those gremlins.” Katsuki gave her a dry stare. “So you didn’t want my company. You just wanted to escape your people.” Camie opened her mouth—obviously ready to deliver some stupid comeback—when the elevator doors started to close. A hand shot between them. “Hey, sorry, I need to—” The voice hit first. Then the man attached to it stepped into view. Deku. Izuku Midoriya. Number One Hero. Public menace. General hazard to Katsuki’s blood pressure. He flashed a bright smile into the elevator—only for it to die the moment his eyes landed on her. Katsuki went still. Completely still. Like someone had unplugged her brain. Her eyes widened, her pulse tripped over itself, and every molecule in her body screamed the same thing: What. The. Actual. Fuck. Of all the elevators, of course he had to shove himself into hers. Silence crashed over them. Not the normal kind—this one was thick, suffocating, like the air had turned into wet cement. Camie, to her credit, reacted first. “Oh! Deku! What a surprise!” she exclaimed, sliding in front of Katsuki so aggressively she nearly stepped on her toes. “I’m Camie! I’ll be your legal counsel!” She grabbed his hand and shook it enthusiastically, practically yanking his arm off. Katsuki didn’t move. Couldn’t move. She was frozen in place, the elevator suddenly ten degrees hotter as Deku’s stare stayed locked on her like a goddamn laser sight. There was no reason for him to still be looking at her — Camie was blocking half the view — but he kept craning, tilting just enough to keep her in his line of sight. Camie tried to push him back out into the hallway. “Come on, I’ll walk you to my office! We have paperwork to go over and some forms you need to—” He didn’t budge. His feet planted firmly. His expression unreadable. His eyes digging into Katsuki like he was trying to confirm she was real. Katsuki felt her skin heat. Her chest tightened, stomach knotting. A whole storm of feelings ripped through her — ugly, tangled, messy, impossible to name. Anger, shock, irritation, confusion… something else she refused to admit existed. Then Deku spoke. “Kac…chan…?” The name was barely a whisper. Soft. Disbelieving. Almost fragile. It hit Katsuki like a punch to the diaphragm. Her breath stuttered. She tore her gaze away instantly, as if the floor buttons had suddenly become fascinating. That tiny movement was all Camie needed — she shoved Deku just hard enough that he stumbled back a step. Finally, the elevator doors began to close. Camie was still talking — loud, frantic, babbling about legal procedures and confidentiality agreements and how “Oh my god, Deku, we really need to get going—” anything to keep his attention off Katsuki. But Deku didn’t look away. He stayed there, standing just beyond the threshold, eyes locked on Katsuki as if the doors were closing in slow motion. And for a split second — a split fucking second — Katsuki was certain he was going to step inside. He shifted, muscles tense, leaning forward like— No. The doors slid shut. Silence swallowed the elevator. Katsuki exhaled only when the metal sealed her off from him completely. And even then, her heart kept slamming against her ribs like it was trying to escape her chest. Camie turned slowly. “Oh. My. God.” Katsuki didn’t look at her. “Don’t.” Camie grinned like a demon. “You two have HISTORY, don’t you?” Katsuki jabbed the emergency stop button. Camie shrieked. “SHUT. UP.” The elevator resumed moving and Camie didn’t stop staring at her. Not a normal stare — no, this was the kind of look forensic investigators give a body before declaring the cause of death as “something juicy.” The elevator climbed slowly, far too slowly for Katsuki’s taste. She crossed her arms, eyes glued to the digital floor numbers like she could bully them into moving faster. Camie’s voice finally broke the silence. “…Sooo.” Katsuki gritted her teeth. “No.” “You didn’t even let me say anything!” “Because I already know it’s going to be something stupid.” Camie ignored that—because of course she did. She leaned closer, eyes sparkling with malicious curiosity. “Katsuki. Babe. Sweetheart. For the love of every spreadsheet you’ve ever worshiped… what the hell was that?” Katsuki exhaled through her nose, a slow murderous burn. “Nothing.” “Bullshit. That wasn’t ‘nothing’. That wasn’t even in the same postal code as ‘nothing’. That man stared at you like you were the last donut in the break room.” “Camie,” Katsuki growled. “And you stared back like someone had punted your soul into orbit!” “I swear to God—” “So,” Camie pressed, uncowed, “you two know each other?” Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “Drop it.” Camie crossed her arms, planting her heels like she was preparing for battle. “No. You don’t get to get all weird and traumatic in an elevator with me and then pretend I imagined it. Spill it.” Katsuki looked at the ceiling. Then at the floor. Then at the glowing elevator numbers. None of them provided an escape hatch. Camie tapped her foot. “Tell me or I’ll start guessing. And you know my guesses get creative.” Katsuki closed her eyes. “Don’t.” “Lovers?” Camie offered immediately, absolutely delighted with herself. “WHAT— No!” “Enemies?” “Yes, but—no, not like— Camie, shut up.” “Long lost rivals?” Katsuki’s eye twitched. “Okay, then childhood friends who had some dramatic falling out that you still haven’t emotionally processed because you have the coping skills of a dead ferret?” Katsuki turned her head slowly and glared so hard the air seemed to crackle. Camie beamed. “HA!” she declared. “Knew it. Childhood something. I could smell the trauma.” Katsuki groaned—actually groaned. “We grew up together. That’s it. End of story.” Camie’s jaw dropped. “That was not ‘that’s it’ energy. That was ‘holy shit my past just kicked down the door with a flamethrower’ energy.” “Camie.” “That was ‘I haven’t seen this bastard in years and I might pass out’ energy.” “Camie.” “That was—” “CAMIE.” She finally shut her mouth. For three seconds. Then: “…So he called you Kacchan—” Katsuki slammed her forehead against the elevator wall. Camie patted her shoulder sympathetically. “Hey. Don’t worry. We’ll unpack all this emotional garbage together. I’ve got wine.” “I don’t need to unpack anything,” Katsuki snapped. “Oh, honey, you need to unpack enough emotional shit to start a landfill.” Katsuki lifted her head, eyes glowing with murder. The elevator dinged at the ninth floor. Camie stepped out first, muttering, “Childhood friends… Jesus Christ. No wonder you froze like Windows 98.” Katsuki followed, resisting the urge to strangle her with her own blazer. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ The rest of the day crawled by in a strange, shaky rhythm — the kind of rhythm that happens after you’ve been hit by a metaphorical truck at 9 a.m. and pretend you’re totally fine for the next eight hours. Katsuki buried herself in work with the desperation of someone outrunning their own brain. Spreadsheets, projections, emails, budgets — she chewed through tasks like they owed her money. Every time her mind tried to wander to him, she slammed another financial report on top of the thought until it suffocated. Her office was her sanctuary: quiet, dim, neat. The only sounds were the clacking of her keyboard, the occasional creak from her chair, and her own irritated little sighs. Blessedly peaceful. Her cave. Her fortress. Her Deku-free zone. She hadn’t stepped outside the room once. Not even for lunch. Thank God she always kept bento boxes in her mini-fridge. Thank God she had her own bathroom. Thank God she didn’t have to risk running into a certain green-haired plague wandering the halls like an uninvited ghost from her childhood. When the sun finally dipped low, painting warm light across her office walls, Katsuki leaned back and exhaled deeply — the first real breath she’d taken all day. She saved her work, shut down her computer, and let her stiff body sag into the chair. Done. The day was finally over. She’d managed to avoid the bastard completely. She hadn’t seen Deku since the elevator incident, which meant the universe had corrected itself. Things could return to normal. Boring, quirkless, peaceful normal. She stood, stretching her back until it popped, and grabbed her bag. Then— A knock. Two knocks. Then the door opened without waiting for her answer. Katsuki blinked. Her CEO stepped inside — a polished, smiling man in an expensive suit — and right behind him, filling the doorway with broad shoulders and an aura she wanted to punt out the window, was Deku. Katsuki’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. Of course. Of course. Why wouldn’t the universe kick her teeth in right before clock-out? “Miss Bakugou,” the CEO said warmly, “hope we’re not interrupting.” “You are,” she said flatly. He laughed, assuming she was joking. She wasn’t. Deku lingered in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to step inside. His eyes found her instantly — not subtly, not casually, but like he’d been hunting for her all damn day. “Kac—” He stopped himself at the first syllable. “Katsuki.” The way he said her name made her skin crawl and heat all at once. The CEO clapped his hands together. “Deku insisted on touring every department. Usually clients aren’t interested in meeting accounting, but he was… adamant.” Katsuki’s glare snapped toward the hero so fast her neck cracked. Adamant, huh? Deku didn’t look away. Not even under the full weight of her death stare. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I… wanted to come here.” Oh no. Oh hell no. Absolutely the fuck not. Katsuki stiffened, crossing her arms like a shield. “There’s nothing here for you. Marketing and PR are the seventh floor hallway to the left. You got lost.” The CEO smiled apologetically. “Actually, he asked specifically for you.” Katsuki blinked because her brain malfunctioned. Deku stepped fully inside now, hands loose at his sides, shoulders tense but posture steady. “I… wanted to see you.” Her chair creaked violently as she gripped the back of it. Camie’s voice played in her head: You two definitely have history. Windows 98 freeze! Jesus Christ, Katsuki— Katsuki wanted to bash her own skull into the desk. The CEO, blissfully unaware, continued, “I’ll leave you two to talk.” Katsuki’s blood pressure hit atmospheric levels. “Talk? About what? There’s nothing—” “I think there’s a lot,” Deku cut in, his voice gentle but weighted. She snapped her mouth shut. Silence crackled like static. The CEO excused himself politely and stepped out. Deku didn’t move. Katsuki didn’t breathe. The door clicked softly behind the CEO. Now it was just the two of them. And the tiny, suffocating office. “Katsuki,” Deku said, voice low, “can we talk?” Katsuki wanted to say yes. She wanted to say no. She wanted to throw her stapler at his head. Preferably all at once. Instead, she said the safest thing she could manage. “Did Camie put you up to this?” Deku blinked. “Who?” Katsuki groaned internally. Of course he didn’t even notice Camie. This day needed to end. But it wasn’t ending. It was getting worse. Much worse. Katsuki didn’t move from behind her desk. It felt like the only stable thing in the damn room — a piece of furniture between her and a past she’d spent decades burying. Izuku stayed where he was too, just inside the doorway, like stepping farther required permission she would never give. She inhaled sharply. “There’s nothing to talk about.” Izuku’s shoulders tensed, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. “Katsuki—” “Don’t.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t say my name like you know me.” He flinched. Barely. But she caught it. Good. She picked up a stack of papers just to set them back down again — anything to keep her hands from shaking. “If you came here to relive your glory days, you can fuck right off. I don’t have time for whatever hero-complex bullshit you’re doing.” Izuku blinked, startled. “That’s not—” “Or maybe you came here to laugh,” she pushed, her stance sharpening. “Because that’s your specialty, right? Watching the quirkless girl try her hardest, then patting yourself on the back for being better.” His jaw tightened. “Katsuki, that’s not why—” “I don’t care why you’re here,” she snapped. “So save your breath. Leave.” For a moment, neither of them breathed. The fading evening light cut across Izuku’s face, throwing half of it in shadow — like he was caught between past and present, between the boy she remembered and the man he’d become. He stepped forward. Katsuki recoiled instantly. “I said leave.” He stopped mid-step, hands raised in surrender. “Okay. Okay. I just… I just want to talk.” “Well I don’t,” she fired back. “We have nothing to talk about. Nothing.” Izuku swallowed — visibly. His throat bobbed like the words were stuck there, clawing their way up. “I didn’t come to humiliate you,” he said quietly. “I’d never—” “Oh, spare me,” she cut in, laughing bitterly. “You already did that plenty when we were kids.” His breath hitched like she’d stabbed him. “Kac— Katsuki,” he corrected, voice trembling at the edges, “I didn’t know you worked here. I didn’t plan that. I didn’t come to hurt you.” “Then what?” she demanded, her voice climbing. “Why are you here? Why my office? Why insist on coming to the one department clients never give a fuck about?” He hesitated. And that hesitation made her blood pressure spike. “So you did have a reason,” she spat. “Of course you did. I don’t know why I expected anything less.” “No— no, not like that,” he said, stepping forward again. Carefully. Slowly. Like she was a bomb with a very short fuse. “I just… I saw you today. And I—” “Unfortunate timing,” she snapped. “Now get out.” “Katsuki.” His voice broke around the edges, almost pleading. “Please. Just a minute.” “No.” “Just one.” “No.” He exhaled, frustrated. “You’re not even listening.” “Why the fuck should I?” she barked. “I don’t owe you anything. And you—” she pointed at him with a sharp jab “—you don’t get to show up after decades and act like you have a right to stand here.” Izuku’s eyes fell to the floor for a moment, then lifted again — bright, intense, unsettling in their sincerity. “You’re right,” he said softly. “I don’t have that right. But I want to explain. I want to—” “Oh my god.” She dragged both hands down her face. “You’re still the same. You talk and talk and expect people to just… magically care.” He looked genuinely wounded. Good. Maybe he’d leave. But he didn’t. Instead, he clenched his fists. “I’m not here because I think you owe me anything. I’m here because I owe you.” Katsuki’s breath stalled. Izuku caught it — her tiny pause — and stepped forward cautiously. “I owe you so much. You were—” “Stop.” She held out a hand like a weapon. “Just stop.” He froze. Her voice dropped to a low, dangerous snarl. “I don’t want your apologies. I don’t want your explanations. I don’t want your guilt. All I want is for you to leave my office so I can forget you exist again.” Izuku inhaled shakily. “I don’t want you to forget me.” “Well,” she gritted, “that’s too fucking bad.” His chest rose and fell, uneven. “Katsuki,” he tried again, voice steadier now, “I didn’t come to hurt you. I came because—” “Enough.” She pointed at the door. “Out.” He didn’t budge. Her eyes narrowed. “What part of out do you not understand? Do you need a map? A crayon drawing? A hero briefing—” “I’m nervous!” Izuku blurted. Katsuki stopped mid-rant. He looked like he regretted shouting it instantly, but he doubled down, taking a trembling breath. “I’m nervous,” he repeated. “Around you.” Katsuki stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads. Izuku pushed a hand through his hair, avoiding her eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you today. And when I did — when I saw you — everything I thought I’d say just… disappeared.” She blinked, stunned into silence for two seconds — the longest silence she’d given him so far. Then she barked a humorless laugh. “Oh don’t you dare try that nervous little puppy act on me, Midoriya. I’m not falling for that PR bullshit.” “It’s not PR,” he insisted, eyes finally locking onto hers. “It’s just me.” “I don’t care,” she said coldly. “Get. Out.” Izuku hesitated one last time — eyes searching her face, searching for anything she’d never give him. “Katsuki,” he whispered, “please.” She walked to the door, grabbed the handle, and swung it open with force. “Get out,” she repeated, voice like a blade. Izuku stared at her for one long, painful heartbeat. Then he nodded — slowly, reluctantly — and stepped out. But he didn’t look away, not until she slammed the door between them. And even then, Katsuki stood there with her forehead against the wood, breathing like she’d run a marathon. She hated him. She hated the way he rattled her. She hated the way his voice still clung to her ears. Damn. Maybe Camie was right, karaoke today wouldn't be so bad. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ The next days slipped by without incident. Then a week. Then three. Izuku Midoriya did not appear in her office again. Not a knock. Not a glimpse in the hallway. Not even a stupid freckled face on the wrong elevator. Katsuki should’ve been relieved — and she was. Mostly. Ninety-nine percent of her heart appreciated the peace, the silence, the normal office life free of number-one-hero nonsense. But that stupid, pathetic one percent — the small, dumb, traitorous corner of her chest — kept listening for footsteps that never came. Waiting for a door to open that stayed shut. Expecting green eyes that never showed up. It made her furious. And embarrassed. And furious about being embarrassed. At least life returned to normal. She worked. She yelled at spreadsheets. She threatened to punch her printer twice a day. Everything was back in place. Until Camie barged into her office like she owned the damn building. Again. The door flung open with zero warning, and Camie practically floated inside, heels clicking a cheerful rhythm Katsuki immediately hated. Katsuki didn’t even look up from her desk — her eye twitched all on its own. Automatic response at this point. “What do you want, Camie?” Katsuki muttered, already bracing for nonsense. Camie plopped down in the chair across from her, crossing her legs like she was settling in for a two-hour podcast. She was grinning — wide, bright, dangerous. “Kaaaatsukiiii,” she sang, “you will not believe the shit I just heard.” Katsuki’s eyelid flicked harder. “Unless it’s about the KPI report being on fire, I don’t care.” “Oh, don’t be boring. This is prime celebrity-grade gossip.” Camie whipped out her phone, scrolling with manic excitement. “Fresh from the legal grapevine, one floor down.” Katsuki gave her a dead stare. “I repeat. Don’t care.” “Your loss,” Camie chirped, which meant she was definitely going to continue. “So, rumor number one: apparently a top idol couple is divorcing because one of them got caught cheating with their dietitian.” Katsuki grimaced. “Gross.” “Right? And rumor number two: a famous singer—actually I shouldn't say her name—got arrested for beating up her ex’s car with a baseball bat.” Katsuki paused. “…Okay, that one’s kind of funny.” Camie nodded solemnly. “She dented the roof.” Katsuki snorted. “Respect.” “And rumor number three…” Camie leaned forward, eyes sparkling with malicious glee. “Guess who started a massive PR overhaul this week?” Katsuki didn’t look up. “Don’t care.” “Deku.” Katsuki’s typing stopped. Camie smirked. “Ah, there it is.” Katsuki clicked her tongue, turning back to her screen. “Don’t you have actual work to do?” “Nope,” Camie said cheerfully, ignoring her entirely. “Anyway — the gossip says he’s going through a full image reconstruction. New PR team, new strategy, new branding. He wants to be more discreet, more serious, more… humble. Apparently.” Katsuki barked a sharp laugh. “The hell he does.” “Oh, and the best part?” Camie wiggled her brows. “He’s trying to erase that whole ‘womanizer’ rep.” Katsuki slapped a hand against her desk, laughing loud and unfiltered. “Him? Discreet?!” She nearly wheezed. “That idiot couldn’t be discreet if his life depended on it. The media would lose interest before he even tried.” “That’s what I said!” Camie giggled. “Like, good luck convincing the country he’s a shy little angel now.” Katsuki leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, mocking grin curling on her lips. “He’d have to stop flirting with every living organism first.” Camie raised a finger. “Allegedly flirting.” Katsuki scoffed. “Please. The bastard practically radiates ‘fuckboy in disguise’.” Camie burst into laughter. Katsuki didn’t admit it out loud, but mocking him felt… good. Steadying.Grounding. Better than whatever the hell she’d been feeling the last few weeks. Still, she shook her head, dismissing the topic with a flick of her hand. “Whatever. Let him clean up his mess. Not my problem.” Camie hummed. “Well… depends who you ask.” Katsuki shot her a dangerous look. “Explain. Carefully.” Camie suddenly pressed her lips together, like she’d said too much, her eyes darted away, her fingers fidgeted with her phone. Katsuki recognized that look instantly. It was Camie’s “I have a bombshell and I’m dying to drop it but also want to be dramatic as hell about it” face. Katsuki’s eyebrow twitched. “What now?” Camie sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Mmm… I shouldn’t tell you this.” Katsuki slammed her pen down so hard it bounced. “Tell me.” Camie looked at the ceiling. “I really, really shouldn’t.” “Camie,” Katsuki growled, voice dropping several dangerous octaves, “say it before I throw you out the window.” Camie gasped theatrically, putting a hand to her chest like she’d been mortally wounded. “So violent! I’m fragile, Katsuki!” “You are about as fragile as a brick. Spit it out.” Camie pouted with exaggerated sadness, but her eyes sparkled — she was enjoying this far too much. “Fine. But remember, I told you I shouldn’t tell you. So I’m innocent.” “Oh my god—” Katsuki grabbed her own hair in frustration. “Just SAY IT.” Camie leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Deku wants a personal meeting.” Katsuki felt her soul leave her body. Her brain short-circuited. Her hands curled into fists so tight her knuckles cracked. “…with who?” she asked, though she already knew she wasn’t going to like the answer. Camie blinked slowly. Then pointed both thumbs at Katsuki. “Guess.” Katsuki shot up from her chair. “NO.” Camie squeaked and flinched. “Yes.” “No. Absolutely fucking not.” Katsuki paced behind her desk, hands flying in furious gestures. “He can’t. He won’t. I refuse.” Camie shrugged helplessly. “Katsuki… he specifically asked for you.” Katsuki stopped pacing and froze mid-step. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “For. What.” “That’s the part I really shouldn’t tell you,” Camie said, immediately losing the battle to hide her grin. “Camie—!” “Okay okay!” Camie lifted her hands defensively. “Fine! Just—don’t blow a gasket.” Katsuki glared with the intensity of a thousand suns. Camie inhaled dramatically then said it: “He wants you to personally manage his finances.” Silence. Pure silence. … Katsuki exploded. “WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!” Camie flinched. “It means—” “I KNOW WHAT IT MEANS! Why ME?! Why the hell would he want me handling his money? What kind of twisted joke is this?!” Camie waved her hands frantically. “Katsuki, calm down—” “NO! I will NOT calm down! I want to set something on fire! Give me something to throw!” Camie subtly nudged the stapler away from Katsuki’s reach. Katsuki jabbed a finger at her. “You tell that bastard I am not—NOT—becoming his personal accountant, advisor, babysitter, or whatever delusional PR stunt he thinks he’s doing!” Camie pursed her lips. “Well… I think it’s less PR stunt and more… personal choice?” Katsuki’s eye twitched so violently she might’ve developed a new quirk on the spot. “Personal… choice?” “Yeah.” Camie nodded innocently. “He said your name, you know? Out loud. Twice. Very seriously. It was kind of dramatic, actually. The board got confused.” Katsuki grabbed the nearest object — a stress ball — and squeezed it so hard it squealed in pain. “That fucking idiot,” she snarled. “What the hell is wrong with him? Why would he ever—what is his angle?!” Camie thoughtfully tapped her chin. “Maybe he trusts you?” Katsuki barked a laugh so sharp it could cut glass. “He literally bullied me through childhood.” “Maybe he feels guilty.” “Good. He should feel guilty. He should feel guilty forever. That doesn’t mean I’m going to handle his bank accounts!” Camie tilted her head. “Maybe he wants to reconnect.” Katsuki made a noise so aggressive it sounded like a dying engine. “I will throw myself off the roof.” “Please don’t, the paperwork would be hell,” Camie said calmly. Katsuki dragged both hands down her face and groaned loudly. “This is ridiculous. I want off this timeline.” Camie leaned back in her chair, unfazed. “Well, ridiculous or not, he asked. And the CEO is… very excited about the idea.” Katsuki froze. Her stomach dropped like a stone. “…What.” Camie winced. “Oops. Did I forget that part?” “CAMIE!” Camie grinned sheepishly and Katsuki slammed her head onto her desk. Hard. And stayed there. Camie patted her back sympathetically. “Look on the bright side—” “There is no bright side.” “He’s rich?” Katsuki screamed into her desk. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Of course the meeting got scheduled that same week. Of course it did. And of course Katsuki didn’t show up. She ignored the emails, muted the reminders, pretended the calendar invite didn’t exist. And when Camie texted her fifteen consecutive “👀” emojis, Katsuki blocked her for forty-eight minutes just on principle. She was in the middle of rereading a financial report she definitely didn’t need to reread when the knocking started. Three sharp taps on her office door. Katsuki froze. “Oh, fuck off.” Another set of knocks. She gritted her teeth. “Shit…” The door opened. Her CEO stepped in first — polished smile, expensive suit, the usual. Camie entered right behind him, wearing an expression that screamed this is going to be hilarious. And trailing behind them… Deku. The Number One Idiot of Japan. Katsuki’s eye twitched so hard she nearly saw double. She straightened in her chair like a cornered animal. “No.” The CEO blinked. “We… haven’t said anything yet.” “I’m already saying no.” Camie stifled a laugh so aggressively her shoulders shook. Deku stayed near the door, posture stiff, hands clasped in front of him like he was trying to appear smaller — which was impossible, considering the bastard looked like a green-haired tank in stupid civilian clothes. The CEO cleared his throat with professional enthusiasm that made Katsuki want to throw a calculator at his forehead. “Well,” he began, “we’re here for the meeting you missed earlier—” “Didn’t miss it,” Katsuki cut in. “I avoided it.” The CEO chuckled politely. “Right. Well. We’re here to make things official.” He stepped aside, gesturing dramatically at Izuku like he was presenting the winner of a damn raffle. “Bakugou-san, you will be taking over as Mr. Midoriya’s personal financial manager!” Katsuki slapped both palms flat on the desk. “The hell I will.” The CEO blinked again, still smiling like this was a kindergarten disagreement. “He specifically requested you! Isn’t that wonderful?” Katsuki turned her glare toward Izuku, who flinched but didn’t look away. His face was composed, but Katsuki could see the tension in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders. He was nervous. Actually nervous. Good. “Declined,” Katsuki said. “Stamp it. Sign it. Frame it. I’m not doing this.” The CEO clasped his hands. “Bakugou-san, let’s be reasonable.” “No.” “It’s a major opportunity—” “No.” “Your skillset is perfect for—” “No.” Izuku finally stepped forward. “Kac—Bakugou” She pointed at him like a warning flare. “Not. A. Chance.” Camie had both hands pressed over her mouth now, visibly vibrating with laughter. The CEO sighed. “Mr. Midoriya is very serious about this arrangement.” “And I am very serious about not giving a crap,” Katsuki shot back. “I don’t want the job.” “You’re not being flexible,” the CEO said, still painfully calm. “I’m not a yoga instructor. I don’t need to be flexible.” Camie wheezed. Izuku took another step closer. “Bakugou, I— I really do want you to handle my finances.” Her spine snapped straighter. “WHY?!” He hesitated, swallowing. “Because I trust you.” Katsuki barked a laugh so sharp it echoed off the glass walls. Izuku winced. “I meant what I said.” Katsuki threw her hands up. “Fantastic. You trust me. I don’t trust you. Next problem.” The CEO sighed again, rubbing his temples. “We can negotiate terms—” “There are no terms.” Izuku, voice tight, quietly murmured, “I’ll pay double.” Silence. The CEO brightened instantly. “Well! That’s generous—” “Shut up,” Katsuki snapped, glaring at all three of them. “You think I’m going to take the job just because you’re throwing money at me?” Izuku shifted, shoulders stiff. “I… thought it would help.” “It doesn’t!” Katsuki shouted. “I don’t need your money! I don’t want your money! I don’t want you walking into my office every week asking if your taxes are emotionally stable!” Camie jumped in, cheerfully unhelpful. “Hey, look on the bright side!” she chirped. “If you take the job, we get to work together~ You’ll be the accountant, I’ll be his personal lawyer, we’ll be the dream team!” Katsuki glared at her. Izuku ran a hand through his hair — a nervous habit Katsuki remembered way too well, but he was trying, desperately, to hold himself together. Shoulders squared. Voice steady. “Bakugou,” he said quietly, “I know you don’t want to. But I’m asking anyway.” Katsuki’s heartbeat stuttered in something dangerously close to panic. She slammed her palms down again. “I said no.” The CEO clasped his hands behind his back. “We’ll… revisit this discussion tomorrow.” Katsuki’s eye twitched. “Don’t bother.” Camie hummed innocently. “We’re definitely bothering.” Izuku looked at her one last time — a cautious, hopeful, painfully sincere look that Katsuki wanted to punch off his face purely on principle — before they exited the office. When the door closed, Katsuki let out a strangled noise. A growl. A groan. A scream. A curse. All mashed into one angry exhale. She slumped into her chair, burying her face in her hands. “Fucking hell…” ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ “Oh, I’m so excited to be your partner!” Camie chirped, stirring her coffee like she was conducting an orchestra. “We’re going to be the best duo that office has ever seen. Mark my words!” Katsuki sat across from her with her face buried in her hands, elbows on the small round café table like she was physically holding her soul inside her body. The café itself was cozy — too cozy — full of soft lighting, warm wood, plants dangling from shelves, and the smell of roasted coffee beans that normally soothed her nerves. Today it did jack shit. Outside the large windows, the late afternoon traffic hummed, people rushing home, unaware that Katsuki’s entire life had just been derailed by one green-haired problem. She groaned into her palms. “I can’t believe this is happening.” “Oh, come on,” Camie said, leaning forward, chin in hand. “You’re officially part of Deku’s personal team now! You should be honored! Most people would kill for this.” Katsuki lifted her head just enough to glare. “You’re confusing ‘honored’ with ‘held hostage’.” Camie only giggled. The truth was infuriating: Katsuki hadn’t really been asked. The CEO had practically thrown her into Deku’s arms the moment the idiot offered an amount of money so absurd even Katsuki had blinked twice. It was the kind of figure that could pay off her student loans, cover her rent for years, and buy her three new laptops just because. The bastard was rich — and apparently determined. Still, Katsuki had managed one condition. ONE. Izuku Midoriya was forbidden from stepping foot inside her office. If he had something to say, he’d say it through email, through documents, through Camie, through smoke signals — anything but showing up physically. Katsuki clung to that boundary like it was her only surviving brain cell. Her phone buzzed on the table. She ignored it. It buzzed again. Camie glanced at the screen like a vulture spotting a carcass. “Ooooh. Someone’s blowing up your phone.” “Don’t,” Katsuki warned. She picked it up anyway — intending to delete whatever it was without reading — but the notification preview flashed before she could lock the screen. Unknown Number: Hey! It’s Izuku! Just sending this so you have my number saved. Unknown Number: Only for emergencies, of course! Unknown Number: Or, um, if you ever need to message me! Unknown Number: Not that you’re obligated! Sorry! Katsuki stared. Camie’s smile grew wider. “Was that—?” Katsuki let her phone drop to the table face-down and immediately returned her face to the safety of her hands. “No. No. Absolutely not. I refuse. Delete reality. Reboot the universe.” Camie sipped her coffee delicately. “He seems… eager.” “He seems annoying,” Katsuki snarled into her palms. “He seems like someone who should mind his own damn business.” Her phone buzzed again. Katsuki didn’t move. Camie nudged the phone toward her with the stirrer stick, taunting. “You’re not going to check?” “I will throw this coffee at you,” Katsuki muttered. Camie smiled sweetly. “Decaf or regular?” Katsuki groaned louder and slumped forward until her forehead thumped the table. She hated this. She hated him. She hated that this was her life now. Her phone buzzed again. Then again. Then again. Katsuki refused to look at it. She kept her forehead glued to the café table like gravity itself was pinning her there. Camie reached toward the phone with one perfectly manicured finger. “Should I—?” “Touch it and I’ll break your wrist,” Katsuki growled, voice muffled by the wood. Camie withdrew her hand delicately. “Understood.” Despite Katsuki’s warnings, the phone continued its relentless buzzing—like a tiny, desperate machine begging for her attention. She didn’t need to see the screen to know exactly who it was. It was like the old Izuku she remembered from childhood—before U.A., before he became a national symbol and also a certified bastard. The messages kept coming. Another buzz. Another. Camie raised a brow, clearly holding back laughter. “He talks a lot, huh?” Katsuki groaned into the table. “He never stops. He used to narrate his entire life out loud. Everything. Every observation. Every thought. The bastard would explain oxygen if you gave him five seconds.” “Oh?” Camie said, half-amused, half-sympathetic. “So this is… nostalgic?” Katsuki shot her a venomous side-eye. “This is a migraine.” The phone buzzed yet again. Fine. FINE. She looked. The preview popped up: Bastard (New Contact): I just wanted to say— Bastard: I know the meeting was awkward! I’m sorry about that! Bastard: I didn’t mean to surprise you. Or… well… I guess I did. But not like that! Bastard: Sorry sorry sorry this sounds weird. Bastard: I just want to work well together! Bastard: I promise I won’t bother you too much! Bastard: Or… I’ll try not to! Bastard: I talk too much. Sorry. Bastard: I’ll stop. Bastard: Stopping now. Bastard: For real. Bastard: …I hope your day is going well though! Katsuki slapped the phone facedown again. The table rattled. Camie flinched, then reached across and gently patted Katsuki’s arm. “There, there. Deep breaths. Counting to ten. Maybe twenty. Or a hundred.” Katsuki’s eyes—bloodshot from pure irritation—snapped upward. “Why is he like this?” Camie snorted. “Because that’s who he is?” “He is twenty-eight years old,” Katsuki hissed. “Twenty-eight. His ass saves the world on Tuesdays and he still texts like a nervous middle schooler.” Camie’s grin spread slow and wicked. “Hmm. You think he—” “NO.” Katsuki sat up so abruptly her chair squeaked. “Don’t even start.” Camie’s eyes sparkled with gossip-fueled glee. “I didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” “I wasn’t.” “You were absolutely going to.” Camie shrugged, sipping her coffee. The cup clinked against the saucer, gentle and irritatingly civilized. “I mean… he is talking to you a lot.” “Because he’s annoying.” “Or invested.” Katsuki inhaled sharply. “Shut the hell up.” Camie raised both hands in surrender, though her smile said this is getting good. Katsuki leaned back in her chair, arms crossed tight, jaw set. Her phone buzzed again but she didn’t check this one. She could already imagine the message: Sorry for texting so much! Or texting at all! Or existing! Sorry! She pressed a palm to her eyes, massaging her temples. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with him,” she muttered. Camie gave her a gentle nudge with her knee. “Look… if he’s bothering you, you can set boundaries. You’re good at those.” Katsuki grunted. “But,” Camie continued, “if he’s nervous… maybe he’s trying?” Katsuki scoffed. “Trying what? Trying to annoy me to death?” Camie tilted her head. “Trying to make things right.” Katsuki froze. The café hummed quietly around them — the soft hiss of milk steaming, the clinking of cups, distant chatter. A cozy atmosphere that didn’t match the knot tightening in Katsuki’s chest. She shook it off violently. “He doesn’t get to try anything. Not after everything.” Camie sighed. “Then ignore the messages.” “I’m trying.” Her phone buzzed again. Camie bit her lip to hold in a laugh. Katsuki groaned and dropped her forehead back onto the table. “Someone please unplug him.” Camie snorted into her latte, slapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Katsuki shot her a deadly glare — sharp enough to cut steel — but Camie just waved her off with flippant fingers. “Oh, Kitty, I’m sorry, but this is hilarious,” Camie whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief. “He is so into you it hurts.” Katsuki’s eye twitched so violently she felt the muscles strain. “Shut the fuck up,” she growled, grabbing her black coffee — no milk, no sugar, no joy — and taking a long, punishing sip. The café around them buzzed softly, low conversations melting into the background hum. The scent of roasted beans and vanilla pastries floated in the air, a peaceful contrast to Katsuki’s boiling blood pressure. Camie rested her elbow on the table and leaned in, chin perched on her palm, smiling like she was watching the premiere of her favorite drama. “Kat, it’s obvious. It’s so obvious I’m shocked you haven’t said it out loud already. Actually—no, I’m not shocked. Your pride would sooner strangle you.” Katsuki set her mug down with enough force to make the ceramic clink dangerously. “Camie,” she said, voice razor-flat, “you know better than anyone that bastard is shameless. He’s a womanizing piece of shit. This is just him doing what he does with everyone.” A stupid, traitorous ache pricked behind her ribs when she said that — sharp, unwelcome, humiliating. Camie exhaled, softer now. “Look… yes, he has a reputation. A very dramatic, very messy reputation. But Katsuki… he’s never actually been caught with women.” Katsuki scoffed. “Please. You lawyers could hide a murder if you wanted.” Camie rolled her eyes. “Maybe. But that’s not the point.” She swirled the foam in her cup, voice thoughtful. “He got that reputation because a lot of women are fans. And he—well—he’s… attentive.” Katsuki raised one unimpressed brow. “Attentive,” she repeated dryly. “So flirting now has synonyms.” “No.” Camie pointed her spoon at her. “Attentive like ‘listens too hard and stares too intensely because he’s socially weird.’ The man thanks fans with two hands when shaking theirs. Two. Hands. Katsuki. He bows too low. He apologizes for existing. He’s a golden retriever with muscles.” Katsuki blinked, horrified. “Don’t compare him to a dog.” Camie continued, relentless. “And he does the same thing with male fans. There are videos everywhere. He’s just… an overly enthusiastic, oblivious idiot.” Katsuki hated that the picture was painfully accurate. Camie shrugged. “Honestly? The guy looks more overwhelmed than seductive half the time. Women throw themselves at him, sure, but he never touches them. Not once.” The café’s warm lights flickered off Camie’s gold earrings as she raised her cup again, watching Katsuki carefully. Touché. Katsuki’s jaw clenched. “Bullshit. You’re just making excuses so he doesn’t look like the disaster he is.” Camie took a slow sip, eyes softening with something that was half sympathy, half smug knowledge. “Or,” she said gently, “you’re making excuses so you don’t have to admit something feels off here… and not in the way you want it to.” Katsuki froze. Her eye twitched again. “I’m going to pour this coffee on your head,” she said calmly. Camie smiled sweetly. “I know. And I still love you.” Katsuki let out a frustrated noise — halfway between a growl and a groan — and slammed her coffee down again. The café clinked around them, unaware that at that little corner table, Katsuki Bakugou was suffering the universe’s most unfair emotional whiplash. And Camie, unfortunately, was enjoying every damn second. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Katsuki’s week had finally stabilized into something she recognized: quiet, work-heavy, mildly irritating, and—most importantly—Deku-free. Blocking his number helped. Sweet, blissful silence. Not a single rambling text, not a single apology, not even a pathetic “sorry for bothering you again” message. He’d finally stopped. Good. Perfect. Peace. It was a cold, wet Friday night, the kind that seeped into her bones and made her shoulders slump. The rain had been falling in thin, icy sheets since late afternoon, misting the air and slicking the pavement with reflections of neon lights. Katsuki shoved her hands deep into her jacket pockets as she walked, her breath forming small ghosts in front of her face. Cooking tonight was out of the question. She was exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally—and starving. So when the warm glow of the nearest kombini came into view, she ducked inside without hesitation. The automatic doors slid open with a soft chime, releasing a wave of warm, artificially scented air. The place smelled like fried chicken, instant noodles, old magazines, and the faint plastic of packaged pastries. Comforting, in a strangely pathetic way. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, humming like they were complaining about their own existence. A bored employee yawned behind the register. Katsuki headed straight for the refrigerated meals section, weaving past shelves of chips and convenience snacks. She rubbed her temple as she scanned the rows of bentos—beef bowls, karaage sets, ginger pork, bland salads pretending to be healthy. She reached for a pork cutlet bento, her mind drifting. Camie had said Izuku was practically living at the company lately. Meeting after meeting, PR training, brand workshops. Image coaching to make him seem “more serious” and “less flirtatious.” Katsuki had laughed so hard she nearly choked on her coffee. The idea of him trying to fake being aloof was comedy gold. What’s he going to do? she thought. Wear glasses and pretend he knows how to shut up? She smirked to herself as she grabbed another bento to compare expiration dates. Then she felt it. That prickling sensation on the back of her neck. The one that meant someone was staring at her. She stiffened, her grip tightened on the plastic container. Slowly—very slowly—she turned her head. Deku stood at the end of the aisle, in a dark hoodie, a plain black baseball cap pulled low and a white mask covering half his face. Yet his stupid green curls and tall, broad frame were unmistakable. Katsuki’s eye twitched. Hard. Of course. OF. COURSE. The universe couldn’t leave her alone for one damn week. He froze when she spotted him, like a deer caught by the only person in the forest with a hunting license and zero moral hesitation. Katsuki pressed her lips into a thin line and turned away. Pretended he wasn’t there. Pretended the bento label was the most fascinating text she’d ever read. But he moved. Slow steps. Quiet. Careful. Like he expected her to bolt. She clenched her jaw. And then, in a low, tentative voice that she recognized far too well, he spoke— “I… didn’t know you came here.” Katsuki didn’t turn around, at least not immediately. She inhaled through her nose, long and slow, to keep from throwing the nearest bento at his face. Finally she pivoted, expression flat as concrete. “Why the hell are you talking to me?” Izuku blinked behind his mask, taken aback. “I—I wasn’t— I mean, I didn’t follow you here. I just—” “Congratulations,” she cut in. “You shop at a kombini. Want a medal?” He fidgeted, rubbing the back of his neck—classic nervous tic. “I really didn’t expect to see you. I usually come after patrol and, um, the rain messed up my schedule, and—” Katsuki narrowed her eyes. “You’re rambling.” Izuku shut his mouth immediately, eyes widening a little. She almost snorted. Some things never changed. The space between them filled with the hum of the refrigerators and the distant beeping of the register. Katsuki exhaled sharply, turning back to the bentos. “Whatever. Just pretend I’m not here.” “I… can’t,” he said quietly. Her grip tightened again. She had to look at him—she really did—because that voice wasn’t the PR-polished hero she knew from TV. It was small and hesitant. Way too familiar. He stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, hood damp from the rain, eyes tired in a way she hadn’t noticed before. Not pathetic—just worn. Katsuki hated that her stomach twisted. She snapped her attention back to the food. “Unbelievable. I block you for five minutes and suddenly you show up in person.” Izuku stiffened. “You… blocked me.” “That was not an invitation to discuss it,” she snapped. He nodded immediately. “Right. Sorry. Sorry.” She glared. “Stop apologizing.” “Right— I mean— okay.” Silence fell again. A cold, awkward, suffocating silence. Katsuki grabbed two bentos and shoved one under his nose. “Here. If you’re going to stand there breathing weirdly, at least make yourself useful and pick which one looks better.” Izuku blinked. “O-okay?” He inspected them earnestly—too earnestly—and said, “This one has fresher vegetables but the other has more protein—” Katsuki rolled her eyes so hard it physically hurt. “Forget it.” She turned and stomped toward the register, muttering curses under her breath. Behind her, Izuku scrambled after her like a guilty dog who wasn’t sure if he was allowed to follow. Rain hammered softly against the windows and the kombini lights buzzed. The cashier barely looked up as Katsuki slid her chosen bento across the counter, followed by the flimsy instant-coffee cup she planned to fill at the machine by the door. Not the most dignified dinner, but she was too drained to give a damn. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered weakly, reflecting off the rain-streaked windows as the cashier scanned everything at the speed of continental drift. The ancient register beeped like it resented being alive. “Eight hundred thirty yen,” the cashier droned, barely awake. Katsuki reached into her coat pocket for her wallet— —but a large shadow cut in front of her. Izuku stepped between her and the counter, eyes fixed straight ahead at the cashier like he thought he could blend into the wallpaper if he didn’t move. “Cash,” he said shortly, already pulling bills from his wallet. He placed his items down too—two rice balls, electrolyte drinks, another bento—apparently the one she had shoved at him earlier had become his dinner. Katsuki’s eye twitched violently. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” She shoved him with her forearm, but the bastard didn’t budge. Not even a millimeter. He was built like a reinforced wall with freckles. Izuku glanced at her nervously. “P-please, Kacch—Katsuki. Let me at least do this.” Her face burned hot. Her eyebrows dropped so low they could’ve touched her cheekbones. “Which part,” she hissed, “of I do NOT want you paying for me did you NOT understand, you absolute moron?” “And stop calling me by my first name!” The cashier blinked at them. Twice. Then slowly looked away like he wanted no involvement in whatever this was. Izuku swallowed hard. “I’m just… trying to be polite.” Katsuki deadpanned. “If you want to be polite, turn around and pay for your own crap.” But he didn’t. He paid for all of it in one smooth motion, shoving the bills toward the cashier before Katsuki could tackle him. The transaction ended. The plastic bag rustled. Katsuki stood there vibrating with fury. “Thank you!” Izuku said to the cashier. Katsuki snatched her bag without looking at him and stormed toward the coffee machine near the exit. “Don’t help me,” she snapped when Izuku hovered close behind her. “I—I wasn’t— I just thought—” “Don’t. Help. Me.” He backed off immediately, hands raised like she’d pulled a gun on him. Katsuki pressed the button for black coffee with the same fury she might use to activate a missile launch. The machine hissed and sputtered, the hot liquid pouring into the flimsy styrofoam cup with far too much drama for something that tasted like burnt battery acid. She grabbed it, shoved it into her free hand, and stomped toward the door. The sliding glass opened with a chime, and the cold rain slapped her across the face. “Fuck,” she muttered, pulling her coat tighter around her. The wind cut through the fabric like knives, and even she shivered. Then a soft fwip sound broke the night. A transparent umbrella popped open beside her. Izuku stepped up next to her, holding it over both of them. She stiffened. “Move that thing away from me.” “You’ll get sick,” he murmured. “I don’t care.” “You should.” “I don’t.” Izuku looked like he wanted to say something else, but Katsuki shot him a glare that could peel paint off walls. They stood under the awning, rain pounding against the pavement like a drum. Cars splashed by, neon lights reflecting in puddles. The air smelled like wet asphalt and cold city air. Izuku breathed out, shaky. “Bakugou… can I walk you home?” “No.” “It’s really cold.” “No.” “And late.” “No.” “And raining hard—” “No!” He closed his mouth, then opened it again, stubbornness flickering in his eyes. “I just… want to make sure you get home safe.” Katsuki let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. You care now? After everything you did to me as kids?” Izuku winced like she’d slapped him. Katsuki crossed her arms, coffee steaming in her hand, rain misting the edges of her coat. “You want forgiveness? Is that it?” Izuku froze. Katsuki took a step toward him, eyes narrowing. “Fine. You want it so bad?” He swallowed, throat working visibly. She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Then I forgive you.” His eyes went wide—startled, confused. “But—” she snapped, “the price is simple: leave me the hell alone.” Izuku’s expression cracked. He looked like someone had ripped the floor out from under him. Katsuki turned away, stepping into the rain with her coffee and bag in hand, muttering curses under her breath. She didn’t get three steps before she shivered hard enough that her teeth clicked. The rain was colder than before—icy needles pricking her skin. She felt movement beside her. Izuku had quietly stepped into place, umbrella still held above them both. “I said leave me alone,” she growled without looking at him. “I know,” he said softly. “Then why are you still here?!” There was a pause—longer than she liked. “…Because it’s freezing,” he said, voice low, careful, “and I don’t want you walking home alone in weather like this.” Katsuki turned her head slightly. Rain dripped off her hair into her coat. Izuku stood beside her, soaked on one side where the umbrella didn’t reach him, shoulders bowed against the cold, breathing fog into the night air. He meant it. Every word. And it pissed her off. “…Fine,” she muttered. “But don’t talk. And don’t walk too close. And don’t be weird.” Izuku nodded once, obedient. “Okay.” They walked. Side by side. In the rain. Under his stupid umbrella. Katsuki grumbled the entire way home and the bastard didn’t say a word. But he didn’t leave her side, either. And somehow—even though she hated it, hated him, hated all of this—it felt… Warm. Infuriatingly warm. By the time they reached her apartment building, Katsuki’s coffee had gone cold, the thin cup losing its heat to the rain and the night air. She stopped beneath the covered entryway, droplets sliding from the tips of her hair as she punched in the door code with quick, precise taps. Izuku stood beside her, still holding the umbrella over both of them even though he was half-soaked from keeping it tilted her way the entire walk. He glanced around quietly, taking in the building’s exterior with wide eyes. “It’s… really nice here,” he murmured. “It looks… comfortable.” Katsuki didn’t want to agree, but he was right. The place was beautiful—modern architecture softened by greenery and warm lighting. The entrance was lined with flowering shrubs, their petals damp and glossy from the rain. Small lanterns lit the walkway, casting a gentle glow on the pale stone tiles. This part of Tokyo was residential, quiet, with newer buildings and a sense of safety she’d fought hard to afford. She grunted. “What, surprised?” The keypad beeped beneath her fingers. “You’re not the only one with money, you know.” Izuku let out a soft laugh—barely there, but warm. “Yeah… I know.” He didn’t sound patronizing. He didn’t sound like the Number One Hero giving a press-friendly chuckle. He just sounded… like him. The him she remembered before everything went to hell. Before he became a hero. Before he became someone she couldn’t trust. That was the part that pissed her off the most—the quiet, stupid way he suddenly resembled the Izuku she used to know. The earnest one. The soft-spoken one. The dumbass who followed her everywhere with hopeful eyes and scraped knees. The one who had cared before he’d changed. Before he’d hurt her. Katsuki shoved the thought away like it was poison. The lock clicked, the door unlocking. She stepped forward, keeping her gaze ahead. “Alright. You walked me home. Congratulations. Go do your hero home now.” Izuku shifted behind her. “Bakugou…” “Nope.” She cut him off without turning around. “We’re done. Goodnight.” She pushed the door open and stepped inside, refusing to look back even though she could feel his eyes on her like heat against her spine. She kept walking—through the warm-lit lobby, past the security counter, toward the elevator—every step deliberate, firm. She didn’t turn her head. She didn’t give him a glance. But outside, through the glass, Izuku stood under the umbrella, raindrops catching in the light as he watched her go. He didn’t call after her. He didn’t try to stop her. He just… watched. And Katsuki, jaw tight and heart doing an infuriating little twist she blamed entirely on the cold, entered the elevator without looking back. She didn’t need to see him. She already knew he was still there. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ “Oooh, Kat, I’m sooooo exhausted,” Camie whined as she threw herself into the chair across from Katsuki’s desk like a dying Victorian heroine. Katsuki didn’t bother looking up. She knew this song and dance by heart. Camie came into her office for only two reasons: to dump useless celebrity gossip on her, or to dramatize her life like she was auditioning for a soap opera. “Mm-hmm,” Katsuki grunted, eyes still locked on her spreadsheets, fingers tapping rapidly across the keyboard. Her office was quiet besides that—soft hum of the AC, faint city noise filtering through the window, and the rhythmic clicking of her mechanical keyboard. Organized, controlled, perfect. Which meant Camie’s chaos had no place here. “Kat,” Camie insisted, letting her head fall back dramatically, her ponytail nearly sliding off the chair. “I mean it! I have so much to deal with, and now that Deku joined our company’s portfolio, I have even more to deal with!” That word—Deku—hit the air like a pebble skipping across Katsuki’s focus. Her interest prickled against her will. She clicked twice, saved her sheet, and finally dragged her gaze from the monitor. “Oh really?” she growled. “What’s the idiot doing now?” Camie cracked one eye open like a cat checking if its prey was paying attention. When she saw Katsuki’s glare aimed directly at her, a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. “Oh? So all I have to do is say his name and suddenly you’re attentive?” Katsuki didn’t even hesitate—she raised her hand and flipped her off. Camie burst into laughter, sitting upright in her chair. “Ouch! Someone’s cranky today.” “Someone’s asking for it,” Katsuki snapped, but her eyebrow was already twitching. “Just spit it out. What is he doing now? Saving kittens? Apologizing for breathing? What’s the crisis this time?” Camie stretched her arms overhead, the sleeves of her blazer bunching up. “Well, since you asked so nicely—” “I didn’t.” “—I’ve been assisting his PR team,” Camie continued, ignoring her. “They’re prepping him for his next big interview.” Katsuki’s face immediately soured. “Ugh. Of course.” “Oh, it gets better,” Camie said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “They’re planning something strategic. Very strategic.” Katsuki narrowed her eyes. “What the hell does that mean?” Camie grinned, tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the desk. “They want to schedule an intentional interview with The Morning Show.” Katsuki blinked. “Morning Show? The one half the country wakes up to? The one with the annoying ginger anchor who fake-laughs at everything?” “That’s the one.” Katsuki scoffed. “They’re insane. He’ll trip over his own sentences. He can barely order food without apologizing six times.” Camie shrugged. “Exactly why they want him there. Maximum exposure. Maximum sympathy. They’re aiming for a complete narrative shift.” Katsuki frowned, crossing her arms. “Narrative shift?” “Yes,” Camie said brightly. “They want him to publicly address his life, his dedication to hero work, his personal growth… all that mushy stuff. The PR team wants to push his popularity even higher and give him that whole ‘good man,’ ‘innocent,’ ‘focused professional’ glow.” Katsuki barked a dry laugh. “Good man? Innocent? Please. What’s next? Halo included?” Camie grinned. “Funny enough, that’s exactly the vibe they want. They’re trying to stamp out the whole ‘womanizer’ rumor once and for all.” “Great. Maybe they should staple his mouth shut,” Katsuki muttered. Camie chuckled. “They just want him to look serious. Dedicated. Mature.” Katsuki rolled her eyes so hard she almost saw the back of her skull. “He’s a disaster. He’ll end up crying on live TV.” Camie paused… then nodded. “Okay, yeah. That’s actually possible.” Katsuki groaned, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because you asked,” Camie said with a singsong voice, “and because you’re going to be working with him soon, so you should know what’s coming.” Katsuki slammed her hands on her desk. “Don’t remind me.” Camie laughed again, absolutely delighted. Katsuki glared at her monitor, filled with the urge to bite something. Izuku, on live national television… talking about his personal life, trying to be serious, trying to clean up his mess. Trying to be better. She shoved the thought away immediately, drowning it under financial projections and pure spite. Romanticizing him was not on the agenda. Her life was complicated enough already. Before Katsuki could tell Camie to get out of her office, the TV mounted on the wall flickered from a muted commercial into the bright red banner of BREAKING NEWS. Both women turned their heads automatically. The volume was low, but the subtitles scrolled fast at the bottom of the screen. “Hero Deku neutralizes villain incident in Central Tokyo — dozens rescued.” The camera feed switched to shaky street footage. Smoke billowed from a collapsed storefront, water spraying from broken hydrants. Amid the chaos, Izuku stood in the middle of the disaster zone, hair wet with rain and sweat, green electricity still crackling faintly around his arms. He was crouched beside a crying child, lifting her gently before handing her to medics. The reporter’s voice chimed over the footage, breathlessly enthusiastic. “Number One Hero Deku responded within seconds—experts claim his reaction time has improved yet again—” “Look at that,” Camie said with a smug smile. “Speaking of the devil…” Katsuki grunted. Loudly. She considered grabbing the remote. Considered turning off the TV entirely. But she didn’t. She kept watching. The footage zoomed in on Izuku as he lifted a massive piece of debris off a trapped civilian — demolished concrete slabs cracking under the strain of his strength. His arms flexed, shoulders straining. The camera operators were clearly thrilled with the shot, cutting to a dramatic slow-motion angle that highlighted every damn muscle under his suit. Katsuki scowled at the screen. “Tch. They make him look like some action figure.” Camie raised a brow. “Uh-huh. Sure. The camera is making him look like that.” Katsuki’s jaw clenched. “Shut up.” Because she didn’t know if it was the camera… …or if she was noticing too much. The way his uniform clung to his torso after rain soaked it. The way he pushed his messed-up curls from his face with the back of his wrist. The way his breathing hitched visibly as he finished pulling a trapped woman free — heavy, controlled, strong. A faint shiver crawled down Katsuki’s spine, completely unwelcome. Camie caught it. Slowly, deliberately, she shifted her gaze from the TV to Katsuki — like a predator sensing blood in the water. “Well, well,” Camie murmured with an evil little grin. “Seems like someone is appreciating the view.” Katsuki snapped her head toward her. “I’m appreciating how fucking stupid his suit looks.” “Sure.” “It’s impractical.” “Mhm.” “And ugly.” “Of course.” Katsuki stabbed a finger at the screen. “His damn gloves don’t even match!” Camie giggled. “Kat, the gloves are literally matching.” “SHUT UP.” Camie laughed harder. Katsuki glared daggers at her, then aggressively turned back to the TV — but her hand didn’t reach for the remote. The news replayed footage of Izuku sheltering civilians under a collapsed awning as a secondary explosion shook the street. He looked fierce. Reliable. Focused. Katsuki’s stomach twisted again. Just irritation. Obviously irritation. Camie hummed thoughtfully, still watching Katsuki more than the screen. “You know… for someone who hates him, you sure don’t change the channel.” Katsuki didn’t look away from the TV. “I’m monitoring the enemy.” Camie snorted. “Right. And his biceps are part of the threat assessment?” Katsuki nearly threw a stapler at her. But she didn’t shut off the TV. She just watched — jaw tight, heart annoyingly aware of the man on the screen — as Izuku Midoriya saved half of Tokyo like it was nothing. And that pissed her off more than anything. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Katsuki had absolutely not meant to stumble into him again. Same kombini. Same stupid timing. Same stupid Friday night. But there he was — Izuku fucking Midoriya — standing in the middle of the aisle like an overgrown lost puppy dressed in black. He wore a plain black hoodie, grey training shorts that showed off those goddamn tree-trunk legs he’d apparently grown over the years, and a pair of red Air Jordans. New ones. Again. The idiot seemed to buy the same pair every time they released a new version, like a cartoon character with infinite money. A black cap hid most of his curls, and a mask covered half his face, just like last time. Somehow, despite all that, Katsuki could spot him instantly. Or maybe she had developed a sixth sense for “annoying green-haired men.” Either way, she ignored him. She stormed straight to the bento aisle, her bag slung over her shoulder, her mood already sour. Another Friday night, another lonely convenience-store dinner. When had this become her weekly routine? She grabbed the first bento she saw—ginger pork—then put it back. Then grabbed a different one. Then another. She hated that this part felt familiar now. As she narrowed her eyes at a spicy tofu bento, a low voice slid beside her. “That Korean spicy chicken one is really good, Bakugou. I think you’d like it.” Her whole body went stiff. She turned her glare toward him, jaw clenching. “I thought I told you to leave me the hell alone, you useless hero.” Izuku didn’t flinch. He had the nerve to look sheepish. “I—I came to get my dinner too!” Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. The bastard had obviously been waiting there for her like a creep. His entire posture screamed I’ve been here too long for this to be coincidence. Katsuki pinched the bridge of her nose so hard it hurt. “Deku, I already told you I forgive you—” “I don’t want that!” he blurted, cutting her off. She whipped her head toward him, eyes wide. The hell did he mean by that? Izuku’s hands flew up in a nervous gesture, fingers twitching. Katsuki hated—hated—that she recognized that movement from when they were kids. He looked more like old Izuku than the polished hero she knew from TV or the cold idiot he’d been back in school. “I—I mean, I am glad you forgave me!” he rushed out. “Really! More than I can say! I just— I can’t forgive myself. I was… I was an asshole, Katsuki. A terrible person.” Her chest jolted. She masked it instantly with a scowl. “Well. Yeah. You were,” she snapped. He winced, but he nodded. “I know.” Katsuki watched the way his shoulders hunched, how his eyes softened and flickered downward. She saw the tension in his jaw behind the mask, the way his breath caught before he continued. “And I know I’m asking for too much,” he said, voice a shaky mix of courage and panic, “but… I… I really want to— to get closer to you again.” The words landed like a punch to her ribs. He swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing beneath the mask. “As friends! I just— I want to talk to you, Bakugou. I want to… I want to be your friend again.” Katsuki stared at him. No expression. No reaction. Nothing. Her heart, however, was absolutely sprinting. What the fuck. This was way too much. Way too honest. Too raw. Too real. So she did the only reasonable thing: “Go fuck yourself,” she snapped, grabbing the spicy chicken bento—the exact one he’d recommended—and turning on her heel toward the register. Izuku stumbled after her like a newborn deer. “P-please, Kacch—Bakugou! Just let me explain!” “I don’t want explanations, Deku,” she snarled as she shoved the bento onto the counter. The cashier, a bored college student, perked up immediately when he heard the name. His eyes widened as they flicked between Katsuki and Izuku, clearly recognizing Japan’s #1 hero standing there like a kicked puppy. Izuku stepped closer. “Please! We can set a day—just a day—to talk. And if, after that, you still never want to see me again… I’ll disappear. Completely. For good. I promise.” Katsuki froze. The cashier looked frozen too. Izuku stood there, hair damp beneath the cap, shoulders tense, voice trembling. He wasn’t Hero Deku right now. He wasn’t the media darling. He wasn’t the PR-trained face of hope. He was just Izuku. Nervous. Begging. Stupid. Real. Katsuki’s jaw clenched as a wave of emotion she refused to name threatened to choke her. This idiot. This fucking idiot. Why did he always hit her where it hurt the most? Katsuki didn’t answer him. She simply shoved her card into the reader, paid for her damn bento, grabbed the bag, and walked away like Izuku wasn’t standing there practically spilling his heart all over the kombini floor. “Bakugou— please— just—” She kept walking. He followed. The bastard moved after her with those long, desperate strides that somehow always felt just a little too close, like he was scared she would vanish if he blinked. “Can we just talk? Just a minute—” Katsuki pushed through the sliding doors, the cold night air slapping her skin. The rain had slowed to a mist, leaving the streetlights blurry with reflected gold. She stuffed her free hand into her coat pocket, stomping across the pavement. Izuku jogged out after her. “Katsuki— please!” She stopped. So fast that Izuku almost collided with her. For a moment, she said nothing. Her back to him. Her hair damp at the ends. Her grip tight around the plastic bag.Her heart hammering in a way she hated. Then, without turning around, she spoke. There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. No softness. Just Katsuki deciding something and doing it. “There’s a café,” she said sharply. “Down the block from here. Blue front, shitty coffee art. Tomorrow. Eight in the morning.” Silence. She could feel him freeze behind her—actually freeze. She imagined his stupid green eyes going wide. His mouth parting in shock. His entire soul lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree. She didn’t wait for his reaction. She didn’t want to see it. She marched forward, shoulders stiff, boots slapping against the wet concrete. She didn’t look back—wouldn’t look back—even though she could practically feel the warmth of his expression burning into her spine. It drove her insane. In a way that wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Something much more dangerous. “BAKUGOU!” Izuku’s voice burst behind her, almost cracking with relief. “I’LL BE THERE!” Katsuki didn’t turn around. Didn’t let him see the way her jaw clenched or how her pulse went wild. She just raised a hand over her shoulder—middle finger extended high and clear—and kept walking. Izuku laughed. A real one. Soft. Breathless. Sincere. And Katsuki hated—hated—how she could hear the smile in it. She walked faster. As if speed alone could outrun the way her chest tightened. Tomorrow. Eight a.m. One conversation. Then she’d be done with him. …Right? ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ She had agreed to this. God knew why. Katsuki didn’t understand what possessed her to give Izuku a place, a time, and a chance to say whatever sentimental bullshit he’d been dying to spill. Maybe it was vengeance — hearing him admit he’d been an absolute asshole, letting her nod and agree and unload twenty years of resentment right in his face. Maybe it was closure — the last nail in the coffin of whatever ghost of their childhood still lingered behind her ribs. Whatever the reason, she told herself this would be the end. One conversation. She’d let him blabber. She’d walk away. Done. She pushed open the door of the small corner café, the warm bell above the frame chiming gently. The place smelled like fresh pastries and strong espresso, the kind that clung to the air and settled into the wood of the walls. Worn leather seats, little potted plants by the windows, soft jazz humming from hidden speakers — cozy, almost too cozy. She’d chosen it because it was quiet and neutral. Nothing dramatic. It was still early. The sun hadn’t fully climbed yet, casting pale morning light across the polished floor. There were only a few customers: a couple of old men murmuring over newspapers, a tired office worker mumbling at his laptop, a barista humming as she wiped down the counter. Katsuki scanned the tables, looking for an empty one near the back— “Bakugou!” Her body reacted before her mind did. She turned. Izuku sat at a table near the window, and the sight punched her in the throat. He was wearing a black cap pulled low as usual and a mask on the table beside him. His hoodie was an old All Might one, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Typical dumbass. His cheeks were pink from the cold morning, freckles visible like constellations across his face. He wasn’t the round-cheeked kid she remembered. Time had sharpened him — jawline firmer, shoulders broader, gaze steadier. But when he smiled, eyes crinkling until they nearly disappeared, it was the same stupidly earnest grin she remembered from before everything went to hell. Katsuki’s chest did a warm, traitorous twist. She immediately shook her head, scowling it away. “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, marching toward him. “It’s not even eight yet.” Izuku shot up so fast his chair scraped loudly, nearly tripping over himself as he hurried to pull out her chair like some hopelessly polite idiot. Katsuki snatched it out of his reach before he could touch it. “Don’t,” she barked. Her cheeks felt warm. She blamed the café heating. Izuku froze, hands suspended awkwardly in the air before he slowly dropped them, unsure where the hell to put them. Katsuki rolled her eyes so hard she saw the ceiling. The silence between them was thick and awkward — Izuku fumbling, Katsuki simmering — before she finally sat down. Izuku mirrored her a moment later, clumsy as ever, nearly knocking his knee into the table. He was restless. Leg bouncing under the table. Fingers tapping against his cup. Eyes darting everywhere except her — then snapping back to her like he couldn’t help it. His breathing wasn’t steady either. He was trying to look relaxed, but every inch of him radiated tension. He cleared his throat. “Uh… well, I know you’re very punctual, and responsible, so I… I came early.” Katsuki narrowed her eyes, voice flat. “What time did you get here?” Izuku laughed — a pathetic, high-pitched “I’m so doomed” laugh. “Ah-haha! N-not long ago—” “Deku.” She said it low. A warning. The kind of tone that once made villains flinch. Izuku stiffened like someone yanked his spine straight. “One hour,” he confessed immediately. Katsuki stared at him. He stared back, terrified. “…You’re an idiot,” she said finally. Izuku swallowed. “Y-yeah.” And somehow, that only made her heart pound harder. Katsuki let out a loud, irritated huff and grabbed the menu, even though she knew exactly what she was going to order. The paper felt warm from the café heaters, the edges slightly worn from years of customers flipping through it. She wasn’t reading it; she just needed something to glare at besides the idiot staring at her across the table. Because Izuku was staring. Not creepily — no, that would be easier to deal with. He watched her in that painfully earnest way that made her skin prickle and her chest tighten in a way she thoroughly despised. His gaze followed even the smallest movement — the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the shift of her shoulders as she sat straighter, the faint wrinkle of her nose when she frowned. It was too much. It was too focused. Too soft. “Fucking idiot,” she muttered, snapping the menu shut like it had personally offended her. “Tch. Let’s get this over with already. I don’t even know why the hell I’m here.” Izuku visibly tensed. Shoulders drawn tight. Throat bobbing as he swallowed. He nodded a little too quickly, his hands clasping together on the table. “Mm… yes. Right. Uh…” Katsuki narrowed her eyes at him. Her pulse was pounding annoyingly fast in her ears, and that only made her more pissed. “Spit it out. I don’t have all damn day.” Izuku inhaled shakily. Then his expression shifted, tightening into something more solid, more determined despite the nerves trembling in his fingertips. “Well… I wanted to…” He paused, then met her eyes — really met them — his own wide and earnest and stupidly vulnerable. “Bakugou. First… I want to apologize. For everything I did to you in elementary and middle school.” Katsuki felt something punch through her chest, sudden and sharp, but she kept her face locked in its usual scowl. Izuku continued, voice steadier but still wrapped in nerves. “I know it’s late. Way too late. I should’ve said this years ago, but I—” He broke off, squeezing his hands together. “I was ashamed. I was… terrified, honestly. I was an idiot. And then a coward. I didn’t come find you when I should have.” Katsuki’s jaw clenched. She refused to blink. Izuku’s voice softened into that quiet, raw honesty she remembered from before everything shattered between them. “I’m sorry I called you names. I’m sorry I pushed you. I’m sorry I made everyone turn on you. I let them mock you. I encouraged it.” His voice cracked in the middle, but he pushed through. “I was cruel. And you didn’t deserve any of it.” Katsuki stared at him, stone-faced. Inside, she was spiraling. Izuku swallowed again, eyes dropping to the table before flicking back up to her. “And I regret it every day. I regret that I didn’t come to you sooner. I regret letting years go by while I hid behind excuses.” His hands trembled slightly on the table’s edge. “I never forgot you. Even after everything. Even when we weren’t talking. Even when we were… strangers. I always hoped you were doing well.” Katsuki’s brows twitched — barely. Her heart did the exact opposite. It jumped. She masked it instantly with a sneer. “If that’s true, then why the hell did you suddenly show up in my life again?” she snapped. “If you cared so damn much, why now? Why not stay gone?” Izuku froze. Completely. His breath hitched. That was a good question — and he clearly did not have a rehearsed answer. He fumbled, eyes darting to the window, then to his hands, then to her, then away again. His leg bounced under the table. When he finally spoke, his voice was small. “…I didn’t plan it.” Katsuki rolled her eyes. “No shit.” Izuku’s fingers curled on the tabletop. He drew in a shaky breath, tried again. “When I saw you again at the company… after all those years… I—” He stopped, ears turning red, cheeks burning, eyes shining with something Katsuki really didn’t want to identify. “I couldn’t think about anything else afterward.” Katsuki blinked. Izuku forced himself to finish, voice trembling but honest down to the bone. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since. And I… I didn’t want to run away from you anymore.” The café felt too warm. The air too thick. Her throat too tight. For a split second, Katsuki froze — caught between the past she thought she’d buried and the present she wasn’t prepared for. And because feeling anything was unacceptable, she scoffed sharply, leaning back in her chair so he wouldn’t see the crack in her armor. “Tch. You’re unbelievable.” Izuku’s smile flickered — tiny, hopeful, scared. For the first time in a long time, Katsuki wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted to do next. Silence dropped over the table like a weight. Izuku sat stiffly, hands curled together, watching her with a fragile kind of hope that made Katsuki’s stomach twist. His eyes were wide, soft, almost glowing with that ridiculous earnestness he’d never managed to kill off. It was the same look he gave her when he was six and asked her to play hero with him. She ignored it. Instead, she stared directly at the center of his forehead — just to avoid accidentally meeting his eyes and giving him any ideas. The spot between his brows wrinkled nervously under her intense scrutiny. Ten seconds passed. Then fifteen. Then thirty. The café around them continued its peaceful routine — the low hum of an espresso machine, cups clinking behind the counter, fresh pastries being set out on the display. Soft morning light streamed in through the window beside their table, catching dust motes in the air. A couple chatted quietly by the corner; a barista scribbled something on a cup with colored markers. It was all normal. Except Katsuki’s pulse was doing its best impression of a damn drum solo. Finally, she exhaled sharply and snapped the tension in half. “And?” Izuku blinked. “Huh?” She crossed her arms. “And? What the hell do I do with that information? Okay, great, you were a colossal asshole and I never saw you as a hero. Awesome. Was that your whole speech?” Izuku looked like she’d hit him with a frying pan. His shoulders flinched; his mouth opened, closed, opened again. The hurt flickering over his expression was obvious even behind the nerves. “N-no, wait!” he blurted, leaning forward just an inch as if proximity would help him not drown. “I— that’s not— I didn’t mean for it to sound like that—” Katsuki raised a brow. “You’re fucking rambling again.” He shut his mouth with an audible click, cheeks burning. Then, quieter: “I… I just wanted to know if…” He swallowed hard, fingers tangling together on the table. “If we can try being friends again. Only if you want. And I promise— I promise— I won’t bother you. I won’t overwhelm you, or show up uninvited, or text too much—” “You already do all that,” she muttered. Izuku flushed deeper. “R-right, but I can change! I’ll behave! I just—” His voice cracked before he steadied it with a breath. “I just want to talk to you again, Bakugou. For real. Not because we work together. Not because of PR. Just… us. Like before.” Katsuki’s jaw tightened. The words like before landed like shrapnel. Before the bullying. Before the resentment. Before the distance. Before he became Deku, the symbol. Before she became the ghost he pretended not to see. Her chest felt too tight. Annoyingly tight. Like her ribs were shrinking. “Why?” she asked finally, voice low, dangerous. “Why the hell do you want that?” Izuku froze. Completely. His fingers reflexively twisted the fabric of his hoodie sleeve. His breath caught in his throat. He looked down, then back up, then away — entirely lost in his own head. It took a full ten seconds before he even attempted to answer, another five before he managed to form words. “I…” he whispered, then stopped. Katsuki’s glare sharpened. “Spit it out.” He exhaled slowly, gathering himself. His leg bounced under the table. His cheeks were red enough to match his stupid Jordans. When he finally spoke, his voice was small but unwavering. “As I said, I never stopped thinking about you.” Izuku didn’t look at her when he continued — he looked at the table, the window, anywhere but her face. “Not even back then, when I was pretending I didn’t care. Not when we went our separate ways, or when I was training, or when I got my license, or when the war ended… I always thought about you. Wondered how you were. If you were okay. If you hated me.” His fingers dug into his sleeves. “And when I saw you again after so many years…” He let out a soft, helpless laugh. “Everything just came back. All at once. I couldn’t think about anything else after that.” Katsuki felt her heartbeat stumble. Then speed up. Then slam against her ribs like it was trying to escape. She masked it instantly with a scoff, leaning back in her chair as if distance could put out the fire under her skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she muttered. “You sound like a stalker.” Izuku’s face went crimson. “N-no! It’s not like that! I just— I didn’t know how to… I never knew how to talk to you without messing everything up—” “That’s because you’re an idiot,” she snapped. He ducked his head. Silence settled again between them — but this time it felt electric, charged, simmering with everything Katsuki refused to acknowledge and everything Izuku wasn’t brave enough to say plainly. She looked away first, scowl deepening. This was getting dangerous. Too emotional. Too close to lines she’d drawn years ago. But still… She didn’t get up. She didn’t end the conversation. She didn’t walk away. Instead, she clenched her jaw, stared hard at the window, and muttered— “…You're a complete idiot, Deku.” Izuku let out a small laugh — quiet, shaky, warm. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.” And somehow, that made her heart pound even harder. Katsuki tapped her fingers against the table — once, twice, sharp little cracks of impatience. Izuku’s confession still buzzed under her skin in a way she hated, and the only way to deal with it was to dig deeper, press harder, twist the knife until she understood. “Fine,” she snapped. “Then answer this.” Izuku straightened, tense, as if bracing for impact. Katsuki leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Why the hell did you change with me in middle school? You suddenly went from clingy little dumbass to… whatever the fuck that was.” He froze. She could see the panic ripple through him — shoulders locking, fingers curling, breath hitching. But he didn’t look away this time. He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I…” His voice cracked, barely audible. “I was jealous.” Katsuki blinked. Of all the bullshit excuses she’d expected — shame, self-loathing, fear — jealousy wasn’t even on the damn radar. Izuku swallowed, his throat working visibly. “We went into middle school, and suddenly… suddenly there were so many people. And you were—” He paused, breath shaking. “You were good at everything. Even without a quirk. Smarter than me. Braver than me. Stronger. Everyone liked you.” “Bullshit,” Katsuki snapped. “It’s true,” he insisted, voice trembling but honest. “And you didn’t need me anymore.” Katsuki stared at him like he’d just grown a second head. “So your brilliant idea was what? Be a fucking dick?” Izuku winced. “I was a child. A stupid one. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I thought—” He dug his nails into his palms. “I thought if I pushed you away first… it would hurt less.” Katsuki’s jaw fell open. Not dramatically — just enough to show the shock. “…Wait. You’re telling me you bullied me because you wanted to keep me to yourself?” Izuku’s face flushed red all the way to his ears. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and die. “…Yes,” he whispered. Katsuki slammed her palm against the table. The cups rattled. The old man in the corner jumped. “You fucking psycho.” “I know!” Izuku yelped. “I know! I was awful—” “You were jealous, so you made my life hell?! Are you insane?!” “I was twelve!” “That’s not a fucking excuse!” Izuku shrank in his seat, nodding quickly, desperately. “I know. I know. I know. I— I regret it every day. And then, when I finally realized how horrible I was being, I didn’t know how to fix it. So I ran. I avoided you. I pretended nothing happened. I was a coward on top of being an asshole.” Katsuki scoffed loudly. “You don’t say.” Izuku’s eyes softened — painfully — like hearing her say it out loud physically hurt him. “And for the record,” she added, voice sharp as a blade, “I still don’t forgive you. I’m not suddenly okay with everything just because you’re crying about it now.” Izuku nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand.” “And I never saw you as a hero,” she said coldly. “Not once.” He flinched — a small, involuntary flicker of pain — but he accepted it without argument. Silence stretched between them, thick and electric. Then Izuku leaned forward, voice breaking with something desperate. “Bakugou… please. Let me make it up to you. Somehow. Let me do something. Anything. Let me try to pay back even a fraction of what I did.” “I don’t want—” “I’ll do anything you ask,” he interrupted, voice trembling. “Anything. Whatever you want. However long it takes. I’ll listen. I’ll follow every rule. I won’t question you. Just— just let me try.” His eyes glistened. Not crying — but damn close. His hands shook where they rested on the table. Katsuki stared at him, stunned. The proud, powerful Number One Hero looked like he was moments away from dropping to his knees in a fucking neighborhood café. Just for the chance to make things right with her. Pathetic. Pathetic and awful and… shit. Something twisted in her chest — sharp and warm and terrifying. She scoffed hard, folding her arms. “You’re a hypocrite. You know that?” He nodded immediately. “Absolutely.” “And you’ll do exactly what I say?” “Yes.” No hesitation. “No complaining. No backing out.” “N-never.” “And if I tell you to jump off this building—” “I’d— I mean, I’d try— but maybe there’s a better example—” Katsuki slammed her hand on the table again. “Shut up. You said no questions.” Izuku clamped his mouth shut instantly, eyes wide. She exhaled, slow and annoyed… and something else. Something she didn’t want to analyze right now. “Fine,” she muttered. Izuku blinked. “Fine…?” “This is a contract,” she said, voice low and firm. “You’ll do exactly what I say. Exactly. No negotiating.” Izuku nodded so fast he looked like a bobblehead. “Yes. Yes. Anything.” “Good.” She leaned back, crossing her arms, nails tapping against her sleeve. On the surface, this was vengeance. Payback. A long-overdue reversal of power. But deep, deep down — in the part of her she pretended didn’t exist — she already knew the truth: she didn’t make this deal just to punish him. She made it because she wanted him close again. Even if it killed her. Izuku swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Bakugou.” And Katsuki cursed under her breath, because his gratitude made her chest ache in a way nothing ever should. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ The last few weeks had been far more intense than Katsuki ever could’ve predicted. Being responsible for Deku’s finances wasn’t difficult because of the workload — she’d handled far worse for far less money. No. The problem, as always, was him. The idiot client. Number One Pain in Her Ass. The first thing she’d done was enforce rules. Actual rules. Survival rules. Strict contact hours. Phone calls only for emergencies. One message at a time — no serial texting, no rambling multithreaded monologues, no paragraphs shaped like existential breakdowns. She wrote the rules down. She highlighted them. She sent him a copy. He replied with: “Thank you!! I’ll try my best!!! :D” (Three exclamation marks. And a smiley face. She almost blocked him again.) But to her shock — and annoyance — Izuku followed her rules like scripture. Painfully. Literally. He started speaking slower. Texting less. Thinking before opening his mouth. And that meant Katsuki could test him. And of course she did. The conference room on the twelfth floor was glass-walled, brightly lit, with a long lacquered table that smelled like overpriced polish. Katsuki sat at one end, posture rigid, hair tied back with militant precision. Camie sat beside her, legs crossed elegantly, tablet balanced on her knee. Across from them: the representatives of a major corporate sponsor — three suits, smug and ready to devour someone alive. And beside Katsuki, seated like a nervous shadow, was Deku. He wore a fitted black sweater and pressed trousers, posture stiff, gaze darting between the documents in front of him and Katsuki’s profile as if the fate of the world depended on reading her micro-expressions. The meeting was hell from the moment it began. The sponsor wanted to cut the budget for several hero programs — programs Izuku personally funded and supported. Programs Katsuki knew were crucial for public image and for real civilians. The corporate reps spoke in slow, polite corporate language that made Katsuki’s skin crawl. Camie countered with sharp lawyer-speak that sliced politely at their throats. Izuku kept trying to speak, only for Katsuki to kick him under the table when he opened his mouth at the wrong time. Two hours. Two hours of tense negotiation. Two hours of posturing, thin smiles, and corporate bullshit. By the ninety-minute mark, Deku looked ready to faint.By the two-hour mark, Katsuki was ready to destroy someone. Finally, after a particularly idiotic suggestion from the sponsor involving “optimizing hero exposure through reduced safety measures,” Katsuki snapped. She leaned forward, slammed her pen onto the table, and began tearing apart their proposal with brutal accuracy. Numbers. Projections. Risks. Public fallout. Reputation damage. A complete fucking massacre delivered with the cold, surgical tone of someone who did not have the patience for incompetence. The suits wilted. Camie smirked like a cat in cream. Izuku stared at Katsuki like she had personally parted the Red Sea. And in the end — they caved. She reversed the entire situation. Saved the budget. Protected Deku’s programs. Forced the sponsor to increase their support instead of cutting it. It was, in every sense of the word, a slaughter. The moment the suits left the room, Izuku turned to her, eyes wide, almost shining. “That was… that was incredible,” he breathed, voice tight with awe. “Bakugou, that was— you were—” “Shut up,” she snapped, already gathering her papers. “I’m not here to impress you.” But she felt it. That tiny, traitorous spark of warmth beneath her ribs. And she hated — hated — how good it felt to see him look at her like that again. Like she was brilliant. Like she mattered. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Katsuki sipped her black coffee in rare, precious silence. Her computer screen was stagnant for once, spreadsheets asleep, emails buried, the cursor blinking patiently like it knew better than to disturb her. Across from her, Camie lounged in her usual chair — the one she had practically claimed as her own by sheer force of personality. One leg crossed elegantly over the other, latte in hand, she looked perfectly at home in Katsuki’s office. The two watched the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, which was currently broadcasting the live Morning Show interview featuring Japan’s favorite dumbass. Not that Katsuki wanted to watch. Hell no. But after weeks of dealing with Deku up close, Camie had insisted they “watch together for science.” Katsuki’s eye twitched. “Science, my ass.” Camie had only laughed. “Come on, Kitty Kat! Deku’s practically your personal intern at this point. The man apologized when he brought the wrong coffee — and you didn’t even ask him to bring you one.” It was true. If Deku wasn’t patrolling, saving Tokyo, filming some PR shit, or holding up a collapsing building somewhere, he was bothering the hell out of Katsuki. Mostly on Wednesdays — the only day he was allowed to enter her office. But the bastard always found an excuse. Coffee. A damn wrist support for her desk that actually helped her posture. A limited-edition All Might figurine signed by the original hero — and she hated herself for liking it. Chocolates from her favorite brand when she was PMSing. HOW THE FUCK DID HE KNOW WHEN SHE WAS PMSING?! She’d screamed internally about that for a solid three days. Katsuki always cursed him out. Always told him to piss off. Once she even threw a pen at his head. But it was hard — painfully hard — to ignore a six-foot-three idiot with broad shoulders, a warm smile, and the emotional resilience of a golden retriever who thinks every insult is affection. And lately he’d gotten bolder. He teased her. Teased her. Light remarks, small jokes, comments that made her blood pressure spike. Then he’d apologize by bringing her something else she liked. Manipulative asshole. Now Camie was staring openly at the screen while Deku sat under the studio lights, tension radiating off him like humidity. His foot tapped beneath the desk; his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve; his polite smile trembled at the edges. “Uh… he’s nervous,” Camie muttered, eyes narrowed. Katsuki scoffed. “Of course he’s fucking nervous. He always looks like he’s about to throw up.” The camera zoomed slightly, revealing Izuku’s shoulders drawn tight and his gaze shifting constantly between the hosts and his own hands, which were clasped so tightly they trembled. A sheen of sweat glistened under the bright lights. He looked like a man holding back a tidal wave. Katsuki took another sip of coffee, though her eyes stayed glued to the screen. She’d never admit it out loud — not even under torture — but something in her chest gave the tiniest, most pathetic squeeze. “Poor guy,” Camie murmured. “You can tell he hates this stuff. PR days must kill him.” “Tch. He signed up for this bullshit,” Katsuki growled. “He’s Number One. People expect him to talk without tripping over his own damn tongue.” Camie shot her a smirk. “Funny. He talks just fine with you.” Katsuki whipped her head toward her. “Shut up.” Camie took a slow sip of latte, smug. “Just saying.” Katsuki ignored her — or tried to. Her gaze drifted back to the screen. Izuku lifted his head, smiled just a little too wide to be natural, and answered a question about “the pressures of leadership.” His voice was steady, but she could see through it now — see the nervous swallow, the twitch of his right hand, the way his gaze flickered toward the floor when he got overwhelmed. She’d spent enough Wednesdays with him to recognize his tells. “God. He’s a mess,” she muttered. Camie grinned. “Yet you’re watching him like the damn TV will explode without supervision.” Katsuki’s cheeks heated. “I’m watching because I’m waiting for him to fuck up. That’s all.” Camie’s grin only widened. Katsuki scowled at the screen harder — and hated the way her chest tightened every time his voice wavered. Fucking bastard. Always making her feel things she didn’t want to feel. The interview shifted gears. Katsuki could tell the moment it happened — the hosts exchanged a look, the camera angle changed, and the tone softened in that sugary way that made her want to throw her coffee at the screen. Camie hummed. “Ah. Here we go. Personal questions.” Katsuki frowned. “Why the hell do they care—” And then the redhead host — the one who looked way too pleased with herself — leaned forward, elbows on the desk, lips curved in a sly smile. “So, Deku,” she said, voice dripping with practiced curiosity, “are you dating anyone right now?” Izuku stiffened so visibly it hurt to watch. His spine went straight, shoulders locked, eyes widening. His entire body screamed PANIC. His cheeks went pink almost instantly. “N-No!” he stammered. “I-I’m not!” Camie snorted quietly. “Smooth.” Katsuki rolled her eyes. “Pathetic.” But her stomach twisted anyway. The redhead wasn’t satisfied. “Really? That’s surprising. Many fans have noticed you seem… different lately. Less flirty. More reserved.” Flirty. Katsuki’s eye twitched. Izuku’s blush deepened. “I wasn’t— I mean, I’ve never been flirty. That was… um… a misunderstanding created by the media. I’ve always just tried to be polite and friendly.” Katsuki scoffed. “Friendly my ass.” But the bastard sounded sincere. And she hated that it made something warm prickle in her chest. The host crossed her legs, leaning a little closer. “So you’re single. But… is there someone who’s caught your attention?” Katsuki froze mid-sip. Izuku hesitated. His fingers fidgeted in his lap. He looked down. Then — voice low but steady — he answered. “…Yes.” Camie sat up straighter. “Oh?” Katsuki choked on her own coffee. Izuku continued, cheeks burning. “There is someone I… like. And I’ve liked them for a while now.” Katsuki’s grip tightened on her mug until her knuckles whitened. He kept going. “And I’m not really… looking for anyone else. I’m only interested in… winning over that person.” Katsuki’s breath hitched. Her heart slammed against her ribs so violently she thought it might bruise. Her face heated — violently, embarrassingly, and completely against her will. Camie’s head snapped toward her with the speed of a hunting hawk. Her grin was predatory. “Katsuki…” she whispered. “Shut up,” Katsuki hissed. On the TV, the host’s smile sharpened, foxlike. “Oh? And would this person happen to be… Uraraka?” The studio audience gasped dramatically. Izuku froze again. “U-Uraraka? No! It’s not— I mean— she’s a great friend, but—” Katsuki stopped listening. The moment the name Uraraka hit the air, something inside her went cold. Ice down her spine. Jaw locked so tight it hurt. Uraraka. The longtime rumor. The golden duo of the new generation. The sweet, bubbly hero everyone said was perfect for him. Of course. Of fucking course. Katsuki swallowed hard, eyes glued to the screen but seeing nothing. Her ears rang. Her chest burned. Her stomach twisted painfully. Camie murmured, “Kitty Kat… it’s not—” Katsuki cut her off with a glare so sharp it could flay skin. “I don’t care,” she snapped. But she did. More than she wanted to admit. More than she would ever admit. Izuku was still talking, trying to correct the assumption, insisting—flustered and frantic—that no, it wasn’t Uraraka, not even close. But Katsuki didn’t hear a damn word of it. Because her brain had already slammed the door shut. And in the quiet, shaking corner of her chest she refused to acknowledge, a single thought pulsed like a bruise: Of course he’d want someone like her. Katsuki was already in a foul mood when she walked into her office. Actually—no. Foul didn’t cover it. She was volcanic. Nuclear. A ticking bomb with perfect eyeliner and a migraine brewing behind her temples. The moment she’d woken up, the memory of that damn interview slammed into her skull like a brick. Uraraka. Uraraka. Uraraka. By the time she reached the building, she was ready to set someone on fire. By the time she reached her floor, she was ready to set everyone on fire. And by the time she threw herself into her office chair and slammed her bag onto the desk? She was praying for a victim. As if summoned by evil fate, there came a soft knock. “Katsuki? Can I—?” She didn’t even let him finish. The door flew open before Izuku could reach for the handle. Katsuki appeared in the doorway like a demon summoned from hell, hair wild, eyes blazing. “NO.” Izuku froze mid-step, a to-go coffee in his hand and a hopeful little smile on his face. “K-Kats—” “DON’T CALL ME THAT!” He jumped, nearly spilling the drink. “B-Bakugou, is everything—” “NO!” she yelled again. “Everything is NOT! You—get OUT!” Izuku blinked at her, confused, lips parting to ask something incredibly stupid. Katsuki didn’t give him the chance. She grabbed the first thing she saw on her desk — the wrist support he’d bought her — and hurled it at him. He dodged. “W-Wait—!” “No waiting!” she shouted, grabbing the All Might figure next. “TAKE THIS SHIT WITH YOU!” Izuku shielded himself. “Please don’t throw All Might—!” She threw it anyway. He caught it with a squeak of fear. She grabbed chocolates next. “AND TAKE THIS TOO! AND THIS! AND THIS ONE!” She flung them one after another like tiny edible projectiles. Izuku scrambled, juggling chocolates and other things all at once, looking like a circus clown on fire. “Katsuki!? Did— did I do something—?!” “YES!” she screamed. “YOU BREATHED!” He deflated. “…Oh.” Katsuki was about to throw her stapler next when Camie burst into the room, hair immaculate, expression bright. “Good morning, ladies—OH GOD—” Katsuki wound her arm back like she was pitching a grenade. Camie launched herself forward and grabbed the stapler mid-swing. “No! This is company property!” “LET ME KILL HIM!” Katsuki roared. Izuku yelped and hid behind the doorframe, clutching all his items like offerings to a furious deity. “I-I’ll buy the company a new stapler—!” “SHUT UP!” Camie, accustomed to handling Katsuki like a wild animal, put one hand on her shoulder. “Kitty Kat, breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Stab something later. Not him. Not here.” Katsuki growled like something feral. Camie turned to Izuku with her lawyer-smile — polished, friendly, and absolutely fake. “Izuku! Sweetheart. Leave. Now. I’ll talk to her.” “But— I brought her coffee—” “GET. OUT!” Katsuki lunged. Izuku bolted. Literally ran down the hallway so fast he left a paper trail of panic behind him. When he disappeared around the corner, Camie shut the office door with a sigh, turned to Katsuki, and said— “…Alright. What the hell did he do this time?” Katsuki threw herself into her chair and slammed her head against her desk. “HE WAS ALIVE ON NATIONAL TELEVISION!” Camie blinked. “…I’m going to need more context.” Katsuki groaned into the wood, fists clenched, voice muffled but murderous. “And he—said—he—liked—SOMEONE—” Camie gasped. “OH GOD—” “AND—THEY ASKED—IF IT WAS URARAKA—AND—” Camie clamped both hands over her mouth. “Oh no.” Katsuki lifted her head just enough to glare at her. “YES. OH NO.” Camie sighed, rubbing Katsuki’s back like she was soothing a rabid wolf. “Kitty Kat… I promise you… he was NOT talking about Uraraka.” Katsuki glared harder. “I DON’T CARE.” But she did. Too much. Camie smiled softly. “Ohhh sweetie… you’re fucked.” Katsuki threw the stapler at her, but Camie dodged. Barely. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ The annual Popularity Poll results had finally dropped, and shocker of all shockers: Deku was number one. Again. As if the entire country’s collective braincells synchronized every year just to worship the same green-haired idiot. Katsuki hadn’t seen him since the day she threw every object on her desk at his face, and honestly? Great. Perfect. The universe had finally aligned in her favor. No more messages (she’d blocked him again, obviously). No more giant nerd barging into her office with a smile stupid enough to melt concrete. No more “accidentally thoughtful” gifts. No more rambling monologues. No more goddamn cologne that smelled way too good for its own safety. Just silence. Blessed, glorious, idiot-free silence. Back to routine. Back to solitude. Back to not having her chest feel weirdly warm every Wednesday afternoon. If Deku wanted to chase Uraraka? Good for him. Katsuki had actual work to do. And that was exactly why she’d refused to go to the celebratory Popularity Poll party. Point blank. Hard no. Not happening. But Camie — spawn of Satan wrapped in expensive perfume — somehow managed to drag her anyway. Katsuki couldn’t even remember how she’d been convinced. Blackmail? Emotional manipulation? A stroke? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that now she was standing inside a high-end bar rented exclusively for the agency’s “big night,” surrounded by her coworkers and half the hero community. And she hated it. The place looked like a catalog spread: dim gold lighting, mirrored walls, glass chandeliers, marble countertops, sleek velvet booths. A live DJ pumped out polished pop music just loud enough to make small talk miserable. Bartenders in crisp black uniforms spun shakers and poured drinks with acrobat precision. The room was full — too full — bodies weaving between each other, chatter buzzing like a swarm. Heroes from several departments mingled in groups: flashy pros, newer trainees, PR managers, photographers, executives. And Deku. Katsuki had seen him the moment she walked in. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Green hair half-tamed, suit fitting far too well for someone who used to drown in hand-me-down sweaters. He was surrounded — completely engulfed — by fans, coworkers, reporters, and heroes all eager to congratulate him. Some clapped him on the back. Some asked for photos. Some tried to flirt (pathetic). His smile was the polite PR one, the one she’d learned to spot instantly — stretched too thin, eyes flickering with exhaustion. He’d been talking nonstop, nodding, bowing, smiling, shaking hands. And he looked tired. Nervous, even. He didn’t notice her at all — not with the crowd swallowing him whole. Good. Katsuki took a sharp drink of her bourbon — neat, obviously — and settled into the darkest corner she could find. She crossed her arms, leaning against a polished pillar, watching the chaos with a scowl that kept most people at bay. Camie had long since vanished into the crowd, floating between groups like the social butterfly she was. Katsuki preferred her corner. Her drink. Her silence. Even if her eyes kept drifting — annoyingly, involuntarily — back to the idiot at the center of the room. Deku laughed politely at something a hero said, rubbing the back of his neck in that old instinctive nervous habit Katsuki wished she didn’t recognize so damn easily. His shoulders were stiff. His eyes darted too much. His smile cracked at the edges. He looked overwhelmed. Not my fucking problem, she told herself. She took another sip. But her gaze didn’t move. Camie eventually reappeared, gliding through the crowd like she owned the place, a drink in hand and a grin sharp enough to cut glass. She spotted Katsuki half-hidden in the shadows and made a beeline straight for her. “There you are, Kitty Kat!” she sang, sliding into the space beside her like she was docking a spaceship. “Why are you brooding in the corner? You look like you’re about to murder someone.” Katsuki took a slow drink of her bourbon. “Maybe I am.” Camie laughed as if that were normal. With them, it was. She leaned her hip against the same pillar, assessing the room with sharp eyes. “You know… you could at least pretend to enjoy yourself. They have the good sake out tonight.” “I don’t want sake.” Katsuki muttered. “I want to go home.” Camie waved her hand. “Please. You look great tonight. Stay a little longer.” Katsuki rolled her eyes and tipped her head back, exhaling. She did look good, and she knew it — simple black dress, gold hoops, leather jacket slung over her shoulders because she refused to freeze to death for fashion. Her hair was pulled up, exposing her jawline, her expression sharp enough to warn off half the room. Camie, in a shimmering emerald dress that matched her eyeliner, nudged Katsuki with her shoulder. “At least try to socialize.” “I’m socializing right now,” Katsuki deadpanned. “You’re socializing with me,” Camie corrected. “Which is cheating, because I don’t count.” “Good,” Katsuki said. “I hate counting.” Camie snorted into her drink. “You’re ridiculous.” Katsuki didn’t answer. She kept her arms crossed, her eyes drifting again — traitorously — toward the center of the bar. Deku was still there, surrounded, pinned by attention he probably didn’t want. The crowd pulsed around him like he was the sun and every idiot in the room was stargazing. His polite smile wavered every now and then, shoulders tightening before he forced it back into place. He looked miserable. Katsuki clicked her tongue. “Tch. Look at him. Idiot can’t handle attention for shit.” Camie followed her gaze and hummed. “Poor guy. You know he hates crowds like this.” “Then why the fuck did he come?” Katsuki snapped defensively. Camie raised a brow. “Because the agency made him? It’s literally his event. He won the damn poll again.” Katsuki glared into her drink as if it personally insulted her. “Tch. Figures.” Camie smirked, leaning closer. “Still mad?” Katsuki stiffened. “I’m not mad.” “Mhm.” “I’m not.” “Mhm.” Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “I just don’t care. He can date whoever he wants. He can flirt with whoever he wants. He can—” Camie choked on her drink. “Oh my god, you’re jealous.” Katsuki whipped her head around so fast she nearly spilled her bourbon. “WHAT?!” Camie grinned like she’d found a dragon’s treasure. “You totally are.” “I’m NOT—” “You’re soooo jealous.” “CAMIE.” Camie put both hands up. “Okay, okay—” Then, with zero warning, she continued, “I mean, look at him! He’s all flustered and cute and—” “STOP TALKING.” Camie laughed loudly and Katsuki punched her arm. Hard. “Ow!” Camie rubbed her bicep. “Okay, shit. You really are spiraling.” Katsuki gripped her glass tighter, jaw clenched. “I’m not spiraling. I just—” Her words died as her eyes drifted back to Izuku. His shoulders were even higher now, tension radiating off him. One of the PR managers leaned too close. Another hero slapped him on the back, making him jolt. Flashing lights from a camera flickered. Someone asked for a pose or a signature. Izuku flinched. Katsuki’s stomach twisted. Camie watched her watching him. “You know,” Camie said quietly, gentler now, “he looks like he could use a rescue.” Katsuki scoffed. “Not my fucking problem.” “No,” Camie agreed, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “But you’re still staring.” Katsuki tore her eyes away, glaring at the wall. “Shut up.” Camie bumped her shoulder. “Just go say hi. You don’t have to bite him.” “I’ll bite you.” Camie grinned. “Kinky.” “CAMIE.” She laughed again, clutching her drink in one hand and Katsuki’s arm in the other. “Okay, okay. But seriously, do you want to stay in this corner all night glaring at him? Or do you want to actually—” “I’m not talking to him.” “Sure.” “I’m not.” “Mhm.” “I MEAN IT.” But even as she said it, something in her chest tightened — irritation, longing, confusion, the whole messy storm she’d been avoiding for weeks. Deku turned his head slightly, just enough that Katsuki saw the exact second his polite smile slipped. His shoulders sagged. His eyes dimmed for half a breath. And all Katsuki could think was: Fucking idiot. Why do you look like that? Camie’s voice drifted into her ear, soft and amused. “You’re not going to stay away from him forever, Kitty Kat.” She didn’t answer. She just took another long drink, staring at the floor, and wished desperately that her heart would shut the hell up. … Katsuki lasted ten more seconds. Ten. Because the idiot in the center of the room was drowning — and badly. Another flash went off. Someone shouted his name. A new group pushed in, surrounding him like vultures at a buffet. Izuku flinched so hard his drink nearly slipped out of his hand. Katsuki cursed under her breath. “Fuck this.” Camie didn’t even try to stop her. She only smiled like she’d predicted every second of it. Katsuki weaved through the crowd, every step fueled by blind irritation and something much uglier coiling in her chest. People moved out of her way automatically, maybe because of the murderous aura, maybe because she looked ready to commit at least two crimes. She reached Izuku just as someone placed a hand on his shoulder to pull him into another photo. Katsuki slapped the hand away. The hero yelped. “W-What—?” “Back off,” Katsuki snarled. “He needs a fucking break.” Izuku’s head snapped toward her so fast she thought he’d get whiplash. “K-Kacch—Bakugou??” “Move,” she barked at the crowd. Something in her tone — a mix of threat, fire, and pure feral energy — made them part like a curtain. Katsuki grabbed Izuku’s suit sleeve and dragged him out before he could even blink. He followed willingly. Too willingly. Like a giant golden retriever being tugged on a leash. The two of them ended up in a more secluded section of the bar — a quieter nook with leather armchairs, dim amber lights, and a low marble table. It was dramatically calmer, tucked away behind a plant wall and a decorative wooden partition. Katsuki shoved Izuku onto one of the chairs. He fell into it with an undignified grunt. She crossed her arms and glared down at him. “What the hell was THAT?” Izuku blinked up at her, cheeks pink, hair slightly messy from being manhandled. He looked dazed. And— annoyingly— a little happy. “I—um—thank you?” he said sheepishly. “I think I was getting a little overwhelmed.” “No shit,” she snapped, flopping into the chair across from him with a huff. “You looked like a deer about to get run over by a truck.” Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, laughing nervously. “Haha… yeah…” They sat there in the soft golden glow, the hum of distant music blending with low chatter and clinking glasses. The closeness of the corner made everything feel weirdly intimate. Too intimate. Katsuki hated it. She hated this feeling. She hated him for causing it. Izuku, oblivious, looked around. “This is a nice spot…” “Shut up.” He shut up immediately. Then he smiled. Fucking bastard. Katsuki’s jaw clenched. She crossed her legs, tapping her heel against the carpet like a time bomb. Izuku’s eyes drifted to her face, soft with something hopeful. “I… didn’t think you’d come tonight.” “I wasn’t going to,” she muttered. “Camie dragged me.” “Oh.” He deflated slightly, then perked again. “But I’m really glad you’re here, Bakugou!” She clicked her tongue. “Stop sounding so damn happy.” “Sorry!” he said—smiling wider. Katsuki felt her cheeks heat. She looked away sharply. There was a moment of quiet — not awkward, but charged. Then Katsuki snapped. “So,” she said, too casually, “how’s Uraraka?” Izuku blinked. “Uraraka? She’s great! We’re friends—” “Friends,” Katsuki repeated flatly. “Yeah.” “She’s cute. Nice. Popular.” Izuku blinked again, confused. “Um… yeah? I guess? She’s cool.” “Bet you two text a lot.” “No? Not really.” “Sure.” Izuku tilted his head, baffled. “Bakugou, what are you—?” “I saw that interview,” she growled. “Oh…” Izuku flushed. “You… did?” She scoffed. “Tch. Of course. You fucking embarrassed yourself.” “I tried my best!” he whimpered. “Your best sucks.” Izuku’s shoulders drooped. “O-okay…” Katsuki looked away, heat crawling up her neck. “So you like someone, huh?” she said, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “For a while now." Izuku turned red from his ears to his collar. “Um… yes.” “And you’re only interested in that one person?” “Yeah…” he said softly, eyes dropping to his hands. “And you’re not looking for anyone else?” “...Right.” Katsuki’s nails dug into her palms. “So it is Uraraka.” Izuku nearly choked on his own saliva. “WHAT?! No! No, no, no—why would you think—?!” “Shut up,” she growled. “I don’t care. Do whatever the hell you want.” “But—Bakugou, it’s not—” “I SAID I DON’T CARE!” Izuku’s mouth snapped shut. He watched her — brow furrowed, green eyes searching her face for something she refused to show. He looked confused. Hurt. Completely lost. Because he was a dense, oblivious, walking disaster of a human being. “I’m just—” Izuku started, voice small, “trying to understand why you’re mad.” “I’M NOT MAD.” He nodded quickly. “Okay. You’re not mad.” “I’M NOT!” “Right. Absolutely not.” She glared so hard she could’ve peeled paint off the wall. Izuku rubbed the back of his neck again. “Um… I’m really glad you pulled me out of there. It meant a lot.” Katsuki’s stomach flipped violently. She looked away. “It wasn’t for you, dumbass. You looked pathetic.” Izuku smiled — soft, warm, painfully stupid. “Well… even if that’s true… thank you anyway.” And that stupid smile — the one he only ever used with her — twisted something deep inside her in ways she wasn’t ready to face. Katsuki growled under her breath, crossing her arms tighter. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t. But if Uraraka walked into this bar right now? Katsuki might commit a felony. Izuku, blissfully unaware, just kept smiling at her like she hung the damn moon. And that made everything so, so much worse. Even with anger burning in her stomach and jealousy gnawing at her ribs, Katsuki found herself… stuck. Rooted there. Unable to walk away from the idiot sitting across from her. “Tch,” she hissed under her breath, as if scolding herself. “Fucking ridiculous.” A waiter drifted by with a tray of assorted drinks — wine glasses filled to the brim with deep red liquid. Katsuki shot her hand up, stopping him in his tracks. “Wine?” he chirped politely, leaning a bit forward. Instead of picking a glass, Katsuki reached over and grabbed the entire damn bottle straight off the tray. Izuku blinked. The waiter stiffened, caught between professionalism and sheer survival instinct. Katsuki stared him down with a look sharp enough to slice the stemware. He made the only intelligent decision available: he nodded, bowed slightly, and escaped. Izuku let out a tiny, impressed breath. “Um… Bakugou, we’re not really supposed to—” “Shut up,” she snapped, already twisting the cork free with unnecessary force. “You need alcohol. And I need alcohol to deal with you.” His ears turned bright red. “O-Okay…” She poured herself a generous amount, then — with reluctance — filled his glass too. They clinked by accident when she shoved his across the table. The wine hit hard. Warm. Smooth. Expensive. Katsuki immediately took a second sip. Izuku stared at her like she was the sun and he was freshly blind. “I really… appreciate you sitting with me.” Katsuki glared into her glass. “Don’t get used to it.” But he smiled anyway — soft, shy, the kind of smile that made something in her chest clench. And so they drank. And somehow — somehow — the conversation slipped into something… not awful. Izuku talked about a new patrol route. Katsuki mocked him for tripping on a rooftop. He blushed. She got annoyed. He apologized. She got more annoyed. He tried to make a joke. She pretended she hated it. The usual. But the wine made everything looser around the edges. Warmer. Softer. Time blurred. At some point she found herself leaning back in her leather armchair, boots kicked out, swirling the wine in her glass. The dim amber light cast shadows along her cheekbones and made the red wine glow ruby-dark in her hand. Izuku watched her a little too closely. “What?” she snapped. “N-Nothing!” he squeaked, then — too quickly — added, “I just… um… you look nice in this lighting.” She nearly choked. “What did you just—” “I MEAN! Not like— I mean, you look nice normally too! Not nice! I mean like— a nice person— no wait— I don’t mean— you know—” “OH MY GOD.” Katsuki dragged a hand down her face. “Shut the fuck up.” He shut the fuck up. For about three seconds. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Tch.” Her irritation should’ve been rising. It wasn’t. And that pissed her off more than anything. Because sitting across from her, Izuku looked… good. Too good. She hated noticing it. But she did. Every. Damn. Detail. The suit he wore wasn’t flashy, dark, fitted, clean lines, but on him it looked unfairly good. His shoulders were broader than she remembered, filling the fabric in a way that made it obvious he trained like a maniac. His tie was slightly crooked, probably from people yanking him around all evening, and instead of looking sloppy, it made him look stupidly human in a way that clawed at her chest. His hair, usually a mess, was just tamed enough to show off how it curled at the edges. His jaw was sharper now, more defined, partly hidden by the glass he kept nervously lifting. His hands, big, steady, rough from hero work, held the stem of his wine glass too gently for a man supposedly built like a tank. And his face… God. Her chest tightened. The dim amber lighting softened him, throwing the faintest golden glow over his freckles. His eyes, too bright for someone who’d been exhausted all night — kept flicking toward her, like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t want to miss a single shift of her expression. And that fucking smile. The small one. The one he only ever gave her, half-nervous, half-hopeful, like he was scared she’d disappear if he blinked wrong. It made her stomach twist in ways she refused to name. He looked handsome. Completely, annoyingly handsome. More than he should. More than she would ever admit aloud. She swore under her breath and took another drink because acknowledging any of that felt like betrayal. But no matter how hard she tried… Her irritation wasn’t rising. It was melting. And she hated him for it. Meanwhile, the wine kept lowering their inhibitions. Slowly. Quietly. Efficiently. Izuku, usually so stiff, relaxed into the armchair, one hand loosely holding his glass. His knee brushed the edge of Katsuki’s foot once — and he jerked back like he’d been electrocuted. Katsuki rolled her eyes. “Calm the hell down. I’m not gonna explode.” “Right,” he said, eyes wide, voice too soft. “I know.” But he didn’t move away again. Instead, as the minutes passed, they somehow drifted… closer. Maybe it was the low booth-style seating. Maybe it was the warm lighting. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was something Katsuki refused to think about. Their legs brushed again — slowly this time, intentionally or not. Katsuki didn’t move. He cleared his throat. “S-So… um… how’s work?” “Shitty.” He laughed — quiet, warm, tipsy. “Yeah… I figured.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?” “Because I haven't been allowed to visit in the last few weeks.” Her breath caught. She masked it fast. “That’s because you annoy me.” “I know,” he said, smiling like that was the best thing he’d ever heard. “But I still missed Wednesday.” Her heart slammed so hard it hurt. She looked away sharply. “Don’t say stupid shit.” “Sorry.” “No you’re not.” He chuckled again, softer this time. “…No. I guess I’m not.” They fell quiet — not awkward quiet, but a heavy kind of quiet. Electricity-tight, warm, tense. Katsuki took another sip of wine to drown the feeling. Izuku sipped too, though he seemed more focused on her than the drink. Their knees touched again. Neither moved. Katsuki’s chest tightened. Fuck. This was getting dangerous. “You’re staring,” she said. “Am not,” he lied terribly. “You absolutely are.” He turned horrifically red. “I—I just— I’m really happy you’re here.” Her throat tightened. “You shouldn’t be.” “I know,” he whispered. “But I am anyway.” She stared at him. He stared back. And the room felt too small, the air too warm, the moment too close to something they were both pretending not to feel. Katsuki cleared her throat sharply and leaned back, breaking the tension with sheer force of will. “We’re drinking,” she muttered. “Not bonding. Don’t get ideas.” Izuku nodded quickly — but his eyes slowly dropped to her lips before he jerked them away like a guilty criminal. She saw it. She definitely saw it. Her pulse kicked. “Tch.” She downed the rest of her glass. “Pour me another before I punch you.” Izuku scrambled to refill it, nearly spilling the bottle in the process. Katsuki snorted. Idiot. Complete, absolute idiot. The bar around them had settled into that late-night hum — warm, low, intimate. The kind of ambiance designed to loosen tongues and lower guards. The room pulsed with dim amber light, enough to illuminate the curve of a cheek, the shine of a glass, the edges of a smile. Leather armchairs gleamed beneath the soft glow, smelling faintly of aged polish and expensive cologne. Music thumped in the distance, muffled by bodies and velvet curtains: a steady, rhythmic heartbeat under everything. Katsuki inhaled. Big mistake. Izuku’s scent drifted in the warm air — woodsy, clean, warm, threaded with something she hated liking. Something that lingered and clung. Something that she swore was messing with her head more than the wine. She’d been drinking, sure. But she wasn’t that drunk. She knew damn well the heat under her skin wasn’t only alcohol. It was him. The idiot sitting too close. The idiot smelling too good. The idiot looking too handsome in a suit. “Tch,” she muttered, sinking deeper into the leather seat, trying to steady her breathing. “You’re wearing something new.” Izuku blinked, startled. “Huh? Oh—um—my cologne? The PR team told me to try this one—” “It’s too fucking strong,” she lied instantly. Izuku’s ears warmed. “S-Sorry.” She grunted. It wasn’t strong. It was dangerously good. And he knew it. He was leaning in closer now, unintentionally or not, their knees brushing occasionall, and each time Katsuki felt her pulse spike like she was being shocked. Izuku wasn’t much better. His cheeks were pink. His eyes glassy, bright. His posture relaxed in a way she’d only seen a handful of times in her life. He kept laughing — small, soft bursts — whenever Katsuki insulted him, which only made her want to punch him and pull him closer at the same time. Their “discussion,” if one could still call it that, devolved into a messy mix of teasing, complaining, half-arguments, and way too many near-touches. Every time Katsuki gestured sharply with her hand, she accidentally brushed his arm. Every time Izuku shifted, his knee pressed into hers. Neither moved away. At some point, her boot tapped his shoe — lightly — and instead of pulling back like he usually did, he let the contact linger. Katsuki’s breath hitched. She masked it with a scoff. “Watch your feet, dumbass.” “Sorry,” he said — not sorry at all — and nudged her foot back. Her pulse stuttered. The wine bottle emptied slowly between them, and the buzz in Katsuki’s veins sharpened and blurred at the same time. Her thoughts felt warm, heavy, dangerously honest. She blamed the alcohol. And Izuku’s damn scent. And the stupid warm lights. And the way he kept looking at her like she was the only person in the room. God, she needed air. Or distance. Or something else entirely. Izuku leaned a little closer, voice softer than before. “Bakugou… are you… okay?” “Tch. I’m fine.” “You look a little—” “If you say ‘flushed’, I’ll break your fingers.” He shut up instantly, shoulders snapping straight—then slumping again when she snorted under her breath. Silence settled again. Warm. Heavy. Comfortable in a way that shouldn’t feel comfortable at all. Katsuki exhaled, long and shaky. “I’m going home.” Izuku nodded slowly. “O-Oh… okay.” Then she added, without thinking — or thinking too much: “You’re coming with me.” Izuku froze. Completely froze. His eyes went wide, pupils dilated, breath catching audibly in his throat. His grip tightened around his empty glass as if bracing himself against a cosmic event. “W-With you?” he squeaked. Katsuki raised a brow. “Do you need it in a fucking diagram? Yes. You. With me. Now.” “I—uh—I—” He swallowed. For a moment, he looked like he might pass out. Then— “…Okay.” He didn’t question it. He just agreed. And that — THAT — sent a hot flare of something through Katsuki’s stomach. She stood abruptly, the leather creaking under her. Izuku stood too fast and nearly stumbled, catching himself on the armrest with a flustered sigh. Katsuki marched ahead, pulse too loud in her ears. Izuku followed her like gravity. Or maybe like loyalty. The bar lights painted them in gold as they walked away — two shadows slipping out of the noise and into something far more dangerous. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Katsuki stumbled into her apartment, Izuku's strong arms wrapped around her waist as he kicked the door shut behind them. Holy shit. The room spun slightly as Katsuki blinked, trying to focus through the drunken haze. She could feel Izuku's breath, hot and heavy against her neck, his grip tightening on her hips. "Katsuki," Izuku growled, his voice low and rough with desire. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a delicious kiss that made Katsuki's heart race. She melted into him, her hands fisting in his hair as she kissed him back with equal fervor. Katsuki's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and tangled emotions. A part of her, the logical part, screamed at her to push him away, to remind him of all the pain and humiliation he had caused her. But a larger, more primal part of her reveled in his touch, craved his warmth, his passion, his... A choked moan escaped her lips as Izuku's hands roamed her curves, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs and ass. He lifted her effortlessly, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist as he carried her towards her bedroom. The stupid bastard was obviously lost, blindly following Katsuki's commands and tugs. Katsuki's thoughts scattered as Izuku finally entered her room and tossed her onto the bed, crawling over her with a hungry, feral gaze. She could see the large bulge in his pants, his desire for her. A thrill ran through her, settling between her legs where she ached with want. Izuku's hands slid under her dress, pushing the fabric up and over her head until she was left bare. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Katsuki's cheeks flushed, her body heating under his intense scrutiny. She watched, almost dreamily, as Izuku tore off his own clothes, revealing the sculpted muscles and strong frame of the number one hero. Her fingers itched to map every dip and curve, to trace the scars she knew he bore from his battles. But before she could act on that urge, Izuku was on her again, his bare skin pressing against hers, his hardness nestling between her thighs. She gasped, arching into him as a bolt of pure lust shot through her. Izuku's head dipped, his mouth latching onto the swell of her breast as he suckled and nipped at the sensitive flesh. Katsuki cried out, fisting her hands in his hair, holding him to her as he worked his way down her body. Katsuki trembled as Izuku's fingers brushed over her belly, a shiver of anticipation and something deeper. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with awe and tentative wonder. For a moment, Katsuki thought he might say something, might voice the feelings she had always longed to hear from him. But the moment passed, swallowed by the haze of alcohol and the all-consuming need that burned between them. Instead, Izuku's mouth trailed lower, his tongue dipping into her navel before he was moving down, down, until he was nestled between her thighs. Katsuki's breath caught in her throat as he hooked his fingers into her panties, his thumbs brushing maddeningly against her hips as he slowly peeled the scrap of fabric down her legs. She lifted her hips eagerly, allowing him to remove them completely. The cool air of the room brushed against her heated flesh, making her ache with a sudden, fierce longing. Izuku's gaze locked onto the juncture of her thighs, his eyes darkening with hunger as he took in the sight of her, bare and wanting before him. "Kacchan," he breathed, his voice rough and low. She couldn't respond, her throat too tight, her heart pounding in her chest as he leaned in, his breath hot against her most intimate place. And then his mouth was on her, his tongue parting her folds, delving deep to taste her. A strangled cry tore from Katsuki's throat, her back arching off the bed as pleasure exploded through her. Izuku groaned against her, the sound sending delicious vibrations through her core. His tongue worked her skillfully, licking and suckling, stroking her most sensitive spots until she was writhing beneath him. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the sheets, fisting the fabric as he brought her closer and closer to the edge. She could feel it building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in her core. Izuku seemed to sense it too, his movements becoming more urgent, more insistent. He thrust his tongue deep, curling it just so, and Katsuki flew apart with a scream of his name. Wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over her, her body shaking and jerking as she rode out the aftershocks. Izuku's hands gripped her hips, holding her steady, his tongue continuing to lap at her, softening her descent. As the last tremor left her, Katsuki collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. Izuku crawled up her body, his hips settling between her thighs, his hardness pressing against her still-throbbing flesh. Katsuki could see the hunger in Izuku's eyes, the raw, primal need that mirrored her own. She knew he wanted her, wanted to be inside her, wanted to claim her in the most basic, ancient way possible. And god help her, but she wanted the same thing. With a sudden surge of boldness, Katsuki reached down, pulling down his underwear in a sudden movement and wrapping her fingers around Izuku's hard length. He was hot and heavy in her hand, his skin like velvet over steel. She stroked him once, twice, savoring the way he twitched and throbbed against her palm. Izuku's eyes fluttered shut, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he pressed forward, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance. Katsuki's breath caught, her heart racing as she guided him to her center, lining him up with her still-wet, still-aching core. And then, with a single, powerful thrust of his hips, Izuku was inside her. Katsuki cried out, her head falling back as he filled her, stretched her, completed her in a way she had never felt before. He was big, bigger than she had imagined, and for a moment, she thought he might be too much. But as he began to move, to thrust and retreat, to set a deep, driving rhythm, Katsuki found herself meeting him, rising to greet each powerful surge of his hips. Her nails raked down his back, leaving red lines of passion in their wake as she clung to him, lost in the primal dance of their joining. Izuku's mouth found hers in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving deep, mimicking the thrusts of his hips as he took her, possessed her, owned her completely. Katsuki kissed him back just as fiercely, years of pent-up longing and desire fueling her hunger. She could feel the tension building in Izuku's body, could sense his impending release as his thrusts grew harder, faster, more desperate. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small, sane part of her marveled at her own responsiveness, at how quickly she had grown aroused again, how eagerly her body welcomed Izuku's touch. But she couldn't dwell on it, not with the pleasure consuming her, not with Izuku's weight pressing her into the mattress, not with the heat and the hardness and the sheer, overwhelming ecstasy of having him inside her, taking her, claiming her. And then, with a roar that sounded like a battle cry, Izuku thrust one last time, deep and hard and so perfectly right. Katsuki felt him pulse within her, felt the warmth of his release flooding her ins Katsuki gasped as Izuku's heat filled her, his body shuddering against hers as he found his release. She clung to him, fingers digging into his sweat-slicked back, holding him close as they both caught their breath in the aftermath of their passionate encounter. As the minutes ticked by, Izuku's breathing slowly returned to normal. He lifted his head to gaze down at Katsuki, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the bedroom. Katsuki looked away, suddenly shy and uncertain. What did this shit mean, exactly? They were still enemies, still locked in their bitter feud, even if their bodies had momentarily forgotten it. Izuku rolled off of her and onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He surveyed Katsuki's naked form, his gaze lingering on her tits. Shitty perv. She resisted the urge to cover herself, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "You're...beautiful," Izuku said, his voice rough and quiet. It almost sounded like he meant it as a compliment, but Katsuki wasn't fooled. She knew Izuku still saw her as beneath him, still believed she was a lesser being because of her quirklessness. Katsuki shot upright like she’d been burned. The sudden movement made the room sway for half a second — the leftover alcohol still dragging at her veins — but she ignored it. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool air hitting her skin and grounding her just enough to keep her fury from boiling over. Her apartment was dim, lit only by the weak orange glow of the streetlamp bleeding through the blinds. Clothes were scattered across the floor — her jacket, his tie, her boots tipped sideways, Izuku’s dress shirt lying in a crumpled heap like evidence of a crime. Katsuki snatched the shirt off the floor and shoved her arms through it, the fabric swallowing her immediately. It hung big and loose on her frame, the hem brushing her mid-thigh. It smelled like him — that stupid, warm cologne that had gotten her into this mess in the first place. She buttoned it with sharp, angry movements. Her fingers trembled. Not from fear. From adrenaline. From irritation. From… satisfaction. Izuku sat behind her, half-covered by her sheets, hair a wreck, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His face was still flushed from wine and everything that had happened after it. He looked dazed and guilty all at once — like he wasn’t sure whether to apologize or throw himself out her window. Katsuki turned to face him, arms crossing over her chest as if she needed a shield. Her chin lifted, defiant, furious, and determined not to let him see the crack under the surface. “This doesn’t change anything,” she said, voice cold as concrete. Izuku’s expression fell. A shadow crossed his eyes — guilt, regret, confusion all tangled together. He opened his mouth, breath shaky, ready to talk. Katsuki cut him off with a sharp gesture. “And I don’t want to hear whatever apology is growing in that enormous head of yours.” Her voice wavered for half a second — she hated that — but she barreled through it anyway. “It won’t make a damn difference. It won’t undo a single thing you’ve done.” Izuku flinched like her words physically hit him. “Kacchan…” he whispered, voice raw. “Don’t Kacchan me!” she snapped. He shut his mouth instantly. The silence that followed was heavy. Not comfortable. Not familiar. A thick, suffocating weight wrapped around both of them. Katsuki’s heart hammered unevenly — from anger, from leftover heat, from the memory of his hands on her skin. She scowled harder, hoping it would crush the feeling in her chest. Izuku shifted on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. The sheet slid down his torso, exposing more skin than Katsuki was emotionally prepared to look at. His freckles were flushed darker, his breath uneven. He looked like a caught animal — scared he’d ruined everything but too drunk and honest to hide it. “I didn’t mean for— for any of this to hurt you,” he said, voice trembling. “I don’t want to make things worse.” “You always make things worse,” she muttered. He swallowed hard. “I… know.” “No, you don’t,” she snapped. Izuku flinched again, shoulders curling inward. His eyes flicked to her — wide, worried, soft — and Katsuki had to look away before her chest cracked open. God. Why did he always look at her like that? He rubbed his face with both hands, voice slurred at the edges but desperately sincere. “Bakugou, I didn’t— I never wanted to take advantage. I’m not— I wouldn’t—” Katsuki cut him off again, heat rising to her face. “Shut up. You didn’t force me.” She gritted her teeth. “I’m not some fragile flower who can’t make her own damn choices.” Izuku looked helpless. Completely helpless. “But I still feel like—” “DON’T say you feel guilty,” she barked. “I swear to god, Izuku—” He froze. Her voice had cracked. Katsuki dragged a hand through her hair, pacing once, twice, trying to get the knot in her chest to loosen. Her apartment smelled like his cologne, her perfume, wine, and sex. Izuku watched her from the bed, gripping the sheets like they were a lifeline. He looked terrified of saying the wrong thing. Terrified of losing the little ground he had clawed back in her life. Terrified of hurting her again. Katsuki stared at him, shirt half-buttoned, chest exposed, eyes soft and messy and way too honest. Her stomach twisted sharply. She tore her gaze away, jaw tight. “We’re drunk,” she muttered. “We fucked up. That’s all this is.” Izuku nodded slowly, even if the guilt in his eyes didn’t fade. “If that’s what you want.” “It is,” she snapped. But it didn’t feel like the truth. Not even close. The room pulsed with tension, leftover desire mixing with anger, guilt, and something warmer Katsuki wasn’t ready to name. Izuku looked down at his hands. “Just… tell me what you need me to do. And I’ll do it.” Always obedient. Always waiting for orders. It hurt. But Katsuki lifted her chin anyway, forcing steel into her voice. “First thing? Stop looking at me like that.” He blinked. “Like what?” “Like you—” her voice caught; she cursed — “like you fucking care.” Izuku’s eyes softened even more. “I do.” Katsuki’s stomach flipped violently. She looked away so fast her neck popped. “Shut up,” she whispered. But her hands were still shaking. And she still hadn’t taken off his shirt. And Izuku — drunk, guilty, and completely gone for her — kept watching her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered. It didn’t take long for the tension snapping between them to ignite. It never did. They were both drunk. Both defensive. Both overflowing with feelings they refused to name. A perfect formula for disaster. She could feel something breaking in her chest. She hated it. Izuku tried again — too soft, too honest. “Katsuki, please—” “Stop saying my name like that!” she snapped. “Like you know me. You don’t.” His brows furrowed, pain etched across his face. “But I do know you. I’ve always—” “You’ve always what?” she barked. “Ignored me? Hurt me? Decided what I felt for me?” Izuku flinched like she’d slapped him. “That’s not what I—” “You think you can just show up now and—and fucking fix everything with your stupid face and stupid apologies?!” Her voice cracked again. She hated that. She steamrolled forward anyway. “I don’t need fixing! I don’t need YOU.” His eyes widened. “Why are you saying that?” “Because it’s true, dumbass!” “NO it’s not!” he shouted, surprising both of them. His voice shook with the force of it, raw and terrified. “You don’t mean that! You— you wouldn’t have— before— if you really—” “Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence,” she growled. Izuku swallowed hard, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. “I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to do everything right. I’m trying not to lose you again.” Katsuki’s heart slammed into her ribs. Her jaw locked. Her fists trembled. She didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to hold something that heavy. Didn’t want to admit she felt the same fear in her stomach. So she did what she always did. She detonated. “YOU CAN’T LOSE WHAT YOU NEVER HAD!” Izuku’s face crumpled. The fear. He took a shaky breath, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Then why— why are you acting like this matters?” “It DOESN’T.” “It does.” His voice cracked. “Stop lying!” “I’M NOT LYING.” “Yes you are.” “I’LL KILL YOU.” “Then kill me! Just stop pretending you don’t care!” “I DON’T—” She didn’t finish. Izuku stood. Too close. Too warm. Too familiar. Too much. Katsuki’s breath hitched. “Don’t you fucking—” He grabbed her face and kissed her. Hard. Heat shot through her like an explosion. She kissed him back before she could think, hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer, tasting wine and warmth and something she’d been denying for years. Izuku groaned against her mouth — soft, desperate, relieved — hands sliding to her waist, pulling her in like he was afraid she’d vanish. Katsuki felt everything at once: rage, want, fear, longing. All tangled. All out of control. Which was exactly why she shoved him. Izuku stumbled backward, breathless, eyes blown wide. “FUCK!” Katsuki yelled, running both hands through her hair. “Why do I keep— why do WE keep— THIS IS STUPID!” Izuku, still panting, shook his head frantically. “No— no, it’s not stupid— it’s just— I don’t know what I’m doing— I don’t want to mess this up— I don’t—” “You already fucked everything up years ago!” “I KNOW!” he shouted back, voice breaking. “And I’m trying to fix it!” “STOP TRYING TO FIX ME!” “I’M TRYING TO FIX ME!” Their chests heaved. Their faces burned. The room spun in circles, not from alcohol alone. The space between them crackled. Katsuki wanted to scream. Izuku stared at her like she was the center of every universe he’d ever believed in. “Katsuki…” he whispered. She closed her eyes. She was tired. Too tired. Too drunk. Too wired with emotion. And she hated feeling vulnerable with him more than anything. “…Fuck this,” she muttered, defeated. Izuku stood frozen, shoulders tense, eyes wide and glassy. He looked like a man bracing for another explosion, a final one. Katsuki could practically feel him holding his breath, waiting for her to scream, punch, throw something, anything. Instead, Katsuki turned away without a word. She walked past him, jaw tight, chest aching, every step a battle between pride and something messier. She grabbed the blanket off the bed and climbed under it with ferocity, refusing to look back. She didn’t call him. Didn’t give him permission. Didn’t give him anything. She faced the wall, pulling the blanket up angrily, as if it could shield her from the humiliation of her own feelings. Behind her, Izuku didn’t move. Not for several long, drawn-out seconds. Katsuki could hear his uneven breathing, feel the tremor in the air. The idiot was probably trying to calculate the least explosive way to exist in her vicinity. Good. He should be terrified. Eventually — carefully, cautiously, like approaching a wild animal with a ticking bomb strapped to its back — Izuku stepped toward the bed. The mattress dipped as he eased onto it. Slowly. Quietly. Bare skin brushing against the sheets, the sound painfully soft in the silence. Katsuki scowled into her pillow. Of course the bastard was still naked. Of course she was still wearing only his damn shirt. He settled beside her with exaggerated care, leaving a few inches of cautious space. Every shift of his body was tense and hesitant, as if he expected her to whirl around and bite his head off. She didn’t. She stayed rigid, facing away from him, fists clenched under the blanket. Izuku let out a shaky breath, almost silent, and pulled the covers up over both of them with trembling fingers. She felt the subtle brush of his knuckles near her shoulder. Still, she didn’t react. Silence stretched out. After what felt like an eternity, Izuku’s voice emerged in the dark, small. “…Good night.” Katsuki didn’t answer. Her throat was tight. Her chest was too hot. Her heart was beating too loud. She expected him to retreat after that. Roll away. Give her space. But he didn’t. A cautious shift. Hesitation. Another breath. And then— gently, tentatively — his arm slid around her waist. Not pulling. Not gripping. Just resting there, open, waiting for her to shove him off. She didn’t. Her whole body went rigid at first. Then slowly the tension melted into something warm and terrifying. Izuku froze behind her, likely shocked she hadn’t broken his arm. Katsuki stared at the wall, jaw set, refusing to acknowledge the way her stomach twisted when his chest pressed lightly against her back, or how natural it felt, how stupidly easy it was to let him stay like that. She didn’t say good night. Didn’t move closer. Didn't soften. But she also didn’t push him away. And for Izuku — trembling with relief — that was enough. Katsuki lay there in the dark, eyes open, heart pounding, Izuku’s arm warm and careful around her. Angry at herself. Angry at him. Angry at the world for making this so complicated. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ What the hell was happening? Katsuki was confused. And she hated being confused more than she hated Deku. (Which was saying something.) Because the bastard, the number one pain-in-her-ass hero of all time, had decided, apparently by divine decree or sheer stupidity, that the rule of “Wednesdays only” didn’t apply to him anymore. He showed up. Every. Damn. Day. Morning, afternoon, evening, and sometimes all three. Always with an excuse. Always with that annoyingly warm smile that made her want to break a window. He’d appear in her doorway for absolutely no reason: “Oh, Bakugou, I was nearby!” “Oh, Bakugou, I brought your coffee before patrol!” “Oh, Bakugou, I can give you a ride home!” She didn’t need him to drive her anywhere. She wasn’t some helpless office pet. But fuck… taking a comfortable seat in his absurdly smooth, quiet SUV instead of being shoved into a packed subway car full of sweaty salarymen? Yeah. That part was nice. Not that she would ever say it. Ever. The real problem was him. Izuku thought — somehow — that he had intimacy with her now. He did not. He had zero intimacy. Less than zero. Negative intimacy. Below sea-level intimacy. But there he was anyway, acting like… whatever the hell he was acting like. He didn’t just bring coffee (her exact order from the corner café she liked — how the hell did he memorize it?). He also took care of her in stupid, infuriating ways. On a hot day, he’d shown up with a cooling spray for fabric so she wouldn't “overheat in that outfit.” He had said it so gently she almost threw it at his face. Worse: He was getting touchy-feely. Nothing obvious. Nothing incriminating. Just small, soft touches: a hand at the small of her back when guiding her out of a crowded hallway, a brief brush of fingers when handing her coffee, a gentle tap on her elbow when she looked tired. It made her stomach flip in a way she absolutely despised. Butterflies. Stupid fucking butterflies. She needed to stop thinking about it. She shoved her notebooks, tablet, and laptop into her bag. She was finally done for the day — ready to leave before her brain came up with another disastrous thought about him — when Camie strutted into her office already holding her purse, heels sounding like miniature gunshots against the marble. “You two are together, right?” Katsuki didn’t even dignify that with a response. Camie, unfortunately, had the persistence of a wasp and twice the chaos. She smacked Katsuki’s desk. “You’re dating. Aren’t you? Tell me you are.” Katsuki glared but kept zipping her bag. “Shut the fuck up.” Camie gasped dramatically, leaning closer. “He just said he’s committed.” Katsuki froze. It was subtle — a twitch, a pause, barely a second — but Camie spotted it instantly. “Oh-ho-ho-ho, what is this?” Camie said, waving her phone just out of reach. Katsuki lunged for it, but the harpy dodged. “Come here, you shiny-haired gremlin!” Katsuki snapped. “Nope!” Camie danced back, grinning. “Listen: he left the agency five minutes ago and reporters stopped him. They asked why he’s been ‘hibernating’ from the media. And Deku said…” She paused for dramatic effect and then read off her screen slowly, savoring it. “He said: ‘I’m seeing someone.’ And, GOSH, this is the best part, ‘I appreciate everyone’s concern, but I’d like some privacy right now.’” Camie lifted her gaze, sharp and delighted, staring directly at Katsuki. Katsuki slammed her bag closed, stood up, and stormed for the door. “This has nothing to do with me,” she snapped. Camie followed her like a vulture with stilettos. “Right. Of course not. So tell me — when exactly did you two start going out?” Katsuki punched the elevator button with unnecessary force. “We’re not going out.” “Mmhm.” Camie stepped inside with her. “When you're done lying to me, you’ll realize I’m right.” “I. Said. It’s not me.” Katsuki’s voice was sharper than the elevator ding. “It’s obviously someone else.” “Bullshit,” Camie said sweetly. “If it were someone else, you’d be climbing the walls in jealousy.” “I don’t get jealous!” Camie raised a brow. “Right. And I don’t like drama.” The elevator opened to the lobby, heels clicking together in echo as they crossed the glossy floor toward the main doors. Katsuki’s pencil skirt hugged her hips, her deep red sleeveless top tucked in perfectly — professional, fierce, lethal. She stalked forward like a queen ready to behead someone. “What makes that head-empty brain of yours think I’d date an idiot like him?” Katsuki growled. Camie didn’t answer with words. Because outside, stopping right in front of the entrance like a perfectly timed divine joke, was a brand-new black Toyota Land Cruiser. Polished. Massive. Subtle. Safe. A fortress on wheels. Deku’s car. She knew it instantly. Of course he owned that tank: reliable, durable, quiet, and understated. Most fans assumed he’d have something flashy. Morons. Deku had the personality of a responsible dad with anxiety. “Hmm,” Camie hummed, lips curling into a wicked smirk. “Do I really need to answer your question?” Katsuki shot her the middle finger. Camie blew her a kiss. The Land Cruiser’s passenger door popped open before Katsuki could even reach for it. Izuku leaned over from the driver’s seat, eyes bright beneath his messy bangs, uniform still on — dirt smeared across the green plating, sleeves torn at the edges, sweat clinging to his throat and jaw. He looked like he’d sprinted straight from a battlefield just to get here. Because he had. Of course he fucking had. “Bakugou!” he said, breath slightly uneven, cheeks flushed. “I—uh—I made it!” “Did you walk out of patrol for this, you idiot?” she snapped immediately, sliding into the seat before she could decide not to. The inside of the car smelled like leather, cleaning products, and him — warm, woodsy, irritatingly comforting. “No!” he said. A beat. “Maybe a little?” He buckled in quickly. “I took a shortcut.” “You took a shortcut out of a crime scene?” “It wasn’t a— technically— well— the villain was already—” “DEKU.” He winced. “Heh. Sorry. But! I made sure my replacement was already there before I left!” Katsuki dragged a hand down her face. “You’re the number one hero, dammit. You can’t just ditch work to pick me up!” Izuku looked genuinely confused. “But… it was time for you to go home.” She stared at him. He smiled. Softly. Like a golden retriever who had no idea he’d just knocked over a full dinner table. Katsuki groaned and buckled her seatbelt. “Drive before I change my mind.” Izuku did exactly that, pulling smoothly into traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on the center console, close to hers. Too close. He drove with effortless familiarity, as if taking her home was part of his daily routine. Which pissed her off even more. “You smell like a garbage can behind a Korean restaurant,” she muttered, arms crossed. “I know!” he said brightly. “Isn’t it cool? The guy today had a slime-based quirk and—” “NO. I don’t want details.” “Oh. Sorry.” He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Do you want me to roll the window down?” “No. I’ll survive.” He beamed. God. Kill me now. Silence settled in, broken only by the hum of the engine and the faint sound of Izuku humming under his breath — something upbeat and stupidly cheerful. He tapped the wheel lightly with his thumb, a nervous habit Katsuki had learned to recognize. “You’re too happy,” she said flatly. “I like driving you home,” he answered shamelessly. Katsuki opened her mouth — ready to yell, deny, insult — but the words jammed in her throat. She ended up making a strangled noise instead. Izuku didn’t mind. He only smiled wider. “Don’t look so proud of yourself,” she growled. “I’m not proud!” he said quickly. Then, unable to help himself: “…Maybe a little proud.” “Deku.” “Yes?” he answered immediately, too eager. She slapped her hand over her face. “You’re hopeless.” Izuku turned onto her street with the ease of someone who’d memorized the route — which he had, unfortunately — and slowed at the light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked… happy. Radiant. Like someone who had won a prize just for being allowed to breathe the same air as her. She hated that look. She hated how it made her chest twist. Izuku glanced at her again, nervous and soft. “Um… are you mad at me?” “Always.” He laughed — an actual laugh — warm and bright, filling the car. “Good,” he murmured. “GOOD?” Katsuki’s voice shot up. He blinked and tried to translate her rage. “I just mean… you being mad means you’re talking to me.” “I talk to you because you won’t leave me the fuck alone!” “I know,” he said, voice annoyingly fond. “I like when you yell at me.” Katsuki’s brain short-circuited. “WHAT?!” “I mean!” he squeaked, ears turning red. “I don’t like yelling! I mean I do, but only your yelling! I mean— not that I like being yelled at— I just— you know— when you talk—" “Drive,” she said through her teeth. “Before I leap out of this fucking car.” Izuku obediently shut up, swallowed hard, and stepped on the gas. They rode in silence for a moment. A comfortable silence. Dangerously comfortable. Katsuki shoved that thought away so hard it hit the windshield. Izuku slowed to a stop in front of her building. The soft glow of the streetlights reflected off the black paint of the SUV, casting both of them in warm, dim gold. They got out of the car at the same time. Katsuki didn’t wait for him. She stomped toward the entrance of her apartment building with her usual murderous stride, badge key in hand. She pushed the door open, marched inside, hit the elevator button, stepped in, and exited on her floor. Izuku followed every step behind her like an oversized, loyal, extremely annoying shadow. Neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft hum of the elevator and the bastard’s slow, gentle breaths behind her (and the occasional brush of his hand along the small of her back.) Light, warm, steady. Katsuki grunted the first time. And the second time. And the third. He didn’t stop. Truthfully? She didn’t want him to. She unlocked her apartment door and pushed it open, stepping inside with practiced ease. Izuku closed the door behind them, twisting the lock without even needing to look. It had become routine. His presence… his smell… the deep rumble of his footsteps… it all blended into the atmosphere of her home now. Like he belonged. The thought made her stomach twist violently. At the genkan, she kicked off her heels with an honest groan of relief. “Finally,” she muttered, stretching her toes against the cool wood flooring. Izuku knelt beside her untying the straps gently and placing her shoes neatly by the rack. She should have kicked him in the head. Instead, she swallowed and pretended her face wasn’t hot. He took off his own sneakers, leaving them beside the others — beside his others. Because, yes, the idiot had extra pairs. And extra shirts. And sweatpants. And socks. Izuku Midoriya — Hero Number One, dumbass supreme — was practically living in her apartment. Not that Katsuki would admit that out loud. Ever. To anyone. Fuck. She was losing her mind. Izuku stretched his arms, vertebrae popping. “Ahh… long day. Do we still have leftover yakisoba from yesterday?” He walked straight to the fridge like he paid rent here, humming as he opened the door. “I think we had, uh—” “DON’T touch MY shit before taking a shower,” Katsuki snapped. “You smell like a garbage fire behind a seafood truck.” Izuku froze with the fridge door halfway open. “Oh. Uh.” He sniffed his sleeve. “I… do kinda stink.” “Kinda?” Katsuki barked. “You smell like villain juice.” His cheeks flushed red. “S-Sorry.” He shut the fridge immediately and scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll shower! I’ll clean up! I’ll—” Then he glanced over his shoulder. Tentative. Bright-eyed. Nervous. “…Will you come with me?” Katsuki blinked once. Then narrowed her eyes to slits. “Why the fuck would I do that?” Izuku turned fully, hands wringing like the disaster he was. “N-No reason! I just— sometimes— uh— when we— I mean— it’s faster? And we’d save water? A-And I like— I mean— not LIKE like— I just— we— together— the shower—” He was going to die of embarrassment right there on her kitchen tiles. Katsuki crossed her arms, staring him down, letting him flail. It should have annoyed her. Instead… it made her chest clench in that irritating, dangerous way she’d been fighting for weeks. “Tch.” She looked away. “Fine.” Izuku straightened like a soldier who’d been saluted by the Emperor. “R-Really?!” “Don’t make me repeat it.” “Yes ma’am!” “Don’t call me that.” “Sorry! I mean— okay! I mean— I’ll start the water!” He scrambled to the bathroom, tripping once on absolutely nothing, yanking his ruined hero gloves off as he went. Katsuki followed more slowly, rubbing her temples. Her apartment smelled like him. Like cedar. And soap. And heat. There were two of his uniforms folded on the laundry room shelf. His toothbrush sitting right beside hers. His deodorant — the idiot used the same brand as her, no wonder he always smelled good — nestled by her perfume bottles. A pair of his joggers hung over the back of her chair. Even his patrol radio charger had taken up permanent residence beside her coffee maker. He really was living here. Without ever being invited. And she let him. Katsuki entered the bathroom to find Izuku already shirtless, halfway through unbuckling the cracked armor plates from his uniform, steam filling the air around him. He looked over his shoulder when she stepped in. A smile bloomed on his face. Like she was the best part of his day. Katsuki’s stomach dropped. She scowled hard — hard enough to mask the heat rising in her neck. “Get in the damn shower,” she muttered. Izuku nodded, still glowing like a fucking sunrise. “Yes, Katsuki.” And she hated how her heart reacted to that. Because it reacted too much. Steam fogged the mirror almost instantly. Katsuki stepped into the bathroom fully, arms crossed, pretending she didn’t see Izuku struggling to peel off the last pieces of his filthy hero uniform. The armor plates clattered against the floor tiles, leaving him in nothing. Katsuki tried to do not stare. He smelled like smoke, city grime, and underneath it — him. Warm. Familiar. Dangerous. Katsuki clicked her tongue sharply, trying to pretend her pulse wasn’t reacting like an idiot. “You’re dripping shit all over my floor.” “S-Sorry! I’ll clean it up after, I swear—” “You better.” Once the water warmed enough to fog the tiles, Izuku slid into the large, deep half-tub that served as her shower and bath combo. It wasn’t tiny, but for someone the size of a professional hero? Yeah, it was cramped. Especially when Katsuki followed him in. She told herself she did it because it was practical. Efficient. Environmentally responsible. Not because this had become… routine. Not because this had happened before. Not because she liked the heat of his hands on her waist. Absolutely not. Katsuki stepped in and sank down immediately, hissing when the hot water lapped at her legs. The tension in her back loosened despite her best efforts to stay pissed off. Izuku shifted behind her, making room, though there was no actual room to make. He settled where he always did — behind her, broad chest pressed to her back, arms instinctively bracketing her sides. They fit together too easily. Like puzzle pieces. Like muscle memory. Like they’d done this a hundred times. Because they had. Katsuki hated that. “Move your knee,” she grunted. “I can’t… the tub’s not really designed for someone my size,” Izuku murmured, sheepish. “Tch.” She felt his apology in the way he adjusted anyway, one long leg folding awkwardly so his foot rested against the curved edge of the porcelain. He must’ve been uncomfortable as hell, but he didn’t complain. He never did. She shifted, leaning back just a fraction. His breath hitched — she felt it on the back of her neck. “Relax,” she muttered, more irritated with herself than him. “S-Sorry. I just— you feel… warm.” “Don’t say weird shit.” “Okay! Sorry.” Even with the cramped space, Izuku radiated heat like a furnace. His chest rose and fell against her spine, steady, soothing in a way that made her grit her teeth. One of his arms rested loosely along the rim of the tub, the other around her waist — not grabbing, not clinging, just there. Steady. Comforting. He smelled clean now — soap mixing with the steam — but underneath it, he still smelled like him. And it made her stomach twist. The water surged around them as Izuku shifted again, trying to make himself smaller, which was impossible. His knee bumped her thigh. She kicked him lightly for it. “Ow— sorry!” “Stop apologizing, idiot.” Izuku chuckled behind her — soft, embarrassed. His breath ghosted over the back of her ear, making her shoulders tense. Silence settled for a moment. The quiet kind. The kind that made her too aware of every touch, every small inhale, every stupid heartbeat of his pressed against her back. Katsuki stared at the far wall, pretending she couldn’t feel him memorizing the shape of her shoulder blades with his chest. She hated how right it felt. She hated herself for letting it happen again. She hated him for fitting into her life like he belonged. But she leaned back more — barely noticeable — letting the water rise to her collarbones, letting his warmth sink into her muscles. Izuku froze for a heartbeat. Then— Katsuki felt the warmth of Izuku's breath on the back of her neck, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. She cursed under her breath, irritated by his audacity, but made no move to stop him. "Stupid Deku..." she muttered, trying to sound annoyed even as her heart fluttered in her chest. Izuku's hands slid up the curve of Katsuki's waist, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. Katsuki's breath hitched, her body instinctively arching into his touch. She could feel the hard length of him pressing against her back, and her core clenched with anticipation. "Come on, you idiot," Katsuki breathed out, but it lacked the venom she intended. Izuku's lips found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to her damp skin. Katsuki gasped, one hand coming up to grip Izuku's hair as his teeth grazed her flesh. His hand slid lower. Katsuki could feel Izuku's arousal growing, his cock straining against her ass and his heavy breath. She wanted to tell him to stop, but her body refused to comply. Instead, she found herself tilting her head to give him better access to her throat, her pulse jumping beneath his lips. Deku's hand slid over Katsuki's mound, his fingers brushing through the slick folds of her pussy. Katsuki couldn't help but gasp, her hips rocking forward to give him more access. His fingers slipped inside her, stroking her inner walls, teasing her G-spot. "Ah... fuck..." Katsuki panted, her head falling back against his shoulder. Deku's fingers pumped in and out of her, his thumb circling her clit. Katsuki's body was on fire, her nerves singing with pleasure. She could feel her climax building, her walls clenching around Izuku's fingers. "Come on, Kacchan," Izuku encouraged her, his voice low and rough with desire. "Let go, baby. I—” But he couldn't finish the sentence. Katsuki let out a loud moan, her body convulsing as her orgasm crashed over her. She cried out, her voice echoing off the bathroom walls, the water splashing around them. Her pussy clenched and spasmed around his fingers, waves of pleasure radiating through her. Izuku continued to stroke her through it, drawing out her climax until she collapsed back against him, panting and trembling. He held her close, one hand wrapped around her waist while the other cupped her mound, keeping her pinned against him. Katsuki wanted to be angry with the idiot, but she couldn't. Not now. Not when he made her feel like this. Like she was the only woman in the world, like she was everything he needed and wanted. Katsuki could feel Izuku's cock throbbing against her ass, hard and insistent. She knew he was close, knew he needed releasing too. But she couldn't bring herself to touch him, to take responsibility for his pleasure. So instead, she widened her stance and arched her back, pushing her hips back against him. "Deku," she breathed out, disguising the plea in her voice. "Make yourself come, idiot. Do it." Katsuki ordered, not looking at him. The bastard only grinned behind her shoulder, his hands tightening on her waist and hips. Izuku's thrusts became harder, more urgent. The wet sounds of their coupling filled the small bathroom. Katsuki could feel Deku’s climax approaching. With a final, hard thrust, he buried himself deep inside Katsuki and came, his hot seed spurting out and filling her while moaning softly with his mouth pressed against her ear. Katsuki let out a shuddering moan, feeling Izuku's cock throbbing and pulsing inside her. She could feel his release, feel the warmth of it. Her own climax, while not as intense as the first, still washed over her, leaving her weak and sated. They remained like that for a long moment, Izuku's arms wrapped around Katsuki's waist, his softening cock still nestled inside her. Katsuki rested her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed, trying to catch her breath. She didn't want to think about what had just happened. Again. How many times had it happened before, after all? By the time they’d finished dinner, their limbs were heavy and slow, skin still sensitive from how many times they’d ripped each other apart in the bathroom. Katsuki refused to think about it. Refused to think about how this had become… normal. Refused to think about how she’d let him stay again. Refused to think about how he fit into her apartment with ridiculous ease. Her apartment. Her bed. Her everything. The lights in her bedroom were low. Warm. Too soft for her liking, as if the room itself knew she was lying to herself. They climbed into bed the way they always ended up doing: Katsuki first, irritated and pretending to ignore him; Izuku second, slow and careful, as if the mattress were made of explosives. But tonight, he wasn’t settling. He kept shifting. First his arm moved. Then his leg. Then he sat up, then lay down again. His breathing was uneven, and Katsuki could feel the air stirring with every restless motion behind her. She groaned and rolled onto her back, glaring at the ceiling. “What the fuck is your problem? You’re twitching like a damn rabbit.” Izuku froze. Then sat up — fully — turning toward her with his hair still damp and messy, cheeks slightly pink, expression tight in a way she didn’t like. “Kacchan…” he started quietly, voice low, strained. “What are we?” Her stomach dropped. Of course this idiot would pick this moment — this warm, soft, deceptively safe moment — to bring that up. She scoffed loudly and threw an arm over her eyes. “We’re nothing.” Izuku sucked in a breath like she’d stabbed him in the ribs. “But—” He leaned closer, hands flexing in the sheets. “Katsuki, I… I want— If you want— I mean— Could we—” He swallowed hard, fists tight. “Could we start something? Officially?” Fuck. He looked desperate. Not pathetic — desperate. Raw. Dead-serious. Impatient. He really meant it. Katsuki sat up instantly, anger flaring like instinct, like a shield. “Stop. Just stop. Don’t talk like that.” He blinked. “Why not?” “Because I’m not doing this bullshit right now,” she snapped. “I’m not playing house with you. I’m not— we’re not— that.” His jaw clenched. “But we are something.” “No, we’re not.” He stared, confused and hurt and stubborn all at once. “Then what are we? You keep letting me stay! You let me—” His ears turned red. “—touch you. Be with you. You keep choosing me.” Her heart lurched. She wanted to do anything except answer that question honestly. She looked him dead in the eyes. “We’re friends.” Izuku blinked. “Friends…?” he echoed softly. “…Only friends?” “Friends…” she gritted out, looking away, cheeks hot. “…With benefits.” Izuku’s brain broke right there on her bed. “…W-With—” His voice cracked. “—benefits?” Katsuki wanted to crawl into a hole and die. “Don’t fucking repeat it.” He whispered it anyway, stunned. “Benefits…” She punched his arm and he winced, then smiled stupidly. A slow, spreading, radiant smile. Bastard. “So… we’re friends,” he said carefully, hope rising like an idiot balloon he couldn’t hold down. “Real friends.” Katsuki’s face went hot, her ears burning. “Shut up.” Izuku was quiet for a moment. “So you do see me as a friend.” “OH MY GOD,” Katsuki groaned, shoving him backwards, “shut the fuck up and go to sleep.” He fell onto the mattress, still smiling like a fool, chest rising with a relieved, shaky laugh. “Okay… okay.” Then, softer: “Good night…” Katsuki rolled away from him, burying her burning face in her pillow. “Idiot,” she muttered. But she didn’t shove him when he curled in behind her. Didn’t complain when his arm slipped around her waist. Didn’t move away when his breath warmed the back of her neck. She didn’t believe him. Didn’t believe that the shitty Hero Number One could actually want her. Her chest felt light. Warm. Painfully, stupidly happy in a way she refused to acknowledge. He was interested in her. He said it. He meant it. Katsuki smiled into her pillow then she punched the mattress once for good measure. Just so she wouldn’t explode. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Katsuki's resolve wavered as Izuku's hips stilled, his thick cock nestled between her slick folds. The heat of him seared her, even through the fabric of his uniform. She could feel every inch of him, hot and hard and ready. The knowledge that he was just as turned on as she was, just as desperate and aching, only fueled her desire. They were in Katsuki's office. Deku had just arrived from a patrol, sweaty and tired, but with his pupils dilated with adrenaline. Oh, Katsuki liked this more than she was willing to admit. She knew it was morally and terribly wrong to have sex in her office. It could even get her fired, but… damn it, Katsuki was weak. She couldn't refuse Izuku, and deep down, she didn't even want to. It wasn't the first time they'd had sex in her office, and honestly, it was fucking good. "S-Stop teasing, idiot," Katsuki breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. It was the closest thing to an admission of want. Her stubborn pride wouldn't let her say more, but her body language spoke volumes. Her hips undulated against Deku's. His hand slid from her swollen breast, trailing down her torso until it hooked under her knee. With a sudden tug, he hitched her leg up around his hip, opening her further to him. The new angle allowed the head of his cock to catch on her entrance with every roll of his hips, the fat tip parting her folds, nudging at her opening. A shudder wracked through Katsuki, her head falling back against the wall as she bit her lip hard enough to leave an imprint. The pleasure was too much, the anticipation unbearable. She could feel every ridge and vein of Izuku's cock, could picture it in meticulous detail even through the barrier of his pants. The knowledge of what he looked like, of how he would feel inside her, made her head swim. Izuku leaned in close, breath hot against the shell of her ear. "You want me to stop teasing?" His voice was a low rasp, roughened by lust and exertion. "Or do you want me to give you what you really need?" In addition to all the mess that was Katsuki's life, the number one idiot had become a cheeky bastard. His hips punctuated it with a sharp thrust, the head of his cock pushing past her entrance before retreating. Katsuki gasped, a choked sound that turned into a moan as Izuku did it again, teasing her opening, pushing in just a bit further each time. She knew he was testing her, pushing her to the brink of her stubborn pride. He wanted her to beg, to admit how much she wanted him. But she gritted her teeth, refusing to give in. Instead, she clenched her inner muscles, gripping his cock as he pushed into her again. It was a silent challenge, a silent yes. She was ready, she could take it, she wanted it. Izuku was the only one holding back now. The only one still teasing. But she wouldn't beg. No matter how much her body screamed for it, she wouldn't admit how desperately she craved him, both in body and soul. Deku's heart hammered against his ribs, unadulterated desire. The heat of Katsuki's core seared him even through the fabric of his uniform, her slick arousal coating his throbbing length. A low growl rumbled in Izuku's chest as he gripped Katsuki's hip tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He was losing control, the urge to claim her, to make her his, consuming every rational thought. His cock throbbed almost painfully, the need to bury himself inside her, to feel her walls squeezing him, overwhelming. "Kacchan..." Izuku's voice was a desperate rasp, eyes dark and intense as they bored into hers. His other hand slid up her thigh, pushing her skirt out of the way. He cupped her sex, the heat of his palm searing her even through the damp fabric of her panties. His fingers pressed and rubbed, feeling her slick arousal soaking through, coating his fingers. With a harsh thrust of his hips, Izuku pushed forward, his cockhead parting her folds and popping inside her. The wet heat of her engulfed him, her walls gripping him like a velvet glove. Izuku shuddered, eyes nearly rolling back at the exquisite sensation. "Fuck..." he gasped, fighting the urge to slam forward, to bury himself balls-deep inside her. He wanted to feel her, all of her, surrounding him, claiming him. He wanted to hear her scream his name, to beg for more, to never stop. His hips rolled slowly, his cockhead popping in and out of her entrance. Katsuki's breath caught in her throat, Deku's words hanging heavily in the charged air between them. The desperation in his voice, the raw, unbridled need, sent a shiver down her spine. She could see it in his eyes too, the fierce, unrelenting intensity of his gaze boring into hers. He wasn't just teasing her now, he was laying siege to the walls of her pride, demanding entrance. For a moment, she faltered, the urge to give in, to surrender, rising up inside her like a tidal wave. The words he longed to hear, the confession of love and desire, clung to the tip of her tongue, ready to spill out. She could feel the weight of them, the power and the finality of admitting the truth of her feelings. But still, stubbornness held her back, the lingering fear of vulnerability, of giving Izuku the power to hurt her if he ever changed his mind. She was terrified of putting herself in a position to be rejected, to have her heart shattered into a million unfixable pieces. "Kacchan..." Izuku breathed, his voice a desperate whorl of sound as he rolled his hips again, pushing a little deeper inside her. His hand slid up her body, cupping the back of her neck. He pulled her closer, until their lips were a mere breath apart. She could feel the heat of him, the urgency in every line of his body. He was poised on the knife's edge of control, his muscles coiled and ready to snap. Katsuki moaned, even as her hips rolled forward, taking him a little deeper. It was a weak protest. Izuku growled, his lips brushing against hers. His thumb brushed over her nipple, the sensitive peak straining against the fabric of her blouse. At the same time, he rolled his hips forward, burying himself a little deeper inside her. She could feel him throbbing, hot and hard and insistent, stretching her around his thick length. Katsuki's breath came in short, sharp gasps as Izuku's desperate pleas and relentless teasing pushed her closer and closer to the edge. The feeling of his thick cock parting her folds, the heat of his skin, the raw need in his voice, it all combined to drive her wild with lust. She could feel her climax building, the coil of tension in her core winding tighter and tighter. "Please, Kacchan," Izuku urged, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Tell me you want me..." His hips jerked forward, burying him deeper inside her, the head of his cock kissing her cervix. The sensation made Katsuki see stars, her fingers digging into Izuku's shoulders. Katsuki cried out, trying to stifle the sound against his shoulder. She could feel him throbbing inside her, could feel how close he was too. The knowledge that she had brought the great hero to the brink of climax, that she had the power to unravel him just as much as he unraveled her, sent a thrill through her. "Do it... please..." Deku urged, his breath coming in harsh pants against her neck. "Come for me, Kacchan... come on my cock. I want to feel you... I need to feel you..." With a harsh thrust, Izuku buried himself to the hilt inside Katsuki, his pelvis flush against hers. At the same moment, his fingers found her clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles. The dual stimulation was too much for Katsuki to bear. She threw her head back, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her. Her walls clenched around Izuku, rippling and squeezing his length as wave after wave of ecstasy washed through her. She could feel her arousal gushing out around his pistoning cock, the wet sounds of their coupling echoing obscenely in the office. The sight and sound of Katsuki's climax pushed Izuku over the edge. With a hoarse shout of her name, he came, his hot seed spurting deep inside her. She could feel each pulse of his release, painting her insides with his essence. The feeling of him emptying himself inside her, claiming her so thoroughly, intensified Katsuki's own peak. They clung to each other, shuddering and gasping as they rode out the aftershocks of their intense coupling. Izuku's arms wrapped around her, holding her close as if he never wanted to let go. Katsuki melted into his embrace, her body going pliant and weak in the aftermath of her powerful Their ragged breaths slowly returned to a more normal rhythm as the waves of pleasure ebbed. Izuku rested his forehead against Katsuki's, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat, matching the frantic pounding of his own. In the aftermath, the charged silence between them felt heavy, ripe with unspoken words and lingering need. "Kacchan," Deku whispered, his voice rough and low. "That was... incredible." He brushed a strand of sweat-drenched hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. His touch lingered, fingertips tracing the delicate line of her jaw. The tender gesture was at odds with the intense, almost feral coupling they'd just experienced. Katsuki's eyes fluttered open, meeting Izuku's gaze. The heat and hunger she saw there made her catch her breath. Izuku's eyes were soft, filled with a warmth that made her heart skip a beat. But there was still a spark of that earlier desperation, a need that hadn't quite been fully satisfied. Fate had to be laughing at her. Cackling, even. Katsuki could feel the universe pointing at her and wheezing its lungs out. Because a few minutes after their very unplanned, very heated, very fuck-if-I-think-about-it-I’ll-die office situation… they were calmly walking out of the company as if absolutely nothing had happened. Izuku had gone ahead first to get the car — big idiot steps, humming to himself like his life was perfect. Katsuki followed after fixing her hair and scrubbing herself down with a level of aggression that would’ve shattered a lesser woman’s scalp. Izuku, meanwhile, had been harder to fix than her own damn reflection. The bastard kept smiling at her. Soft. Bright. Stupid. Every time she tried to smooth down his disaster of hair, he’d tilt his head toward her hand like a fucking golden retriever being groomed. She’d ended up punching his arm and telling him to fuck off. He didn’t look offended at all. They slid into the Land Cruiser, the city lights streaking across the windshield as Izuku merged onto the main road. Katsuki leaned her head against the cool window, trying to cool the heat crawling down her neck. Izuku talked. “…and then Hawks said it was statistically improbable because wing-span limitations would prevent—” “Deku,” she muttered. “—but I told him if he actually compared— oh! Yes?” “You’re rambling.” “I— oh.” He scratched the back of his head. “Sorry. I just… um… get excited.” “You’ve always been a nerd,” she grumbled. Izuku glowed like she’d called him perfect. They drove another two blocks before fate, once again, decided Katsuki hadn’t suffered enough. Izuku’s voice cut off abruptly. His eyes sharpened. His posture snapped upright. “Kacchan. Villain.” Katsuki whipped her head forward. A storefront ahead had shattered glass raining onto the sidewalk. People ran. A hulking figure — smoke swirling off his skin — was ripping bicycles out of a rack like they were plastic toys. “Shit,” she muttered. “Go, then.” Izuku didn’t hesitate. He slammed the car into park, unbuckled, and sprinted toward the chaos. Katsuki cursed and shoved her door open. She wasn’t going to just sit there like some helpless ornament while he went charging straight into a fight. She jogged toward the scene, staying out of the way, not interfering, just watching to make sure the idiot didn’t get himself killed. Deku dodged the first attack easily, shouting orders to the other heroes on scene, body already crackling with green energy. The villain swung wildly, smoke bursting from his arms in explosive blasts. Izuku tanked the hits, redirecting them like they were nothing. Katsuki scowled. Show-off. One of the blasts struck the pavement, sending debris flying. Civilians screamed and sprinted toward safety. Katsuki stepped back, hands up to block the dust— “HEY!” She barely registered Izuku’s voice. Because the villain, stumbling from a hit Hawks landed from above, lost balance. His smoke quirk misfired. Hard. Right. At. Her. Katsuki felt the impact like a punch to the chest — hot, prickling, dizzying. She stumbled, gripping her shirt as a strange sensation blurred through her entire body, like being squeezed through too-small armor. “The hell—?” She didn’t get to finish because Izuku was suddenly there, grabbing her around the waist. “KACCHAN!” His voice broke. “I’ve got you—come on—come on—” She tried to shove him off. “I’m fine, fuck—!” “No you’re not!” He practically dragged her, shielding her with his whole body as he sprinted back toward the car. Other heroes swarmed the villain now that he was distracted, tackling and cuffing him. Izuku didn’t stop running until he had her shoved into the passenger seat with a gentleness that contradicted the panic in his eyes. “Sit— sit still— don’t freak out— it’s okay, I’ve got you—” “What the fuck are you babbling about—?!” Katsuki snapped her seatbelt on and turned to glare at him— And froze. Her glare dropped into a stunned, horrified, completely wordless stare. Izuku swallowed hard. “So… um… don’t panic.” Katsuki looked down. Chest. Gone. Shoulders broader. Arms bigger. Hips— not hers. Voice— when she choked in disbelief— deeper. She looked like some alternate-universe version of herself who’d been digitized into a male fitness ad. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Izuku flinched so hard he hit his head on the steering wheel. “KAC— KACCHAN— PLEASE— CALM DOWN—” “CALM DOWN?! I BECOME A MAN, DAMN IT!!” Izuku made a helpless, desperate noise. “It’s the villain’s quirk! Temporary bodily inversion— we saw it in the report last year but I didn’t think— I didn’t expect— it’s okay! It’ll wear off!” Katsuki grabbed the front of her— his— shirt. “This is NOT OKAY!” Izuku was vibrating with panic. “You’re still you! You sound— well you sound— different— but you’re still— you’re still perfect!” “DON’T CALL ME PERFECT WHEN I HAVE A DICK.” Izuku made a noise like he might actually pass out. Katsuki paced in place — or tried to, but the seatbelt kept her pinned. “THIS IS YOUR FAULT.” “How?!” he squeaked. “You jinxed me by EXISTING near me!” “That doesn’t even make sense!” “YOU DON’T MAKE SENSE!” Izuku raked both hands through his hair, completely frazzled, face red and sweating. “Okay— okay— okay— let’s just— let's go to my agency, they'll know what to—” Katsuki grabbed his collar and yanked him close. “DRIVE. HOME. BEFORE I THROW MYSELF OUT THE CAR WINDOW.” Izuku nodded so fast he looked like a bobblehead. “Yes! Driving! Absolutely! Immediately!” The Land Cruiser swerved back into the street, Katsuki screaming inside her own skull, Izuku screaming inside his heart, and both of them praying the quirk wore off… Preferably before Katsuki decided to commit murder. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Fate wasn’t just laughing at her anymore. It was rolling on the floor, kicking its legs, tears streaming, absolutely losing its shit at Katsuki Bakugou. She stood in front of her vanity mirror, staring at the stranger staring back at her. A man. A tall, muscular, stupidly handsome man. Her. She wanted to punch the glass just to see if it would break before she did. “What the fuck,” Katsuki whispered—except her voice came out deep, rough, and criminally sexy. She flinched. “Oh, fuck you…” None of her clothes fit. None. Every shirt either ripped at the seams or sat awkwardly over a chest that wasn’t supposed to exist on her. Her old jeans wouldn’t go past her thighs. Her bras now belonged in a museum under the category “Extinct Species.” She’d been forced — FORCED — to dig into Izuku’s-things-corner and steal his underwear. His fucking boxers! She tugged the waistband irritably. Why the hell were they comfortable? Even worse: she—he—was almost Izuku’s height. Almost! Not taller, which was unforgivable. If she’d come out even two centimeters taller than the bastard, she would’ve shoved it in his face every single day until the end of time. She would’ve carved it into a trophy. She would’ve put it on a shirt. She would’ve died happy. But no. The universe had given her just enough height to piss her off, but not enough to brag. Tall… but not taller. She clenched her jaw. It pissed her off. But the real offense? The part that made something warm and smug curl in her stomach? This male version of her looked… good. Obscenely good. Magazine-cover good. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, abs that looked carved by divine spite, angular jawline you could cut diamonds on, messy blond hair styled like she’d been born with perfect bedhead, and— She leaned closer to the mirror, eyes narrowing. Beard. Actual fucking beard scruff along her jaw, neat and even, well-shaped, infuriatingly flattering. Izuku didn’t have a single grown adult hair on his fucked baby-ass face. Katsuki smirked slowly, rolling her massive new shoulders back. “Oh hell yeah. Suck it, nerd.” She raised a brow, admiring herself just a bit too long, until Izuku burst into the room like a man being chased by death itself. He held his phone in a shaking hand. His hair was a mess. His eyes were wide. “Kacchan,” he said, already panicking. “So—so—good news! Or bad news! Or—um—news! Ha-ha-ha!” Katsuki’s irritation returned instantly. Of course he was laughing nervously. Izuku only laughed like that when something catastrophic was coming. He paced, phone clutched to his chest. “So Endeavor sent the files— because I called him— and he called the agency— and the doctors— and—” “Spit it out before I strangle you,” Katsuki snarled, turning away from the mirror. Izuku gulped. “Okay! Okay. So. The villain’s quirk? It's called Switch.” She rolled her eyes. “How fucking original.” Izuku winced. “Y-Yeah… pretty lame name, honestly.” “Fits you two.” “H-Hey—!” Katsuki stalked to her closet, ripped out one of Izuku’s shirts, and shoved it over her new torso. The fabric stretched over her biceps in a way that would’ve been sexy if she wasn’t busy having a mental breakdown. Izuku hovered nearby like a nervous golden retriever. “So… the villain’s quirk usually wears off after a few hours,” Izuku said carefully. “Great. Then I’m not seeing any doctors.” Izuku’s panic spiked. “But— Kacchan— these are the best quirk specialists in Japan— we need to make sure your vitals are normal and—” “Fuck my vitals,” she snapped. “You said it’ll pass. So I’ll wait.” “B-But—” She turned. Slowly. Menacingly. Her new deep voice dropped into a low growl. “It’s going to pass. Because I’m not setting foot in Endeavor’s damn agency while looking like this.” Izuku’s pupils shrank. “O-Okay! N-No agency! We won’t! I’ll— I’ll tell them— um— something!” Katsuki grabbed another of his shirts just to have something to throw. Then she froze. Izuku was staring at her with that same look he got when she was wearing a skirt—wide-eyed and overwhelmed. Except now he was staring at her male form like it was illegal. “The hell are you looking at, nerd?!” “N-Nothing!” His voice cracked. “I just— you’re— different!” Katsuki bristled. “Try saying anything else and I’ll break your neck.” Izuku blushed— blushed— because even with Katsuki as a man, he was a disaster. He fiddled with his phone again. “Uh. There’s one… tiny thing we need to talk about.” She crossed her arms, looming over him. “Say it.” Izuku inhaled sharply, eyes darting anywhere but her face. “So… the, um… usually wears off after a few hours… after the reversal condition for the quirk…” He swallowed. Hard. “It requires that you… be with someone you love. And that person has to love you back. Genuinely.” Silence. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” Izuku flinched so violently he smacked his phone against his own forehead. “I-I know! I KNOW! I didn’t make the rules!” “THIS IS THE DUMBEST QUIRK DEFINITION I’VE EVER HEARD IN MY LIFE!” “I agree!! It’s super inconvenient!!” “Inconvenient?! FUCK, I HAVE A DICK—” Izuku choked. “K-Kacchan—!!” Katsuki threw both hands in the air, pacing like a caged lion, beard and muscles and deep voice and all. “Oh, this is bullshit. I’m stuck like this until— what— I FIND SOME FAIRY-TALE PRINCE CHARMING?!” Izuku turned red. “W-Well— not necessarily a prince— it could be anyone— anyone you love—” Katsuki whipped around so fast he squeaked. “IF YOU FINISH THAT SENTENCE I WILL THROW YOU OUT THE WINDOW.” Izuku shut his mouth immediately. There’s one person she loved. Has always loved. Hates loving. Hates wanting. But she shoved that thought so far down it hit the Earth’s core. No. Absolutely not. No fucking way. Not happening. Izuku stood there, nervous and hopeful and terrified, waiting for her verdict. Katsuki glared at him, arms crossed, beard bristling. She was going to kill someone. Probably him. But maybe also herself. “Fucking hell,” she muttered. “Of course it had to be a love curse. Why not.” Just as Katsuki was about to scream into her own pillow until the world stopped existing, the doorbell rang. A loud DING-DONG. Like a taunt. Katsuki snapped her head toward the hallway. “Ignore it.” Izuku paled. “But—” “I SAID IGNORE IT.” And then— “KATSUUUUKI?!” Camie’s unmistakable voice floated through the intercom speaker. “Kitty, love are you okay?! I saw the quirk accident on TV and ran straight here!” Katsuki froze. Izuku froze. They stared at each other — horrified, defeated, spiritually exhausted. “NO,” Katsuki hissed. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this. I’m not dealing with HER right now—” Izuku swallowed, raising both hands helplessly. “I-I can tell her you’re resting!” “She won’t leave,” Katsuki snarled. “She won’t shut up until she sees me. She’d break into the vents if she had to.” Izuku opened his mouth to protest but the doorbell rang again. Harder. “Katsukiiiiiii! Open up please! I’m worried!” Katsuki groaned into her palms. “Fuck it. Let her in.” Izuku rushed to the door like a man walking to his execution. He cracked it open, and Camie swept inside in a flurry of heels, perfume, and dramatics. She didn’t even blink at Izuku being there. Not a flicker of surprise. As if the hero living in Katsuki’s apartment was the most normal occurrence in the world. “Where is she?” Camie demanded, clutching a convenience-store bag like it was a medical kit. “Is she hurt? Is she traumatized? Is she—” She stepped fully into the living room and saw Katsuki. She stopped so abruptly her heel squeaked on the floor. Her eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. Her face turned bright red. “…holy shit.” Katsuki scowled, arms crossed over her absolutely-too-perfect masculine chest. “Stop staring at me like I’m a fucking magazine cover.” Camie’s voice came out as a whisper. A reverent whisper. “Kitty… you’re hot.” Izuku made a choking noise in the doorway. Katsuki threw her hands up. “Take your shoes off before you come in, you fucking crazy woman!” Camie jolted, stumbling back to the genkan to kick her heels off. “S-Sorry! I panicked! My God, you've become a total HOTTIE—" "I'm going to kill you." “NO, NO— I mean it in a good way!” Camie pressed both hands to her cheeks, staring like Katsuki had walked straight out of a calendar shoot. “You’re soooo handsome. Like— dangerously handsome. Like— ruin-someone’s-life handsome—” “Oh my god, SHUT UP,” Katsuki barked, face burning. Camie spun toward Izuku. “You didn’t tell me she looked like THIS!” Izuku lifted his hands defensively. “I—I didn’t know how to explain it!” Katsuki pointed at both of them. “If either of you says one more fucking word about my face, my body, or whatever the fuck this is— I swear I’ll break something.” Camie nodded vigorously. “Okay. Yes. Of course. Totally respect that.” A beat. Then Camie whispered out of the corner of her mouth: “...but like, damn.” Katsuki lunged. Camie screamed, Izuku threw himself between them, and the entire apartment dissolved into chaos — the kind only Katsuki’s life could produce. Camie was still shrieking when Katsuki stopped short of throttling her, mostly because Izuku had thrown himself between them like a damn human shield. Katsuki’s reflexes halted her fist a millimeter from punching the hero straight in the jaw. Izuku squeaked—an actual squeak—and Katsuki cursed under her breath, pulling back before she committed a felony. Camie, however, was unfazed. She wiggled out from behind Izuku like smoke, sliding right back up to Katsuki with the fearless stupidity of someone who truly did not value her life. “Oh my god,” Camie breathed, circling Katsuki like a shark in a designer skirt. “Kitty, your shoulders. Your waist. Your FACE. How delightful—” “Touch me and I break your wrists,” Katsuki growled. Camie touched her anyway. Her manicured fingers slid up Katsuki’s bicep, squeezing experimentally. Katsuki’s new muscles flexed automatically, like they were offended someone weaker dared to test them. Camie gasped dramatically. “Gosh,” she whispered. “It’s like you were sculpted by angry gods.” Katsuki bared her teeth. “I’M THE ANGRY GOD— GET YOUR HANDS OFF.” Izuku, who had been silently watching this interaction with the emotional stability of an exploding star, suddenly stepped forward. “A—Actually—maybe don’t touch Kacchan like that,” he blurted, voice climbing several octaves. “She—he—K-Katsuki! Doesn’t like being touched and—um—maybe just—don’t—” Camie turned toward him, blinking. A slow grin spread across her face. “Oh.” She clasped her hands together. “Ohhhh.” Izuku tensed. “W-What?” “You’re jealous,~” she sang. Izuku flushed so violently it was like someone had slapped him with a blowtorch. “I—NO— I— I’m just protecting—” “Jealous,” Camie repeated, delighted. “De-kuuu is jealous. Oh my God, how cute—” Katsuki’s eye twitched so violently she thought her optic nerve might explode. “Camie, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to throw you off the balcony.” Camie ignored her completely, turning again toward Katsuki like she’d found a new toy in a store she couldn’t afford. “This version of you is so big,” she said, running her thumb along Katsuki’s forearm. “And look at this jawline. And your voice—oh, your voice is—” Izuku practically leapt across the room. “HANDS,” he barked—barked—snatching Camie’s wrist like she’d been caught stealing state secrets. “OFF.” Camie stared at him, then turned slowly to Katsuki, whispering loud enough for the dead to hear: “He’s so possessive. I didn’t think he had it in him.” Izuku sputtered helplessly. “I AM NOT—! I just—She’s—Katsuki is in a vulnerable—well—not vulnerable—she’s never vulnerable—but vulnerable-ish—SOMETHING—just—STOP TOUCHING HER!” Katsuki’s mouth went dry and her face heated. What the hell is he even saying? But instead of screaming, she froze completely, brain short-circuiting like she’d been struck by a quirk. Camie backed up a step, lifting both palms teasingly. “Okay, okay. I get it. Deku doesn’t share.” “I—YOU—STOP SAYING THINGS,” Izuku begged, face nearly purple. Camie, the menace, turned back to Katsuki and inspected her again like a jeweler appraising a diamond. “Kitty, honestly, this might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re like… if a UFC fighter and a Greek statue had a baby—” Katsuki snarled. Instead of being scared, Camie giggled. “Even your threats sound sexy now.” Izuku’s left eye twitched. “Camie. Please.” “What?” she asked innocently. “I’m just appreciating beauty. Katsuki looks amazing!” “I know she looks amazing—wait—no that’s not— I mean— yes she does but that’s not—Camie stop talking, please.” Katsuki turned her murderous glare on Izuku. “Why the fuck are YOU yelling? You got something to say?” Izuku’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a whimper. Camie practically sparkled. “My God, I live for this energy.” Katsuki stomped toward her. “Stop flirting with me, you crazy woman.” “I’m not flirting,” Camie lied easily. “I’m simply admiring.” “Admire from SIX FEET AWAY.” Camie smirked. “Why? Afraid your new testosterone is working?” Katsuki lunged. Izuku grabbed her around the waist like he was diffusing a bomb, lifting her slightly off the ground as she kicked and cursed in three languages. Camie shrieked and ran behind the couch, cackling. “K-Kacchan!” Izuku cried, struggling not to drop her. “Stop— STOP— you’ll hurt her!” “I WILL hurt her!” Katsuki roared. “PUT ME DOWN!” “No!!” “You asshole—!” Camie peered over the couch, grinning. “Aww. Look at him. He’s holding you like a princess.” “I’M GOING TO KILL BOTH OF YOU,” Katsuki screamed. Izuku hugged her tighter. “No, you’re not!” The room devolved into pure, unfiltered chaos. Camie laughing, Katsuki thrashing, Izuku panicking, the universe pointing and laughing at all three of them. And somewhere under the rage, Katsuki felt the faintest, tiniest, most unwelcome flutter in her chest as Izuku held her close. She crushed it immediately. Or at least she tried. It took thirty minutes for Katsuki to stop threatening homicide. And honestly, that was impressive restraint. By the time Izuku managed to calm her down (with a mix of terrified coaxing and physical restraint), all three of them were slumped in the living room like survivors of a natural disaster. Camie sat in the armchair beside the sofa, legs elegantly crossed, sipping chamomile tea from Katsuki’s best mug. Izuku had brewed the damn tea “to soothe Kacchan’s nerves,” and Katsuki had nearly yeeted it at his forehead. Now the cup cooled, forgotten on the coffee table. Katsuki herself sat hunched on the couch, new broader elbows resting on her knees, giant hands threaded through short blond hair. The male version of her looked like a shredded underwear model having the worst day of his life. Izuku sat right beside her—too close—one strong arm around her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. His worry filled the room like a scent. She hated how good it felt. Camie cleared her throat dramatically. “So,” she began, swirling her tea before taking a very smug sip. “Let me get this straight. The only way you turn back into yourself… is by being with your true love? And that person has to love you back?” Katsuki grunted. A noise too deep to be human. She didn’t lift her head. Camie nodded thoughtfully, as if reviewing stock options. “Right. Well. You’re fucking lucky, Kat. All you have to do is be with Deku and boom, problem solved.” Katsuki’s eyes snapped up, blazing. Camie blinked innocently. “Unless… wait…” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes like a predator. “Why haven’t you done that yet?” Izuku went bright red. Katsuki felt her own face burn—and the fact that she was blushing as a guy made it even worse. Camie stared between them, connecting dots like she was doing a sudoku puzzle at genius level. “Oh my GOD, Kat.” She set her empty cup down with a clink. “You make everything so dramatic. Do you enjoy suffering?” “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Katsuki grumbled, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Camie rolled her eyes so hard they nearly exited orbit. She leaned back in the chair, sweeping her gaze around the apartment. “Kat. Sweetheart. Bestie. You can’t hide shit from me.” She gestured broadly. “Deku is in your apartment. His clothes are in your apartment. His SHOES are in your apartment. His toothbrush—” she pointed at the hallway “—is in your bathroom. And half your damn furniture has been rearranged because his big hero ass sits everywhere.” How the hell did she know that? Katsuki’s jaw clenched. She hated how right Camie was. “And don’t get me started on the hero merch,” Camie added, motioning toward a limited-edition Deku figure on the shelf. “I DIDN’T BUY THAT,” Katsuki barked. “I gave it to her,” Izuku whispered. “SHUT UP.” Izuku wilted slightly, tightening his hold around Katsuki’s waist in an attempt to be supportive. “A-Anyway… things… aren’t that simple.” Camie stared at him. Blank. Her face shifted to one of deadpan disbelief. “This is like reading a gay fanfic,” she said flatly. Katsuki threw a pillow at her. “FUCK YOU.” Camie dodged easily. “Honey, if the shoe fits…” Katsuki buried her face in her hands, groaning loud enough to shake the apartment. Being a man made her voice deeper, rougher, and somehow even more dramatic. Fantastic. Camie took pity on her. Kind of. “Look, Kat,” she said gently. “You and Deku are idiots. Deeply, profoundly idiots. But even I can see you two are in love.” Katsuki and Izuku froze. Camie raised an eyebrow. “Do not even try to deny it.” Katsuki jerked upright—too fast—face burning. “I’m not in love. “I’m not— that’s not— we’re not— I don’t—” She pointed a giant accusing finger at the room. “NO.” Izuku looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Camie wasn’t impressed. “You’re in love. He’s in love. Everybody knows it. Twitter knows it. My mom knows it.” “I’M NOT—!” “Please,” Camie scoffed. “You practically eye-fuck each other every day.” Izuku choked so hard he coughed air. Katsuki launched another pillow. “CAMIE!” “What?!” Camie defended herself. “You’re so obvious, it physically hurts.” Izuku buried his face in his hands. “C-Camie, please—” But Katsuki wasn’t hearing any of them anymore. Because suddenly the weight of it—the condition of the quirk—hit her chest like a truck. She had to kiss someone she loved. Someone who loved her back. Truly. Deeply. Genuinely. And that thought lodged itself like a knife. What if Izuku didn’t love her like that? What if she made a move— What if she kissed him— What if she confessed— And the quirk didn’t reverse? What if it stayed? What if the universe itself proved she wasn’t enough? Because if she kissed him… If she tried… And nothing happened… It meant he didn’t love her back. It meant she was wrong. It meant she’d misread everything. It meant she’d been making a complete fucking fool of herself. Her throat tightened. Her chest constricted. Rage and fear twisted into one nauseating knot. She gritted her teeth. “Even if I wanted to,” she muttered, “this is bullshit. It’s risky. And I’m not doing something stupid just to prove some fairy-tale romance quest.” Izuku looked at her, soft and wounded. “Kacchan…” She cut him off. “Drop it.” Camie exchanged a knowing look between them. And for once, she softened. Just a little. “You’re scared,” she said simply. Katsuki’s head snapped up. “I AM NOT—” “You’re scared,” Camie repeated, calm. “Don’t worry. Everyone is, when it comes to love.” Izuku’s breath caught. Katsuki looked away, fists clenching. “Shut up, Camie…” Camie sighed, sitting back and crossing her arms. “Well,” she said. “Either you admit you love him… or you stay a very hot man forever.” Katsuki glared murder at her but deep down, under the rage and pride and absolute denial, she was terrified Camie was right. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Morning arrived like a punch to the jaw. A bright, merciless punch, because Katsuki woke up in the wrong body, with the wrong equipment, doing the wrong things. She groaned, half-asleep, shifting under her blankets— Then froze. Because it was back. Her new anatomy stood at full attention like a soldier saluting the sunrise. “For the love of—” Katsuki slapped a hand over her face. “Are you fucking kidding me?” She tried to will it away. It did not go away. It got worse. She rolled out of bed—which was more like crashing, because her new weight and height threw off her balance. Her foot hit the floor with a thunk heavier than she was used to. Izuku stirred beside her, hair a green explosion, blinking awake. “K-Kacchan?” he mumbled, still groggy. “Are you okay?” Of course she wasn’t okay. She was a man. A functional man. With all the stupid morning problems a man apparently woke up with every damn day. This was her life for the next few days. Katsuki had called in sick—technically Camie had called for her, expertly forging the kind of calm, pitiful tone Katsuki would rather die than use. For the company, it was a “medical leave regarding a quirk incident.” Camie even handled the paperwork. Izuku, of course, heard about the leave and immediately went full golden-retriever mode. He took time off too. Without asking. Without warning her. He just showed up with a duffel bag and a panicked determination, insisting he wasn’t going to leave her alone in a “vulnerable state.” Katsuki insulted him for half an hour—called him a clingy parasite, told him to get a life, told him she didn’t need babysitting—but Izuku had that stubborn hero streak, the one she hated because she couldn’t bend it. He stayed anyway. “No,” she snapped. “My dick woke me up before the alarm.” Izuku shot upright so fast the blanket flew off him. “O-Oh! Um—uh—right! Yes! That happens sometimes! I mean—every day! I mean— I didn’t think about that part—” “No shit you didn’t think about it,” she snarled, stomping toward the bathroom. “Why would you? It’s not YOUR morning wood.” Izuku scrambled after her, still tripping over the sheets. “D-Do you need help?!” “Not with THIS.” “Right! Of course not! Sorry!” She slammed the bathroom door shut but he waited outside anyway. Bastard. Inside, Katsuki planted herself in front of the mirror, palms on the counter, breathing hard. She stared at her reflection—the chiseled jawline, the lean muscle, the beard scruff she still hadn’t solved. And lower. “Oh my FUCKING god,” she said to no one. “How the hell do men walk around like this? Everything is in the fucking way.” She turned side to side. Still there. Still pissed off. Still making her existence difficult. “Kacchan?” came Izuku’s pathetic little whisper from outside the door. “What?!” “D-Do you want breakfast?” “No!” “…Do you want water?” “No!” “…Do you want—” “If you say ‘help,’ I’ll shove your face into the goddamn drain.” Silence. A scared silence. Good. She grabbed a razor from Izuku’s side of the sink—because the bastard practically lived here and had his whole grooming set in her bathroom—and inspected her jaw. The beard was… decent. Better than decent. Annoyingly handsome. She splashed warm water on her face, muttering curses under her breath, then applied shaving cream far too aggressively. The razor hovered. Her hand trembled. This wasn’t shaving her legs. This wasn’t trimming a line on her thigh. This was her face. “Oh, fuck this,” she sighed, dragging the razor carefully along her jaw. The sensation shocked her—oddly satisfying, strangely relaxing. The razor cut clean through the stubble, leaving crisp smooth lines behind. Not bad. Not bad at all. She tilted her head. Izuku knocked softly. “Um… Kacchan? Can I… come in?” “No.” “Okay! But I’m— I’m staying here! In case you need something!” She gritted her teeth. Of course he would. Of course the idiot would hover. And of course… It made her chest warm. Gross. By the time she finished shaving, she felt— If not better, then at least less homicidal. She washed her face and pulled the door open so fast Izuku toppled forward into her chest—her very solid masculine chest. He bounced off and fell back on his ass. “Ow—! Sorry! I wasn’t— I didn’t mean— You look— uh— you look really— shaved!” Katsuki stared down at him, shirtless, towel around her shoulders, muscles ridiculous enough to make her want to punch the mirror again just for existing like this. “STOP STARING AT ME.” “I’M NOT STARING—” “You’re fucking STARING.” “I—I’m SUPPORTING—!” She groaned, running a massive hand through her hair. “I hate this. I hate everything. I hate having a morning boner, I hate shaving my face, I hate that I’m taller, and I hate that you’re still here.” Izuku slowly got up, dusting off his sweatpants, cheeks still red. “I’m here because I want to help you,” he said softly. “You’re not alone in this.” Katsuki felt the flicker of something traitorous in her stomach. Her voice softened by one microscopic degree. “Don’t say shit like that.” Izuku stepped closer—carefully—placing a tentative hand on her forearm. “I’m not going anywhere, Kacchan.” Her chest tightened and her throat went warm. It pissed her off. “Fuck you,” she muttered, turning away so he wouldn’t see the heat crawling up her neck. “Make breakfast.” Izuku brightened immediately. “Okay!” “And if you burn anything again—” “I won’t! I promise!” “And don’t—” she hesitated, voice cracking just slightly “—don’t hover while I… deal with… this.” She gestured vaguely downward. Izuku went tomato-red again. “O-Of course! Take your time!” She growled under her breath and shut the door again, but this time… She didn’t lock it. Because she liked him there, he made the chaos tolerable and made her feel steady when everything else was wrong. And because— She wasn’t ready to admit she needed him. Not yet. Not even to herself. But she let him make breakfast anyway. The kitchen smelled like toasted rice and miso soup, and the morning sun slanted in through the blinds, warm across the countertops. It should’ve been peaceful. But Katsuki’s new body had other ideas. The first problem hit when she tried to sit at the table. Her legs didn’t fit under it the same way. She bumped her knee—hard—on the underside of the wood. “FUCK—!” She snarled, gripping the edge like she might flip the whole table. Izuku jumped. “K-Kacchan! Are you okay?!” “No, nerd, I’m not okay! My legs are long now! I’m hitting shit I never hit before! Everything is— too big. Too wide. Too… THERE.” Izuku blinked, processing. “Oh. That’s… um… normal?” “Normal my ass.” She shifted again. Another bump. Another curse. Izuku offered help and she shoved him by the face until he backed off, which only made him smile wider like being manhandled was some kind of reward. Stupid. Then came the second problem. Izuku eventually placed breakfast in front of her, smiling like he was presenting a peace offering to a dragon. Katsuki grumbled but ate. Because food was food. The third problem of the day appeared the moment she tried to stand up after breakfast. Her whole body jerked forward unexpectedly. “What now?” she barked, grabbing the counter. Izuku peeked over her shoulder, worried. “A-Are you dizzy?” “No!” She was not dizzy. She was… She looked down. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Izuku followed her gaze. He went silent. His entire face turned red. “K-Kacchan—” “Why?!” Katsuki demanded at the ceiling. “WHY does this thing activate like a proximity sensor?!” Izuku made a small, dying noise, hands flapping uselessly. “S-Sometimes it just— it does that— i-it’s not your fault!” She stormed away and immediately learned problem four: her new weight distribution meant she had to relearn walking. She nearly tripped over her own feet. Twice. Izuku caught her by the elbow. “Don’t touch me!” “Sorry! I just don’t want you to fall!” “I DON’T FALL.” She fell. Izuku caught her again, soft hands on her waist, and Katsuki nearly combusted with anger and—GOSH NO. She straightened herself, cheeks burning under her five-o’clock shadow. “Don’t say a word,” she warned. Izuku nodded, eyes big and adoring and hopelessly, stupidly gentle. A problem all on its own. Katsuki Bakugou discovered, very quickly, that a male body was a full-time job. And she hated every single second of it. After her humiliating morning battle with unwanted “anatomical enthusiasm,” she stomped out of the bedroom determined to pretend everything was normal—her default coping mechanism since childhood. Izuku was in the kitchen making coffee, humming like a househusband, which only made everything worse. The apartment was warm with morning light, curtains half-open, dust floating like glitter. Too peaceful. Too domestic. Too something she refused to name. Katsuki marched toward the bathroom with purpose. She needed to pee. Fucking simple. She shut the door behind her and glared at the toilet like it owed her money. “How the fuck do men do this?” Her body responded with the enthusiasm of a fire hose turned on too early. “NO—no no no—shit—” She tried adjusting. Angling. Standing different. Holding different. It was like wrestling a wild animal. “Kacchan?” Izuku called from outside, immediately picking up her distress like the loyal, anxious puppy he was. “Are you—um—are you okay in there?” “NO.” “D-Do you want help?” “IF YOU OPEN THIS DOOR I WILL CASTRATE YOU WITH YOUR OWN RAZOR.” “O-Okay! Take your time!” She gripped the counter, breathing like she was preparing for war. Fine. Standing was a nightmare. Whatever. She wasn’t above practicality. She sat on the toilet like a normal person. “Fuck this entire gender.” It took her a full minute just to accept her reality. She washed her hands aggressively afterward, scrubbing like she could erase the humiliation. When she opened the bathroom door, Izuku stood there like a concerned mother hen, towel over his shoulder, spatula still in hand. His eyes went straight to her face. “Kacchan… are you okay now?” “No.” He nodded sympathetically. “Peeing is harder than people think.” “Shut your fucking mouth.” He smiled softly, like he was proud of her for surviving urination. It made her want to slam him into the nearest wall and maybe kiss the stupid look off his face. She walked away instead, muttering curses under her breath. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ The afternoon was a disaster waiting to happen. Katsuki should’ve known. She should’ve known. It started with the doorbell. Again. A sharp, violent DING-DONG-DING-DONG, the kind of ringing that only one psycho in the world used. Katsuki’s stomach dropped. “Oh, fuck…” she muttered under her breath. Izuku, that idiot, brightened instantly. “Oh! Someone’s here!” “DON’T—” Too late. He opened the damn door without checking the peephole. Katsuki nearly blacked out from rage. Standing there, in full judgmental glory, were Mitsuki and Masaru Bakugou. Her parents. Her mother’s hair was pinned up, earrings sharp enough to cut glass, eyes narrowed like she was already ready to scold someone. Masaru held a paper bag — probably food — smiling kindly like he was here to deliver moral support while his wife detonated the building. “Oh!” Mitsuki said cheerfully, pushing past Izuku without hesitation. “Izuku! Good to see you here, dear!” Masaru nodded warmly. “Afternoon, son.” Izuku, red-faced and flustered, bowed like an idiot. “M-Mrs. Bakugou! Mr. Bakugou! H-Hi! Um—welcome—!” Katsuki wanted to die. “ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?” she barked from the hallway. Her parents turned toward her and froze. Mitsuki’s eyes widened. Masaru’s mouth dropped open. Katsuki stood there — in all her cursed masculine glory — tall, muscular, freshly shaved, wearing Izuku’s damn T-shirt and sweatpants. A man. Mitsuki blinked once then slowly, deliberately, she pointed a finger at her transformed child. “…Holy shit.” Masaru murmured, stunned. “Oh my.” Katsuki dragged a hand down her face. “Please don’t—just—don’t start.” Mitsuki marched closer, inspecting her from every angle like she was examining a defective product she planned to return. “So the quirk on TV? That was really you.” She grabbed Katsuki’s jaw. “Goddamn, that’s a good jawline. You look better as a man. Why weren’t you born like this?” “MOM, WHAT THE FUCK.” Masaru nodded slowly, approving. “You look strong, sweetie.” “I WAS ALWAYS STRONG!” Izuku stood off to the side, wringing his hands like he wanted to hide under the coffee table. Mitsuki turned her glare on him. “And YOU. When were you planning to tell us our daughter turned into a centerfold model?!” Izuku yelped. “I— I tried— I mean— I wanted— Kacchan didn’t want— I—” Katsuki snapped, “DON’T THROW ME UNDER THE BUS!” Mitsuki’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been avoiding my calls.” Katsuki huffed and crossed her arms. “Gee, I wonder why.” Masaru stepped in gently. “We just wanted to check on you, honey. Inko said—” Katsuki stiffened. “Inko?” Izuku flinched. Mitsuki smirked viciously — the smirk of a woman who thrived on drama. “Oh yes,” she said sweetly. “Inko told me everything.” Katsuki glared at Izuku like she was about to murder him, bury him, resurrect him, and murder him again. “Everything?” she repeated slowly. Izuku turned pale. “M-Maybe not everything everything—” Mitsuki cut in with a sigh. “That you two are together. That you’ve been practically living together. That Deku cooks for you, cleans, takes care of you—” Katsuki exploded. “WE ARE NOT TOGETHER! AND he doesn't clean anything!” Izuku jumped like she’d fired a gun. Masaru blinked. “You’re not?” “NO!” Mitsuki crossed her arms. “Inko said you were.” “Well Inko is WRONG,” Katsuki snapped. “Deku probably told her some shit without context like the dumbass he is!” Izuku whimpered, “I—I didn’t— I only told her I was staying here a lot and helping you and—” Katsuki’s eyes went wide. “Oh my fucking GOD,” she growled. “You DID tell her.” Izuku’s soul visibly left his body. “I—I didn’t mean— I wasn’t thinking— I just— I talk to my mom about everything and—” “AND NOW MINE THINKS WE’RE SHACKED UP LIKE A COUPLE?” Mitsuki snorted. “Well, you basically are.” “WE ARE NOT!” Izuku squeaked, “W-We could be— if you wanted—” “NOT HELPING, DEKU!” Masaru tried to step in gently. “Let’s all calm—” Mitsuki shoved him aside. “No, no, I want to hear this. If you’re not dating, what the hell do you call—” She gestured broadly at the apartment at the Midoriya-brand chaos everywhere. Katsuki felt her soul detaching from her body. “HE WAS JUST—HE—IT’S—FUCK YOU, MOM.” Masaru sighed lovingly. “Ah, she’s embarrassed.” “I AM NOT—!” Izuku, bless his dumb earnest heart, tried to step closer and take her hand. “Kacchan… I’m sorry… I didn’t want to make things worse.” Katsuki jerked her hand away, face redder than a stop sign. “YOU ALWAYS MAKE THINGS WORSE!” But she didn’t yell it with venom. More like… panic. Embarrassment. Fear. And Izuku saw all of it. Her parents saw it too which only made it worse. Mitsuki smirked. “Yep. They’re in love.” Katsuki choked on air. Izuku turned scarlet. “BOTH OF YOU GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Katsuki roared. … They stayed for dinner. Of course they fucking did. Katsuki had tried — tried — to kick them out the moment her mother started poking around her living room like she was evaluating furniture for sale, but Izuku had smiled nervously and said, “W-We can cook something!” which was a catastrophic sentence on its own. Ten minutes later, the kitchen towel was on fire. Izuku was flapping it like an idiot. Katsuki was screaming. Masaru opened a window. Mitsuki sipped her tea, unbothered, like this was just another Thursday. So they ordered takeout. Eh. Katsuki would’ve laughed at the whole situation if she wasn’t living it. She never would’ve imagined herself here months ago — and she wasn’t even talking about being stuck in a man’s body. No, she meant this: sitting cross-legged on her own couch, having dinner with her parents, while Izuku Midoriya — number one hero, her childhood bully, her current headache — hovered in her kitchen like he belonged there. Her parents were acting like this was normal. Izuku being here. Izuku knowing where the plates were. Izuku reflexively putting rice in her bowl before anyone else’s. She wanted to die. After dinner, Mitsuki sharpened her interrogation instincts like knives. She leaned forward in the armchair, eyes gleaming. “So,” she began sweetly, “when exactly did you two start getting close again?” Katsuki didn’t even let her finish. “Shut the fuck up.” Izuku choked on his drink, turning red up to his ears. Masaru just murmured, “Language,” without looking up from his bowl. Mitsuki ignored the warning. “Was it before or after he started sleeping over? Before or after the cute little office visits? Come on, brat, give your mother something.” Katsuki threw a cushion at her. Mitsuki dodged it with the reflexes of someone who had survived raising Katsuki Bakugou. Izuku stared at the floor like it would swallow him. Finally — finally — hours later, the torture ended. Katsuki shoved her parents toward the door. She was one second away from literally dragging Mitsuki down the hallway by the elbow when— For the first time all night, Mitsuki’s expression softened. “Brat,” she said quietly. Katsuki froze. She hated that one word still hit her in the chest. Mitsuki crossed her arms, but her eyes were nothing but worried. “Do you know how to fix this? The quirk?” Katsuki’s mouth set into a hard, thin line. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her chest was tight enough to crack ribs. Izuku, predictably incapable of handling silence for more than three seconds, stepped in. “Uh… I got the villain’s data from the agency,” he said, voice gentle, careful — like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak. “To reverse the quirk, Katsuki has to kiss the person she loves and… um… that person needs to love her back.” Katsuki’s spine went rigid and her face went hot. Her stomach flipped so violently she thought she’d puke. She refused to look at Mitsuki. Or Masaru. Or Izuku. Or anything. The room was dead silent for three excruciating seconds. Then Mitsuki let out a slow, thoughtful hum. “Oh.” Izuku swallowed hard, cheeks pink. Masaru blinked. “Oh.” Katsuki wanted to punch Deku and then punch herself. She stared at the floor. This was hell. Actual hell. And she had no one to blame but the bastard standing beside her — and the way her heart twisted painfully every time he said her name. For once in her life, Mitsuki didn’t push. She didn’t smirk. She didn’t tease. She didn’t make some explosive joke about grandchildren or wedding dates or how Izuku practically lived there already. She just… nodded. A small, almost imperceptible dip of her chin. Serious. Steady. Motherly in the rare way that hit Katsuki straight in the ribs. The apartment fell silent. Masaru exhaled softly. Izuku hovered beside Katsuki like he was afraid to breathe too loudly. And Mitsuki simply watched her daughter—her son, technically—without a trace of judgment. Just… concern. Real concern. The kind Mitsuki only showed when she couldn’t bully the problem into submission. “Alright,” Mitsuki said quietly. “I see.” Katsuki’s jaw clenched. She kept her eyes locked on the floor, her fists tight against her sides. Her throat felt thick. Another stretch of silence passed—heavy, awkward, but not cruel. Then Mitsuki squared her shoulders and spoke in that tone Katsuki rarely heard, the one that used to pull her out of nightmares when she was small. “You’ll figure it out, brat.” Katsuki’s head snapped up despite herself. Mitsuki continued, eyes firm but warm. “You’re strong. You’re smart. And you don’t back down from shit like this. You never have.” Katsuki swallowed hard. Masaru nodded beside his wife, gentle as always. “She’s right, sweetheart. You’ve handled worse than this.” Katsuki huffed, face hot. “This isn’t— this is different, okay? It’s not— it’s not something I can just blow up.” Mitsuki’s smile softened—not teasingly, not mockingly. Just soft. “I know,” she said. “But you’ll still get through it. You always do.” Katsuki didn’t trust her voice enough to answer. She just crossed her arms tighter, scowling at nothing, but some part of her chest unclenched. Mitsuki stepped forward and squeezed Katsuki’s shoulder once, firm and grounding. “Call us,” she said. “When you’re ready.” And for the first time that night, Katsuki didn’t want to throw her mother out immediately. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ That night, Katsuki was dead. Not physically — though honestly, being turned into a man against her will came pretty damn close — but emotionally, mentally, cosmically exhausted. She collapsed onto her bed face-first, too drained to even care that her lower half was still pitching a tent. Fuck it. She’d fight that battle tomorrow. She didn’t even flinch when Izuku padded into the room a minute later, barefoot and quiet, as if afraid she’d throw something at his face. He climbed onto the mattress with practiced familiarity and eased her head into his lap. Katsuki wanted to snap at him — instinct, reflex, habit — but the moment his fingers slid into her hair, slow and warm against her scalp, she… didn’t. She just grunted. Closed her eyes. Accepted the touch. His thumb brushed the shell of her ear, tracing the short undercut she’d discovered earlier. A shiver ran down her new spine, electric and annoying and good. Good in a way she refused to name. God. This body reacted to him like he owned it. Actually— Her original body reacted to him like that too. She slapped her hands over her eyes and groaned. She didn’t want to think about that. Especially because— Every time she’d gotten hard today, it had been because of Izuku. Only Izuku. Specifically Izuku. The realization hit her like a truck. Ugh. “Kacchan…” he murmured softly, still carding his fingers through her hair like she’d break if he stopped. She didn’t answer. He took her silence as permission and continued. “…Don’t you think we should resolve this soon?” Katsuki knew exactly what he meant. The quirk. The fix. The fucking kiss. Her jaw tightened, but she was too tired to summon a proper explosion. Her voice came out low and rough. “And what the hell makes you so sure you can reverse this quirk, hah?” Izuku didn’t hesitate. “Because I love you.” Katsuki’s blood turned to lightning. She froze, eyes wide, breath caught halfway up her throat. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her body — her cursed male body — responded instantly, humiliatingly. Izuku kept going, calm and devastatingly sincere. “And if what you’re afraid of is that I don’t love you back… that’s not true. It’s never been true, Kacchan.” Her brain short-circuited. “Shut up,” she muttered automatically, but it came out weak. Off-balance. Nothing like her usual bite. Izuku didn’t stop. “I know I was awful to you when we were kids. I know that better than anyone.” His hand paused in her hair. He looked down at her with eyes so soft she wanted to punch him. “I regret it every day. But I… I didn’t understand what I was feeling back then. Not really.” She hated how her chest tightened. “You were everything to me,” he said. “Everytime. Always. And when we grew up, it just got worse. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You were… you’re the person I admire most. The person I—” He swallowed, voice trembling. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known. The strongest. The smartest. And—” “Stop talking,” Katsuki snapped. But she still didn’t move off his lap. Her heart was beating too fast. Her throat was burning. She couldn’t remember how to breathe. Izuku’s voice softened even more. “So if the quirk only breaks if you kiss someone you love… and they love you back… you don’t have to be scared. I already— I already love you. The only question left is…” He hesitated. “…do you—?” “Shut the fuck up,” Katsuki blurted. It came out before she could stop it. Sharp, panicked — too honest. Both of them froze. Color flared across Izuku’s cheeks. Heat rushed up Katsuki’s neck. The room was painfully quiet, the only sound their uneven breathing. Katsuki swallowed hard, hating how her voice shook. “I’m not— I’m not admitting shit, okay? If— if you’re so damn sure you can undo this quirk, then—” She scowled, angry, embarrassed, terrified, all at once. “—then fucking try.” Izuku’s breath hitched. “Kacchan… are you sure?” “Do I look unsure?” she barked. Yes. She absolutely did. But Izuku knew better than to point that out. He leaned down slowly, carefully, hands trembling where they rested on her jaw. Katsuki’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. His forehead brushed hers. His breath ghosted her lips. Izuku kissed her. And Katsuki didn’t think. She only felt. For a heartbeat — just one — Katsuki didn’t move. Izuku’s lips were warm against hers, soft in a way that made the bottom of her stomach drop out. His hands framed her jaw with such ridiculous gentleness she wanted to scream. Katsuki kissed him back. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t measured. It wasn’t anything she’d planned. It was instinct. It was heat. It was months — years — of swallowed feelings ripping upward like an explosion she’d refused to acknowledge. Izuku made a small, startled sound against her mouth, something halfway between relief and wonder, and Katsuki’s grip tightened on his shirt without thinking. His fingers slid into her short blond hair again, holding her with the same reverence he’d shown all night. The kiss deepened slowly, naturally, like neither knew how to stop. Katsuki could feel his heart hammering beneath her palms. She knew he could feel hers too. His breath mingled with hers, warm and shaky. The room felt smaller. Softer. The dim lamp cast golden light across their tangled shadows on the bed, the air thick with something she refused to call tenderness. Katsuki finally pulled back, breathing hard. Izuku didn’t chase her lips — he waited, eyes half-lidded and impossibly green, looking at her like she’d hung the goddamn stars. Her chest tightened painfully. He looked… happy. And terrified. And relieved. And so in love it made her want to punch the wall. “K-Kacchan…” he whispered, voice unsteady, “is it—did it—?” Katsuki glared weakly, cheeks burning. “Don’t ask stupid shit right now.” It came out rough, but not cold. Not angry. Izuku’s mouth curved in that small, helpless smile he only ever showed her. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone, slow and trembling. “You kissed me back,” he murmured, awed. “Shut up,” she whispered. But she wasn’t pulling away and he noticed. His forehead leaned against hers again, their breathing syncing. Katsuki’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding him there without admitting she needed him close. Izuku exhaled shakily. “I’m really… really happy, Kacchan.” Her pulse stumbled. “I didn’t do it for you,” she lied immediately. “Okay,” he said softly, eyes warm with the exact opposite of disbelief. “If you say so.” Asshole. She wanted to hit him. She wanted— Izuku’s thumb stroked her cheek once more, tender in a way she wasn’t built to process. “Kacchan… whatever happens next, we’ll face it together. I promise.” Her throat closed. Kissing Izuku should not have felt this good. Absolutely not. Her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt and dragged him down to her mouth, swallowing the startled gasp he let out. His hand slid into her hair again, and holy shit, this new body reacted to touch at a whole different voltage. Heat crawled up Katsuki’s spine, low and fierce and embarrassing, but she couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Izuku shifted, leaning over her, bracing one arm against the mattress so he wouldn’t crush her, the other sliding down her shoulder. Katsuki could feel every inch of him—solid muscle, broad chest, stupidly warm skin—and the worst part? It felt right. Her breath hitched. She hated how breathless she sounded. Izuku pulled back just enough to look at her, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. “Kacchan…” His voice was barely audible, rough in a way she’d never heard him use. “We— um— we don’t have to—” “Shut up,” she murmured, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him down again. Their mouths crashed together, deeper this time—messy, hot, hungry. Katsuki’s heart hammered in her chest, but it wasn’t fear anymore. It was something heavier. Something molten. His hand slipped down her jaw, tracing the stubble she’d cursed that morning. Katsuki felt heat punch through her stomach so violently she nearly groaned. His thumb brushed her bottom lip, and she swore she felt it in her spine. Fuck. She was still in a man’s body. And it reacted—enthusiastically. Izuku froze as he felt the hard press of her pelvis against his thigh. “K-Kacchan—” “Don’t.” Her voice was low, warning. Izuku swallowed, nodding quickly, cheeks flaming red. He didn’t move away. He didn’t even try. Instead, his hand rested on her waist—broad, steady, grounding. Katsuki’s breath hitched again, and this time she didn’t manage to hide it. Her skin buzzed. Every inch of her. She hated how desperate she felt. She hated how much she wanted— Izuku leaned in, lips brushing her jawline, barely a kiss. Katsuki sucked in a breath. “Deku,” she warned, the name breaking in her throat. “Sorry—” he whispered, and then corrected himself instantly: “Not sorry.” His mouth moved lower, slowly, experimentally, kissing along the edge of her throat. Katsuki’s hand shot into his hair, gripping tight. Her mind hazed. Her breath shuddered. Her body—the new, stupid, overwhelmingly sensitive male body—was on fire. “You’re such an idiot,” she whispered, voice trembling in ways she despised. Izuku smiled against her neck. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot.” Her stomach flipped so violently she nearly threw him off the bed. Instead, she dragged him up by the collar and kissed him again—hard, teeth brushing, heat colliding with heat. Izuku gasped into her mouth, fingers digging into her hips. “Kacchan,” he breathed, barely able to speak. “Holy shit.” “Don’t talk,” she snapped, panting. “O-Okay—” He kissed her again before he could embarrass himself further. But somewhere in the back of her mind, behind the haze and hunger, Katsuki was painfully aware of one thing: She was still in the wrong body. Still waiting for the quirk to break. Still unsure if Izuku’s confession was enough. Still terrified she’d wake up tomorrow like this forever. Katsuki didn’t know when the heat tipped from dangerous to unbearable, only that suddenly Izuku was too close, too warm, too gentle, and her brain was short-circuiting in six different ways. His breath ghosted her jaw as he kissed a line down her throat, slow and deliberate, making her new body react in ways that made her want to set the apartment on fire. Her fingers twisted in his hair, gripping tight. She could feel his pulse against her skin. She could feel everything. “Fuck—” she hissed through her teeth, her voice deeper, rougher than she still wasn’t used to. “Deku, what the hell—?” Izuku pulled back just enough to look at her, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide and dark with desire. He didn’t even try pretending otherwise. “Kacchan…” he whispered, breath shaky, “you’re—god—you’re beautiful like this.” She almost punched him. Instead, her heart lurched, her stomach flipped, and her body pressed even closer before her brain could stop it. He leaned in again, lips brushing her ear, and Katsuki felt her entire spine ignite. “Don’t—” she snapped, breath catching, “don’t say shit like that.” “You don’t want me to lie,” he murmured, kissing the hinge of her jaw. Katsuki’s grip tightened on his shirt. She hated how weak her voice sounded when she rasped, “Izuku, for fuck’s sake—” He lifted his head, confusion flickering across his face. Worried. Open. Honest in that ridiculous Izuku way that made it impossible for her to breathe. She blurted the first thing that shot through her overloaded brain. “…Are you gay??” Izuku froze then he laughed. A real one—deep and warm and stupidly fond, like her question was the most obvious thing in the world. He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, smiling like she’d just confessed something instead of yelled it. “No,” he whispered. “I’m not gay.” Katsuki blinked, thrown off balance. “Then what the hell is this, bastard?! Look at me!” He leaned closer, forehead touching hers, eyes burning. “I’m Kacchansexual.” Katsuki’s entire brain blue-screened. “WHAT—?!” Izuku’s smile widened, soft and dizzy and reverent in a way that made her toes curl. “I like you,” he said, voice low and honest, brushing his nose against hers. “Not men. Not women. You. I’ve always liked you. No one else has ever mattered.” Her breath shuddered out of her. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her thighs tightened involuntarily. God, she hated him. “Hah?” she snapped, but even she could hear the shake in her voice. “That’s not even a real fucking word—” Izuku kissed her again, slow and devastating, shutting her up instantly. His hands slid along her sides, fingers pressing into the hard lines of her new torso like he couldn’t decide where to touch first. Her entire body burned. Heat pooled low and sharp, her breath catching against his mouth, her hips involuntarily shifting closer into his. He gasped softly at the contact— which only made Katsuki shove him onto his back and climb into his lap, grabbing his collar. “You,” she growled, eyes blazing, “are the dumbest bastard alive.” Izuku looked up at her like she was the only star left in the universe. “And you,” he whispered, voice trembling with want, “are everything I’ve ever wanted.” Katsuki’s breath hitched. Her self-control snapped like a live wire. ⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ Katsuki laid back on the bed, her heart pounding as Izuku's large hand wrapped around her newly acquired male cock. She gasped, her hips bucking slightly at the unfamiliar yet intense sensation. Katsuki's breath hitched in her throat as Izuku began to slowly stroke her shaft, his calloused fingers gliding up and down the sensitive flesh. Damn, how did she get herself into this?! "Mmph... I— Izuku..." Katsuki panted, her face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and raw, unbridled lust. She couldn't believe she was letting him touch her like this, couldn't fathom why his caress felt so damn good. But as Izuku's thumb brushed over the leaking tip of her cock, Katsuki threw her head back and moaned wantonly. Her new body tingled with sensations she'd never felt before, every nerve ending alight with pleasure as Izuku continued to work her shaft with purposeful, sensual strokes. Katsuki's thighs trembled, her toes curling as the pressure built low in her belly. She was close, teetering on the edge of something monumental. "Ah—ah— Izuku—" Katsuki gasped out between ragged breaths. "I... I'm going to... going to..." She couldn't finish the sentence, too lost in the all-consuming ecstasy of her impending release. Suddenly, Izuku's hand tightened around her cock, stroking her with faster, more urgent movements. Katsuki let out a choked cry, her back arching off the bed as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. Rope after rope of thick, hot seed erupted from her cock, splattering Izuku's fist and her own abs. Katsuki shook and shuddered through the aftershocks, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. As the fog of her climax began to lift, she glanced down to see Izuku's own massive erection bobbing against his belly, hard and leaking and aching for the same release. "Fuck... Izuku..." Katsuki panted harshly. "You... you need to... ah!" She reached down with a trembling hand, wrapping her fingers around Izuku's thick cock. It throbbed against her palm, burning hot and pulsing with need. Katsuki began to stroke Izuku in time with the lingering pulses of her own pleasure, marveling at the silky texture of his skin and the weight of him in her hand. Together, they began to move their hips, stroking each other. Their hands moved in tandem, stroking their shafts together with increasing urgency. The damn sensation of their cocks rubbing against each other, smearing pre-cum and sweat, only heightened the intensity of their pleasure. Katsuki marveled at the contrast of their sizes, her newly formed manhood still impressive yet dwarfed by Izuku's truly monstrous endowment. She really loves it, she has to admit. Damn. "Fuck, Izuku..." Katsuki grunted, her eyes locked onto the erotic sight of their cocks sliding against each other. "You're so fucking big— AH!" Her words dissolved into a low moan as Izuku's thumb brushed over her sensitive tip, sending sparks of electricity racing through her nerves. He fucking knew Katsuki was close, he could feel the way her shaft jerked and pulsed in his grip. Determined to bring them both to the pinnacle of bliss, he doubled his efforts, stroking and squeezing their cocks with a relentless, sensual rhythm. The delicious and obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and increasingly desperate moans. "Kacchan... I'm... hah— I'm going to... come... come with me..." Izuku encouraged, his voice a low, rumbling growl. His muscles flexed and strained as he struggled to hold back, wanting to prolong this perfect, intimate moment. With that, Katsuki let out a loud, guttural moan as she felt Izuku's huge cock throb and pulse against her own, his stroking becoming more erratic and desperate. With a roar, Izuku's massive cock jerked and twitched before exploding, thick ropes of cum shooting out and splattering across Katsuki's chest and stomach. The sheer volume and force of Izuku's release was staggering, and Katsuki could only moan helplessly as she was drenched in his essence. The sensation of Izuku's potent seed coating her skin, combined with the feeling of his cock pulsing against her own, sent Katsuki hurtling over the edge once more. "FUCK, IZUKU! YESSS!" Katsuki screamed, her own cock erupting a second time, painting Izuku's stomach and chest with her own release. They rutted against each other feverishly, their combined loads mingling together in a filthy, sexy mess as they rode out the intense waves of their shared orgasms. Finally, they collapsed back onto the bed, both panting and covered in a sheen of sweat. Katsuki's head rested on Izuku's chest as she struggled to regain her breath, the heavy thrum of his heartbeat beneath her cheek a soothing reminder of the incredible intimacy they had just shared. "Izuku... that was... fuck... amazing..." Katsuki murmured, her voice rough and low. She knew she should feel embarrassed or ashamed, but all she could feel was a deep sense of satisfaction and a longing to do it all over again. Izuku smiled softly, brushing a damp strand of hair away from Katsuki's forehead. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, his arms wrapping around her to hold her close. In that moment, surrounded by the scent of sex and the warmth of their entwined bodies, Katsuki allowed herself to rest. Izuku lay beneath her, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths. His skin was slick with sweat and their cum mixed, his curls damp against the pillow, and his freckles were smudged with heat where she’d pressed kisses — or bitten — or both. Katsuki didn’t want to think too hard about it. She was sprawled half on top of him, her cheek resting against his sternum, one of his arms lazily draped around her shoulders like he’d forgotten how to let go. The room smelled like warm skin, like breathless laughter, like something she wasn’t ready to name. Her hair was a mess. His throat was a mess. The sheets were absolutely a mess. Who cared. Her eyelids dropped heavily, fluttering open only when Izuku’s fingers skimmed her shoulder, tracing idle shapes into her damp skin. Lazy. Tender. Too tender. She grunted softly, shifting just enough to elbow him in the ribs — sleepily. Izuku chuckled, breath shaky from what they’d just put each other through. “You okay, Kacchan…?” he murmured, voice hoarse and blissed-out. “Shut up,” she mumbled into his chest, the words slurred with exhaustion. He hummed, content, and tightened his arm around her just slightly — enough that she felt anchored, not trapped. That distinction mattered more to her than she’d ever admit out loud. Katsuki’s breath evened out slowly. Her body felt too big, too heavy, too unfamiliar — still male, still foreign, still a constant reminder that she was not herself yet. But for the first time all day, that panic didn’t claw at her throat. She was too tired. Too warm. Too comfortable. And with Izuku’s heartbeat steady against her ear, the fear felt… distant. Still, as the edges of sleep curled around her like fog, her mind whispered one final thought — sharp and terrified and fragile as glass: When I wake up… God, please let this fucking quirk be gone. She didn’t dare say it out loud. Izuku’s hand brushed her back, slow and protective, and Katsuki felt sleep swallow her whole, heavy and inevitable.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75569561?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["moonkissz"], "language": "English", "title": "Unavoidable"}
Three Best Friends In A Clubhouse "Jesus Christ, Richie, get a room," Bill muttered, tossing a half-eaten Twizzler at the two figures tangled together on the clubhouse sofa. Eddie jerked back like he’d been burned, face flushing pink all the way to the tips of his ears. Richie just grinned, sharp and unrepentant, adjusting his glasses with one hand while the other stayed firmly clamped around Eddie’s waist. “What’s the matter, Big Bill? Jealous?” Stan, perched on the armrest beside Bill, rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “They’ve been like this for twenty minutes,” he muttered under his breath, nudging Bill’s shoulder with his knee. “I’d say it’s pathetic, but honestly, it’s just boring now.” Bill huffed, slouching further into the couch cushions. The clubhouse smelled like damp wood and the sour tang of old soda cans piled in the corner, but underneath that was something warmer—familiar sweat and the faint, stubborn cologne Richie had stolen from his dad’s dresser last month. It wasn’t the first time Bill had noticed how close Stan was sitting, how their thighs pressed together through the thin fabric of their jeans. He shifted, suddenly hyperaware of the heat radiating between them, and cleared his throat. “S-someone’s gotta tell them to cut it out,” he said, louder than necessary. “Before they start—before they—” “Before they what, Billy?” Richie crooned, draping himself over Eddie like a particularly annoying blanket. “Say it. We’re all friends here.” Stan snorted, but when Bill glanced sideways at him, he caught the way Stan’s fingers were tapping restless against his own knee, quick and nervous. Like maybe he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended. “B-before you two start f-f-fucking!” Bill spat out, louder than he meant to, and the clubhouse went abruptly quiet. Even Richie froze, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. Eddie made a strangled noise, halfway between a gasp and a wheeze, and buried his face in Richie’s shoulder like he was trying to melt into the couch. Bill’s ears burned. He hadn’t meant to say it like that—hadn’t even really meant to say it at all—but the words had tumbled out, jagged and clumsy. He could feel Bev stifling a laugh somewhere behind him, the rustle of her denim jacket as she pressed a hand over her mouth. Richie recovered first, because of course he did. He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, until his grin went sharp at the edges. “Ohhh,” he drawled, dragging the word out like it was something filthy. “So that’s what’s got your panties in a twist.!” His fingers drummed against Eddie’s side, and Eddie jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow, but Richie just kept grinning. “You and Stan been holding out on us, Denbrough? You wanna get in on this action? Or perhaps… you wanna join?” Stan made a disgusted noise and shoved off the armrest, but his movement only made Bill more aware of the space between them now—how cold it felt without Stan pressed against him. The clubhouse air was thick with something unspoken, sticky as August heat. Bill opened his mouth, then closed it. Across the room, Ben coughed awkwardly into his fist, breaking the silence. “Uh, maybe we should—” “Play truth or dare!” Bev cut in, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. Her eyes flicked between Bill and Stan, bright with mischief. “Since everyone’s feeling so... chatty.” Eddie groaned. “Oh, come on—” Richie clapped his hands together. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Bill swallowed hard. He could still feel Stan’s knee against his thigh like a brand. The silence in the clubhouse stretched, elastic and suffocating, until Richie exhaled dramatically through his nose. “Damn, Denbrough,” he said, scratching idly at his chin like he was considering the finer points of a philosophical debate. “Didn’t know you had that kinda mouth on you.” Eddie, still half-buried in Richie’s shoulder, made another high-pitched noise and kicked blindly at Bill’s shin. Bill didn’t move. He could feel Stan staring at him—not just looking, but staring, those dark eyes pinning him to the spot like a butterfly under glass. Stan’s fingers had stopped tapping. Now they were curled tight around the edge of the armrest, knuckles white. Bev leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her grin widening. “Alright, truth or dare it is,” she said, voice dripping with glee. “No pussying out.” She grabbed an empty Coke bottle from the floor and spun it between her palms with the ease of someone who’d orchestrated too many of these games to count. The glass glinted in the dim light, throwing fractured reflections across the walls. Ben shifted uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck. “Do we all have to—” “Yes.” Bev and Richie said in unison. Eddie peeled himself away from Richie just enough to glare. “You’re all insane.” he muttered, but he didn’t move from the couch. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for Richie again, then thought better of it. Stan stood abruptly, brushing nonexistent dirt off his jeans. “I’m	Three Best Friends In A Clubhouse "Jesus Christ, Richie, get a room," Bill muttered, tossing a half-eaten Twizzler at the two figures tangled together on the clubhouse sofa. Eddie jerked back like he’d been burned, face flushing pink all the way to the tips of his ears. Richie just grinned, sharp and unrepentant, adjusting his glasses with one hand while the other stayed firmly clamped around Eddie’s waist. “What’s the matter, Big Bill? Jealous?” Stan, perched on the armrest beside Bill, rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “They’ve been like this for twenty minutes,” he muttered under his breath, nudging Bill’s shoulder with his knee. “I’d say it’s pathetic, but honestly, it’s just boring now.” Bill huffed, slouching further into the couch cushions. The clubhouse smelled like damp wood and the sour tang of old soda cans piled in the corner, but underneath that was something warmer—familiar sweat and the faint, stubborn cologne Richie had stolen from his dad’s dresser last month. It wasn’t the first time Bill had noticed how close Stan was sitting, how their thighs pressed together through the thin fabric of their jeans. He shifted, suddenly hyperaware of the heat radiating between them, and cleared his throat. “S-someone’s gotta tell them to cut it out,” he said, louder than necessary. “Before they start—before they—” “Before they what, Billy?” Richie crooned, draping himself over Eddie like a particularly annoying blanket. “Say it. We’re all friends here.” Stan snorted, but when Bill glanced sideways at him, he caught the way Stan’s fingers were tapping restless against his own knee, quick and nervous. Like maybe he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended. “B-before you two start f-f-fucking!” Bill spat out, louder than he meant to, and the clubhouse went abruptly quiet. Even Richie froze, eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. Eddie made a strangled noise, halfway between a gasp and a wheeze, and buried his face in Richie’s shoulder like he was trying to melt into the couch. Bill’s ears burned. He hadn’t meant to say it like that—hadn’t even really meant to say it at all—but the words had tumbled out, jagged and clumsy. He could feel Bev stifling a laugh somewhere behind him, the rustle of her denim jacket as she pressed a hand over her mouth. Richie recovered first, because of course he did. He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, until his grin went sharp at the edges. “Ohhh,” he drawled, dragging the word out like it was something filthy. “So that’s what’s got your panties in a twist.!” His fingers drummed against Eddie’s side, and Eddie jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow, but Richie just kept grinning. “You and Stan been holding out on us, Denbrough? You wanna get in on this action? Or perhaps… you wanna join?” Stan made a disgusted noise and shoved off the armrest, but his movement only made Bill more aware of the space between them now—how cold it felt without Stan pressed against him. The clubhouse air was thick with something unspoken, sticky as August heat. Bill opened his mouth, then closed it. Across the room, Ben coughed awkwardly into his fist, breaking the silence. “Uh, maybe we should—” “Play truth or dare!” Bev cut in, grinning like she’d just won the lottery. Her eyes flicked between Bill and Stan, bright with mischief. “Since everyone’s feeling so... chatty.” Eddie groaned. “Oh, come on—” Richie clapped his hands together. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Bill swallowed hard. He could still feel Stan’s knee against his thigh like a brand. The silence in the clubhouse stretched, elastic and suffocating, until Richie exhaled dramatically through his nose. “Damn, Denbrough,” he said, scratching idly at his chin like he was considering the finer points of a philosophical debate. “Didn’t know you had that kinda mouth on you.” Eddie, still half-buried in Richie’s shoulder, made another high-pitched noise and kicked blindly at Bill’s shin. Bill didn’t move. He could feel Stan staring at him—not just looking, but staring, those dark eyes pinning him to the spot like a butterfly under glass. Stan’s fingers had stopped tapping. Now they were curled tight around the edge of the armrest, knuckles white. Bev leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her grin widening. “Alright, truth or dare it is,” she said, voice dripping with glee. “No pussying out.” She grabbed an empty Coke bottle from the floor and spun it between her palms with the ease of someone who’d orchestrated too many of these games to count. The glass glinted in the dim light, throwing fractured reflections across the walls. Ben shifted uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck. “Do we all have to—” “Yes.” Bev and Richie said in unison. Eddie peeled himself away from Richie just enough to glare. “You’re all insane.” he muttered, but he didn’t move from the couch. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for Richie again, then thought better of it. Stan stood abruptly, brushing nonexistent dirt off his jeans. “I’m out.” he muttered, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness. It sounded—wavering. Uncertain. Richie’s grin turned razor-edged. “Ohhh no you're not, Uris.” he singsonged, lurching forward to snag Stan’s wrist. “You don’t get to bail the second things get interesting.” His fingers tightened just enough to make Stan freeze. “Unless,” Richie added, faux-thoughtful, “there’s something you don’t want us to know?” Bill’s stomach dropped. He could see the exact moment Stan’s jaw clenched—the way his throat worked like he was swallowing something bitter. The clubhouse air smelled like sweat and the metallic tang of the old pipes overhead, but underneath it all, Bill could still smell Stan’s shampoo, something faintly herbal. It made his chest ache. Bev spun the bottle. It whirled across the floorboards with a hollow, rattling sound before slowing, turning—finally stopping with its mouth pointed unerringly at Bill. “Looks like you’re up, Big Bill,” Richie crowed. “Truth or dare?” Bill swallowed hard, his throat clicking. His palms were sweating. He could feel every eye in the room on him—Bev’s amused, Ben’s nervous, Eddie’s mortified, Stan’s sharp. And Richie’s, of course, gleaming with the kind of manic anticipation that usually preceded chaos. Bill wiped his hands on his jeans. “T-truth.” Richie clapped his hands together like a carnival barker. “Oh-ho-ho, delicious!” he said, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. "So, Billy boy. You wanna tell the class exactly why you’re so fixated on me and Eddie—" he paused to wiggle his eyebrows— “fucking?” Eddie made a noise like a dying teakettle and buried his face in his hands. Ben coughed again, louder this time. Bill’s pulse roared in his ears. He couldn’t look at Stan—couldn’t. The air between them felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. He opened his mouth, closed it. “I—” Bev cut in, mercifully, before he could embarrass himself further. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Richie, that’s not how this works,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You ask something real. Not just—whatever that was.” Richie pouted. “But Beeev—” “Nope.” She folded her arms. “Try again.” Richie sighed dramatically, flopping back against the couch cushions. “Fine, fine.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers. “Alright, Denbrough. Truth: have you ever kissed anyone besides Bev?” Bill blinked. The silence in the clubhouse was deafening. He could feel Stan shift beside him—just the slightest movement, like he was holding his breath. Bill wet his lips. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “Um…” Richie’s grin widened. “Don’t lie,” he sing-songed. “We’ll know.” Bill didn’t dare glance at Stan. His face felt like it was on fire. “Yeah,” he muttered, barely audible. Richie gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “Scandalous.” His grin turned wolfish. “Who was it?” ‘That’s—that’s not—” Bill stammered. Bev kicked Richie’s shin. “One question per turn, dipshit.” Richie whined, rubbing his leg. “You’re ruining my fun.” Stan moved then—just a slight shift of his shoulders, like he’d been tensed for a blow that never came. His fingers drummed against his knee again, restless. Bill watched them out of the corner of his eye, the way Stan’s bitten-down nails tapped out a staccato rhythm against denim. Bev spun the bottle again, and this time it landed on Stan. Richie gave a little squeal. “Ah, my dear,” he hummed. “Truth or dare?” Stan exhaled through his nose. His jaw clenched. “Truth,” he said dryly. Richie's smile became almost wild. “So…” he said slowly and deliberately, “who did Billy kiss?” Stan went very, very still. Bill’s heart stopped. Stan’s fingers twitched against his knee—once, twice—then curled into a fist. The clubhouse air was thick with the scent of mildew and the sharp, citrusy tang of Bev’s gum, but all Bill could smell was the faint, familiar warmth of Stan’s skin, close enough to touch. Stan’s throat worked as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that made Bill’s stomach twist. Richie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes glinting behind his smudged glasses. “Well?” he drawled, voice dripping with false patience. “Don’t leave us hanging, Uris.” Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze flicked to Bill—just for a second—but it was enough. Bill’s mouth went dry. He could still remember the press of Stan’s mouth against his last summer behind the pharmacy, heat lightning cracking the sky open above them. The way Stan had tasted like spearmint and nervous sweat. The way he’d pulled back like he’d been burned, cheeks flushed, muttering something about mosquitoes before vanishing into the dark. Eddie made a strangled noise. “Oh my God!” he wheezed, clutching Richie’s sleeve. “They did kiss!” Stan’s shoulders hunched. “It was—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. His fingers dug into the fabric of his jeans. Bill couldn’t breathe. The clubhouse walls felt like they were closing in, the weight of six pairs of eyes pressing down on him. Bev’s grin was widening like she’d just cracked the code to the universe. Richie looked like Christmas had come early. Eddie looked like he might pass out. “Once,” Stan gritted out finally, voice low and rough. “It was once.” Richie gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “My children!” he wailed, flinging himself dramatically across Eddie’s lap. “My sweet, innocent children—” Eddie shoved him off with a noise of disgust. “You’re insufferable.” Bill couldn’t look at Stan. Couldn’t look at anyone. His ears burned. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Bev let out a low whistle. “Well,” she said, spinning the bottle again with deliberate slowness. “This just got interesting.” The bottle wobbled, then settled—its neck pointing squarely at Mike, who blinked like he’d just been handed a live grenade. Richie’s grin could have powered the entire town of Derry. “Dare,” he announced, before Mike could even open his mouth. “And I dare you to kiss Stan. Right now. On the mouth. Five seconds, minimum.” Mike’s eyebrows shot up. Stan stiffened like he’d been electrocuted, his fingers twitching against his thighs. Bill’s stomach lurched. The air in the clubhouse was suddenly too thick, too hot—stuffed with the scent of old wood and Richie’s cheap cologne and the sharp, metallic bite of panic. Mike swallowed audibly. “Uh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not really—” “Rules are rules.” Bev singsonged, kicking her feet up on the crate in front of her. Her eyes glittered with mischief. “But Richie didn't even give me the option of choosing truth or dare!” Mike's voice cracked on the last word, his usual composure fracturing like thin ice underfoot. Bill watched—paralyzed—as Richie leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers steepled like some deranged game show host. “Technically correct,” Richie conceded, then flashed his teeth. “But you're forgetting the Hanlon Rule.” Eddie groaned, pressing his palms against his closed eyelids. “There is no Hanlon Rule—” “Sure there is!” Richie spread his hands wide. “Rule number one: when the bottle lands on you during a particularly juicy round of truth or dare, you forfeit all rights to normal human dignity.” His grin widened as he turned back to Mike. “So. Clock's ticking, farmboy.” Stan looked like he might bolt. Bill could see the tension in his shoulders—the way his fingers twitched like he was calculating escape routes. The clubhouse suddenly felt smaller, the air thick with the scent of nervous sweat and the acrid bite of Richie's cheap hairspray. Mike's throat bobbed as he swallowed. He glanced at Stan, then at Bill—his dark eyes impossibly wide—before dragging a hand down his face. “Alright,” he muttered, resigned. “But I'm not doing five seconds.” Richie whooped, clapping his hands together. “Negotiations! I love it! Three seconds, final offer.” Stan's breath hitched audibly. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. Bill's own hands clenched—nails biting into his palms—as Mike pushed himself up from his spot on the floor with the resigned air of a man walking to the gallows. The clubhouse floorboards creaked under his weight, each groan sounding like a gunshot in the thick silence. Bev's grin was electric. Eddie looked faint. Richie had his hands clasped under his chin like a praying mantis, vibrating with barely-contained glee. Mike hesitated in front of Stan, shoulders hunched. His usual easy confidence was nowhere to be found. “Uh,” he said, voice rough. “This is—” Stan exhaled sharply through his nose. His jaw worked—once, twice—before he muttered, “Just get it over with.” Bill's stomach twisted. He watched, frozen, as Mike leaned in—slow, like he was approaching a wild animal. Stan's eyelashes fluttered closed a split-second before Mike's lips brushed his—dry and chapped and utterly perfunctory. It lasted exactly three seconds. The moment Mike pulled back, Richie wolf-whistled. Eddie groaned, burying his face in his hands. Bev's smirk was self-satisfied. Stan didn't move. His lips were pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed somewhere over Mike's left shoulder. Mike cleared his throat awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So,” he said, too loud. “That was—” Bill stood up so fast the couch groaned beneath him. His vision tunneled—Richie's laughter, Bev's smirk, the way Mike was still standing too close to Stan—until all he could see was the flush creeping up Stan's neck, pink and furious. “Happy now?” Stan snapped at Richie, but his voice cracked on the last word. His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to wipe his mouth, but didn't dare. Bill's stomach clenched. He could still see the ghost of Mike's lips on Stan's—dry, quick, nothing like the way Stan had kissed him—but it didn't matter. The clubhouse air was thick with the scent of sweat and something sharper, something acidic clawing up Bill's throat. Richie grinned, sharp as a switchblade. “Oh, I dunno, Uris,” he drawled, draping himself over Eddie again. “You tell me—was it good for you?” Bill didn't realize he'd stepped forward until Stan's head jerked up, eyes wide. The words were out before he could stop them—rough and too loud, scraping his throat raw: “Enough.” Silence. Richie blinked. Bev's smirk faded into something softer, almost concerned. Mike took a half-step back from Stan, hands raised like he was surrendering. Stan—Stan stared at Bill, his dark eyes unreadable, but his chest was rising too fast under his button-down. Bill's hands were shaking. He curled them into fists. The silence stretched, brittle as thin ice underfoot—then Richie let out a low, delighted whistle. “Ohhh,” he drawled, elongating the word until it dripped with implication. His fingers dug into Eddie's side, possessive. “Somebody's jealous.” Bill's pulse roared in his ears. “I'm n-not.” he gritted out, but the stammer betrayed him. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to shove Mike back—back away from Stan, back into the shadows where he wouldn't be looking at him like that, where Bill wouldn't have to see— Stan exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers—always precise, always controlled—tapped once, twice against his knee before stilling. “Richie,” he said, voice dangerously flat. “Shut up.” But Richie was grinning now, that wild, unfettered grin that meant trouble. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin propped in his hands. “Denbrough,” he stage-whispered, “you're blushing.” Bill's cheeks burned. He could feel Bev's gaze on him—heavy, knowing—and Eddie's wide-eyed stare, and worst of all, Stan's careful avoidance of eye contact, like Bill was something too bright to look at directly. The clubhouse smelled like old rain and the metallic tang of nervous sweat, thick enough to choke on. Mike took another step back, hands raised. “Look,” he started, voice rough with discomfort, “I didn't—” “Truth,” Bill interrupted, too loud. His hands clenched. “I pick t-truth again.” He needed to derail this—needed to stop whatever was happening, whatever was coiling tight in his chest like a spring. Richie's eyebrows shot up. “Ooooh, backtracking!” He waggled his fingers. “Too late, Denbrough. You already blew your load.” Eddie elbowed him hard in the ribs, but Richie just wheezed out a laugh. “Metaphorically speaking.” Stan stood abruptly, the movement sharp enough to make Bill flinch. His mouth was a tight line, his shoulders rigid. “I'm leaving.” he announced, voice devoid of inflection. “No you're not.” Richie sang, lunging to grab Stan's wrist. His fingers circled the delicate bones with practiced ease—too familiar, too comfortable. Bill's vision tunneled. The clubhouse walls seemed to sway inward, splintered wood pressing against his ribs. He could see the exact moment Stan's pulse jumped under Richie's thumb—could smell the sharp citrus of Stan's shampoo as he jerked away, collar pulling tight across his throat. Ben cleared his throat—awkward, too loud in the sudden silence. “Maybe we should—” “Truth,” Bill repeated, cutting him off. His voice sounded raw, stripped down to the bone. He didn't look at Stan. Couldn't. The memory of last summer burned behind his eyelids—Stan's mouth soft against his, the startled hitch of his breath, the way he'd tasted like spearmint and panic. Richie’s grin froze mid-whirl. The clubhouse air turned to molasses—thick, syrupy with the stench of nervous sweat and the ozone crackle of something dangerous. His fingers twitched against Eddie’s sleeve before he leaned forward, slow as a predator scenting blood. “Oh-ho-ho,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave. “Denbrough. Denbrough. You don’t get to ‘truth’ your way out of this.” His teeth flashed. “Pick. Dare.” Bill’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He could feel Bev’s gaze boring into him like a laser sight, could hear Eddie’s shallow breathing from three feet away. Stan hadn’t moved—still half-twisted toward the door, his shoulders rigid under his stupid pressed shirt. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, quick and restless like he was counting seconds. Mike exhaled sharply through his nose. “Richie—” “Nope!” Richie popped the ‘p’ like a gunshot. His eyes gleamed behind his smudged glasses, manic and bright. “Bill’s gotta dare. That’s the rule.” He stretched the word out, sticky as taffy. “Unless,” he added, tilting his head, “someone’s scared.” Bill’s jaw ached from clenching. The dare hung between them, unspoken but deafening—the same way the word kiss had felt last summer, wedged under his ribs like a splinter. Stan’s throat bobbed. His eyelashes cast shadows sharp as knife cuts when he blinked. Bev spun the bottle again—just once, slow and deliberate—until it wobbled to a stop with its mouth gaping at Bill. Richie spread his hands. “Dare,” he repeated, softer now, almost gentle. “Say it.” The clubhouse walls pressed inward. Bill could smell the damp wood, the sour tang of forgotten soda, the spearmint ghost of Stan’s breath from inches away. His hands shook. He curled them into fists. “Dare,” he ground out. Stan’s breath hitched—tiny, barely audible, but Bill heard it. Richie’s grin widened until it threatened to split his face. “Dare you,” he whispered, “to kiss Stan properly this time.” Silence. Eddie made a noise like a stepped-on mouse. Mike rubbed his forehead like he was praying for patience. Bev’s smirk could’ve powered Derry for a week. Stan—Stan went utterly still. His lips parted. Just slightly. Bill’s vision tunneled. The dare slithered under his skin, hot and inevitable. He swallowed hard. Across the room, Stan’s fingers flexed. Once. Twice. Then, deliberate, he turned his head—just enough to meet Bill’s gaze. His eyes were dark, unreadable. Waiting. Bill’s heart stuttered. Richie leaned back, satisfied. “Clock’s ticking, Denbrough.” Bill’s heartbeat hammered in his throat. He felt Stan staring at him, their gazes locked, and for the first time all summer, Stan didn’t look away. His lips were slightly parted—still pink from Mike’s kiss, and Bill’s stomach twisted at the sight. Bev whistled low under her breath. Eddie had both hands pressed over his eyes, fingers spread wide enough to peek through. Mike shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. Bill exhaled sharply through his nose and stood. The couch groaned under his weight as he pushed off, stepping forward until his knees nearly brushed Stan’s. The clubhouse air smelled like sweat and nervous energy, cloying and thick. Stan didn’t move—just kept watching him with those sharp, dark eyes, pupils blown wide. Richie crowed something obscene, but Bill barely heard it. His fingers trembled as he reached for Stan’s collar, gripping the fabric just tight enough to feel Stan’s pulse jump against his knuckles. Stan’s breath hitched—soft, barely audible—and Bill closed the space between them before he could second-guess it. Stan’s mouth was warm. Not dry like Mike’s kiss had been, not perfunctory—Bill swallowed the startled noise Stan made against his lips, pressing closer until their chests touched. Stan tasted like spearmint and the faint metallic tang of nervous sweat, exactly how Bill remembered from last summer. Somewhere behind them, Richie whooped. Bill didn’t pull back. Stan’s hands came up, hesitant at first, then curling into Bill’s shirt like he was afraid Bill might vanish. His fingers shook. Eddie made a strangled sound. “Oh my God—” Bev kicked Richie’s shin hard enough to make him yelp. “Shut up.” Bill’s thumb brushed Stan’s jaw, rough with stubble. Stan made another small, broken noise in the back of his throat—something desperate—and Bill kissed him harder. Ben cleared his throat, awkward and loud. “Uh. Maybe we should—” Richie cackled. “Nah, let ‘em.” Stan’s fingers tightened in Bill’s shirt. Bill didn’t stop. Ben groaned, covering his eyes. “Oh God, they’re gonna start fucking right here—” Stan laughed against Bill’s mouth—breathless, disbelieving—and Bill felt the sound more than heard it, vibrating between them like a live wire. Richie wolf-whistled. Bill didn’t care. Stan’s hands slid up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in through the fabric. Bill kissed him like he meant it. This time, Stan kissed back. Bill barely registered Richie’s crude commentary—something about voyeurism and Jesus Christ, close your mouths, we get it—because Stan’s fingers were in his hair now, tugging just shy of painful. The clubhouse smelled like boy-sweat and the electric tang of Bev’s cherry lip balm, but all Bill could process was the hot slide of Stan’s tongue against his, the way Stan’s breath caught when Bill bit his lower lip. “Before you two literally start fucking,” Richie drawled somewhere to their left, voice dripping with relish, “might wanna remember there’s, like, children present.” Eddie made a strangled noise of protest, but Richie just laughed, low and wicked. “What? You are basically a toddler. Case in point—you still sleep with a nightlight—” Bill broke the kiss just long enough to flip Richie off without looking, his other hand fisting in Stan’s shirt to keep him close. Stan huffed a laugh against his mouth—warm, real—before dragging him back in. Somewhere distantly, Ben groaned like a dying man. “Are they—oh God, are they grinding—” Eddie’s voice cracked. “Leave room for Jesus!” Ben said, not looking. Bev cackled. “Pay up, Hanlon.” Mike sounded pained. “I told you not to bet against Denbrough’s repressed—” Stan nipped at Bill’s jaw, sharp enough to make him gasp, and the noise Richie made was downright obscene, like he wasenjoying it.“Christ alive,” he wheezed, “someone get these two a room. Or a hose. Preferably both.” Bill barely heard him. Stan’s hips canted against his, deliberate, and the friction sent heat licking up his spine. Some rational part of his brain registered this was probably too much for the clubhouse—with its splintered floors and Bev’s knowing smirk and Richie’s running commentary—but then Stan made this sound, this noise, and Bill stopped caring altogether. “Y’know,” Richie mused, voice thick with glee, “technically this counts as performance art—” Eddie shrieked. Ben covered his eyes. “I hate you all.” Stan’s teeth scraped Bill’s throat. Bill decided performance art sounded perfect. Stan’s breath hitched when Bill’s fingers slipped under his shirt—just a fraction, just enough to skate over the warm skin of his hip—and Richie made a noise like a dying hyena. “Sweet Jesus, Denbrough, keep it PG-13!” Eddie had both hands clamped over his eyes now, fingers splayed wide. “I can still hear you!” he wailed, voice cracking. Bill barely registered it—his entire world had narrowed to the hot press of Stan’s mouth, the way Stan’s hips jerked against his when Bill bit down on his lower lip. The clubhouse smelled like sweat and wood rot and the sharp citrus of Stan’s shampoo, overwhelming and familiar. Stan’s fingers twisted in Bill’s hair, tugging hard enough to make his scalp sting. “Before you two start fucking—” Richie wheezed, gesturing wildly with his Coke bottle. His glasses were askew, his cheeks flushed. “Truth—Stan doesn’t know—” Stan broke the kiss with a wet sound, panting. His lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide. “What?” he managed, voice rough. Richie flung his arms wide. “That you’re terrible at kissing, obviously.” He grinned when Stan flipped him off. “What? You bite like a feral—” "And how do you know that, Richie?" Beverly asks. “Duh. We used to make out.” The words spilled from Richie's mouth before he could stop them—loud, careless, and instantly regretted. Eddie choked on air. Bev's eyebrows shot up. Mike looked like he'd just been punched in the gut. Bill went still against Stan. “What.” Richie backpedaled harder than a clown on roller skates. “I mean—not like that! Just—y'know—seventh grade spin the bottle—” Bill's fingers tightened on Stan's waist. “Y-you what.” Richie swallowed audibly. The clubhouse air smelled suddenly like sweat and impending doom. “It was once.” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "And it was bad. Like, really bad. You bite." Stan made a noise like a teakettle boiling over. Bill could feel the exact moment Stan went rigid—every muscle tensing under his hands like a live wire. Richie grinned weakly. “What? You do—” Bev kicked him. Hard. “Shut up.” Mike exhaled sharply through his nose. “Maybe we should play something—” “No, no.” Stan pulled away from Bill—slow, deliberate—until he was facing Richie fully. His voice was dangerously calm. “Let's hear this.” Richie's Adam's apple bobbed. “Uh.” Bill could see the pulse jumping in Stan's throat—could smell the sharp citrus of his shampoo mixing with the acrid bite of panic sweat. Richie's grin froze mid-whirl. Stan took a step forward. “Truth,” he said, voice low and rough. “Who else?” Richie blinked. “What?” “Truth.” Stan's fingers twitched at his sides. "Who else did you kiss?” Richie swallowed hard. "Uh. Well. There was—" "Christ," Mike muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “—Bev once—” Bev shrugged. “We were just joking around.” “—and Eddie, obviously—” Eddie shrieked. “That was last summer and you swore—” Bill's vision tunneled. The clubhouse walls swayed inward. Somewhere behind him, Ben groaned like a dying man. Stan exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers curled into fists. “Mike?” Mike looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards. “Once,” he admitted, voice strangled. “During harvest.” Bill's stomach lurched. The air smelled suddenly like hay and motor oil and betrayal. Stan's jaw worked—once, twice—before he turned sharply to Ben. Ben held up his hands. “Never.” “And Bill, when we were like… 10.” The silence stretched, brittle. “So, Eddie… I’m sorry to say, but your boyfriend is a slut.” Bill’s grip on Stan’s waist tightened possessively. His pulse roared in his ears—a mix of jealousy, residual adrenaline, and the lingering heat of Stan’s mouth on his. Stan, for his part, looked like he was calculating how to dispose of Richie’s body in the Barrens without getting caught. His fingers twitched near Bill’s hip, nails biting crescent moons into the fabric of Bill’s shirt. Mike groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Can we not do this right now? Or ever?” His voice cracked with the desperation of a man who’d seen too much. Richie, ever the instigator, widened his eyes in mock innocence. “Ohhh, so now you’re shy?” He draped himself over Eddie, who looked like he was one deep breath away from passing out. “Face it, Hanlon—you participated willingly in the Great Tozier Kiss-a-Thon of ‘91. No take-backs.” Bill’s jaw clenched. His fingers twitched against Stan’s hip—proprietary, furious—as the clubhouse walls seemed to shrink around them. The air reeked of sweat, teenage hormones, and Richie’s bullshit. Stan’s exhale was sharp against Bill’s collarbone, his breath hot with irritation. “Apparently, it turns out Stan The Man is not a bad kisser at all! Cheers!”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75569571?view_full_work=true	{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "Three Best Friends In A Clubhouse"}
He's good with kids! "I don't know, babe.. I think I'll make a terrible father." Adam with uneasiness,he's never thought of having kids nor thinks he'd be good with them. "Relax dear,you'll be amazing." Eve reassures her lover,patting his hand gently. "Waaah!" The crying of their child was hurting Adam's head and ruining his sleep as he woke up for the 6th time of the night to either change or feed the kid. "Come on, buddy.. it's late.. Sun isn't up." He rocks the cradle while his eyes are closed,trying to catch some sleep as their kid cries. He takes the bottle,setting it to the side, then lifts up his firstborn,resting the baby on him as he burps the child. Who then falls asleep. Adam sighs,taking a seat on a nearby wooden chair,falling asleep with his son in his arms. This parenting sure was tired, but it'll be worth in the end, Adam thought. He wakes up as he opens his eyes, confused as he looks down to see a different baby. A baby boy with blonde hair with a chubbier face than Caine's. He looked around as he somehow was outside,leaning against the wooden house as the wife of his now kids was showing Caine,who's older now,how to take care of the animals and crops. What was going on? What did it seem like time was passing by? He closed his eyes for what seemed like a second, then woke up with another kid. He walks up to his lady,resting his chin on her shoulder as he rocks their new son,Abel. Adam's gotten a hang of being a father now,he's not as worried as he was with Caine. He knows what he's doing now,he also learned that not all babies aren't the same,learning that with Abel now that he is older. Abel likes singing and telling stories to the animals while Caine is getting more into fighting. Abel likes farming and helping around the house while Caine doesn't. Caine likes to do the manily things his father likes to do to survive , which is catching fish or hunting . Adam smiles tiredly at his bickering children as he hugs his lover,resting against her as sleep takes over him. His eyes open... Oh god... "M-My son!" Adam in horror,grabbing ahold of his bleeding child. Hugging Abel close to his chest,weeping heavily at his dying son while blood spills. Closing his dark baggy eyes,tears spilling out as this wasn't real. Like this wasn't happening. His eyes open once more to God, saying something to him. He didn't catch it but introduced another another child to him since he had to Punish Caine, and Abel died, and yeah...his name was Seth or something. "Sir..." "Sir!" "Huh?!" Adam's eyes shot up,feeling drool coming from his mouth as he quickly wiped it. He looks around to see Lute at his side. "It's time to get up." He groans. "What time is it?.." he slowly sits up half awake. "About eight in the morning, sir! You got a meeting at 9." She tells him. Adam groans loudly as he curses,moving the blanket as he steps out of bed,only wearing black shorts. He walks to his wardrobe,quickly putting on his everyday outfit. He goes into the bathroom to wet his hair,quickly styling it after he dries it. "Let's get some breakie. Im Hella hungry." "Yes, sir!" They left his room,going to the cafeteria where Adam got himself two fried eggs and some bacon,taking a seat with Lute enjoying the peace or trying to as there is a loud crying baby. "Geez.." Lute mumbles, getting annoyed at the crying child as Adam sips his drink a few times before getting up. "Sir -" "I got this babe, stay here." He simply says,going to where the baby was. The new mother notices Adam walking up to her,feeling scared she quickly apologized to him",I'm sorry, Mister Adam,I've just fed her and her nappy doesn't need to be change-" Adam reached out his arms to the tired mother, who was on the verge of tears reluctantly giving her crying son to the male. Holding the infant against his shoulder,without hesitation, he burps the child to relieved gas that was trapped inside. He gives the now happy baby back to its mother, in which she thanked him multiple times. He waves,then before leaving,he knows what it's it like and how hard it is. He walks back to the tabel to see Lute stunned at what he had just done. "How did you know?" She said, amazed. "Because I'm awesome,that's how!" He boasts loudly,laughing. "True!" She agrees admiring the greatness of Adam. "Also, I have kids, too." He bluntly adds, going back to his breakfast. Oh. Lute mently face plammed herself,forgetting that he had kids.	He's good with kids! "I don't know, babe.. I think I'll make a terrible father." Adam with uneasiness,he's never thought of having kids nor thinks he'd be good with them. "Relax dear,you'll be amazing." Eve reassures her lover,patting his hand gently. "Waaah!" The crying of their child was hurting Adam's head and ruining his sleep as he woke up for the 6th time of the night to either change or feed the kid. "Come on, buddy.. it's late.. Sun isn't up." He rocks the cradle while his eyes are closed,trying to catch some sleep as their kid cries. He takes the bottle,setting it to the side, then lifts up his firstborn,resting the baby on him as he burps the child. Who then falls asleep. Adam sighs,taking a seat on a nearby wooden chair,falling asleep with his son in his arms. This parenting sure was tired, but it'll be worth in the end, Adam thought. He wakes up as he opens his eyes, confused as he looks down to see a different baby. A baby boy with blonde hair with a chubbier face than Caine's. He looked around as he somehow was outside,leaning against the wooden house as the wife of his now kids was showing Caine,who's older now,how to take care of the animals and crops. What was going on? What did it seem like time was passing by? He closed his eyes for what seemed like a second, then woke up with another kid. He walks up to his lady,resting his chin on her shoulder as he rocks their new son,Abel. Adam's gotten a hang of being a father now,he's not as worried as he was with Caine. He knows what he's doing now,he also learned that not all babies aren't the same,learning that with Abel now that he is older. Abel likes singing and telling stories to the animals while Caine is getting more into fighting. Abel likes farming and helping around the house while Caine doesn't. Caine likes to do the manily things his father likes to do to survive , which is catching fish or hunting . Adam smiles tiredly at his bickering children as he hugs his lover,resting against her as sleep takes over him. His eyes open... Oh god... "M-My son!" Adam in horror,grabbing ahold of his bleeding child. Hugging Abel close to his chest,weeping heavily at his dying son while blood spills. Closing his dark baggy eyes,tears spilling out as this wasn't real. Like this wasn't happening. His eyes open once more to God, saying something to him. He didn't catch it but introduced another another child to him since he had to Punish Caine, and Abel died, and yeah...his name was Seth or something. "Sir..." "Sir!" "Huh?!" Adam's eyes shot up,feeling drool coming from his mouth as he quickly wiped it. He looks around to see Lute at his side. "It's time to get up." He groans. "What time is it?.." he slowly sits up half awake. "About eight in the morning, sir! You got a meeting at 9." She tells him. Adam groans loudly as he curses,moving the blanket as he steps out of bed,only wearing black shorts. He walks to his wardrobe,quickly putting on his everyday outfit. He goes into the bathroom to wet his hair,quickly styling it after he dries it. "Let's get some breakie. Im Hella hungry." "Yes, sir!" They left his room,going to the cafeteria where Adam got himself two fried eggs and some bacon,taking a seat with Lute enjoying the peace or trying to as there is a loud crying baby. "Geez.." Lute mumbles, getting annoyed at the crying child as Adam sips his drink a few times before getting up. "Sir -" "I got this babe, stay here." He simply says,going to where the baby was. The new mother notices Adam walking up to her,feeling scared she quickly apologized to him",I'm sorry, Mister Adam,I've just fed her and her nappy doesn't need to be change-" Adam reached out his arms to the tired mother, who was on the verge of tears reluctantly giving her crying son to the male. Holding the infant against his shoulder,without hesitation, he burps the child to relieved gas that was trapped inside. He gives the now happy baby back to its mother, in which she thanked him multiple times. He waves,then before leaving,he knows what it's it like and how hard it is. He walks back to the tabel to see Lute stunned at what he had just done. "How did you know?" She said, amazed. "Because I'm awesome,that's how!" He boasts loudly,laughing. "True!" She agrees admiring the greatness of Adam. "Also, I have kids, too." He bluntly adds, going back to his breakfast. Oh. Lute mently face plammed herself,forgetting that he had kids.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75569536	{"authors": ["SailorBlueberry"], "language": "English", "title": "He's good with kids!"}
Trump X Bill: True Love At Once It’s a regular day in the whitehouse with Trump crying about the people flaming him on Twitter and other social media apps about his appearance and his lack of vocabulary, which he can barely read anyways so he has a butler to read it for him instead. Tears streamed down his reeded face with snot dripping from his chin, "sniffles. I-I-I-I w-want B-B-B-Bill S-Senpai nya!” He whimpers and whines at his butler. The butler sighs and goes to get him the phone to call Bill Clinton. James, the butler, knows if he didn’t get him what he wanted that Trump would start to “age regress” and most likely piss all over the place. James knows the maids don’t get paid enough since Trump only pays him in buttons because Jeffrey handles all the money for “Donnie”. The name grosses him out as the memories of the name being screamed from the bedroom whenever Bill was around. James finally makes it to where the phone is on the counter, the phone is all sticky with grease and other fluids. He cringes as he picks it up, keeping it far away from him, gridding his teeth the whole time. “Here is your phone sir.” James passes the phone over to Trump. Trump flails his arms in the air, practically cooing like an infant, “Yay! Bill Senpai time nya!” He swings his feet as the phone starts to ring. He bites his lip with nervousness not knowing if his Senpai will answer him. Bill is just talking to Jeffrey about a little problem that is going on. “Look Bubba, we need to have a discussion about your ex wife Hillary.” Jeffrey looks concerned about what he is going to state. “You know and I know that she is going to tell everyone about the emails about you and your boy toy.” Bill frowns and clears his throat. “I’ll make sure she won’t tell anyone, and Donnie isn’t my boy toy. He is much more than that.” Jeffrey groans. “Babba, listen. They find out that I didn’t kill myself, and in fact is just a cover up for me to be a free man again! Look if you can’t do anything about that woman then I will. You got that Bill.” Bill gulps in fear of Jeffrey. Bill’s phone starts to ring, and Bill answers it. Trump squealed like a little piggy when Bill answered him. “Hai, Bill Senpai nya!” Bill smiles hearing how obedient his kitten whiskey is today. “Hello my kitten. Have you been a good boy for daddy?” Trump ALMOST cummed himself right there right now. “Y-yes Senpai! I-I made sure to s-savor myself for you, S-Senpai nya!” Bill can already feel the massive bugled forming in his pants already, he growls into the phone just to reel up his kitten. “That’s a good boy, Donnie. Now make sure to be ready for me later tonight… I want to make sure that hole is going to be extra wet for me.” He bites his lip. “O-okay daddy… Nya” The whimper sends waves of pleasure through his body. “Good boy. Well I have to go now, I have important matters that I have to figure out.” Trump whines about Bill having to go. “Okay Senpai, nya.” The call ended. The two lovers are so far away from one another. Jeffrey snickers at the two love sick idiots, he loves how he has more material to tease Bill with. Meanwhile across the sea further west, president Putin is listening to their conversation via top down spyware. He giggles to himself every time he hears that little piggy being like an obedient slut, but yet there is just something about it that turns him on. Maybe it was because he craves a man to pin down and penetrate, or that the lonely winters are making him extremely desperate. He sighs as he closes his computer, maybe one day he’ll find a nice submissive femboy like Trump, but his internal homophobia wouldn’t let him be what he wants most… a homosexual. Back to America in the cybertruck factories where there are a lot of robots building cars then humans building them, since a very greedy business person is running this place. Elon sits at ze desk with a hundred tabs open on zir computer while ze makes more Twitter bots to bully zir, ex Trump. Giggling at every Trumpie and MAGA supporter trying to defend their “king”. Elon wonders why ze ever dated that whore bag, wasted so much money on that orange bastard, but yet he was still so god damn sexy to zir. Elon shakes zir head trying to not think in such a sinful way about the man who cheated on zir with Clinton. Ze eyes flair with bitterness and jealousy, Trump was supposed to be zirs and zirs only and one day he’ll come to his senses that Elon was the one for him all along. Elon stands from ze chair with a possessive glare in those ocean blue orbs. “He will be mine one way or another even if he gets hurt! I will ruin his image so the only person he can turn to is me once I get rid of Bill and-” ze gets interrupted by a ding on his computer. Ze sits back down and opens the private DM, and the DM was from none other than Epstein. Elon was surprised to know that he was alive, ze opens the message to just see a long threat. “Elon, if you keep this up with all the bullshit you’ve been saying about Trump	Trump X Bill: True Love At Once It’s a regular day in the whitehouse with Trump crying about the people flaming him on Twitter and other social media apps about his appearance and his lack of vocabulary, which he can barely read anyways so he has a butler to read it for him instead. Tears streamed down his reeded face with snot dripping from his chin, "sniffles. I-I-I-I w-want B-B-B-Bill S-Senpai nya!” He whimpers and whines at his butler. The butler sighs and goes to get him the phone to call Bill Clinton. James, the butler, knows if he didn’t get him what he wanted that Trump would start to “age regress” and most likely piss all over the place. James knows the maids don’t get paid enough since Trump only pays him in buttons because Jeffrey handles all the money for “Donnie”. The name grosses him out as the memories of the name being screamed from the bedroom whenever Bill was around. James finally makes it to where the phone is on the counter, the phone is all sticky with grease and other fluids. He cringes as he picks it up, keeping it far away from him, gridding his teeth the whole time. “Here is your phone sir.” James passes the phone over to Trump. Trump flails his arms in the air, practically cooing like an infant, “Yay! Bill Senpai time nya!” He swings his feet as the phone starts to ring. He bites his lip with nervousness not knowing if his Senpai will answer him. Bill is just talking to Jeffrey about a little problem that is going on. “Look Bubba, we need to have a discussion about your ex wife Hillary.” Jeffrey looks concerned about what he is going to state. “You know and I know that she is going to tell everyone about the emails about you and your boy toy.” Bill frowns and clears his throat. “I’ll make sure she won’t tell anyone, and Donnie isn’t my boy toy. He is much more than that.” Jeffrey groans. “Babba, listen. They find out that I didn’t kill myself, and in fact is just a cover up for me to be a free man again! Look if you can’t do anything about that woman then I will. You got that Bill.” Bill gulps in fear of Jeffrey. Bill’s phone starts to ring, and Bill answers it. Trump squealed like a little piggy when Bill answered him. “Hai, Bill Senpai nya!” Bill smiles hearing how obedient his kitten whiskey is today. “Hello my kitten. Have you been a good boy for daddy?” Trump ALMOST cummed himself right there right now. “Y-yes Senpai! I-I made sure to s-savor myself for you, S-Senpai nya!” Bill can already feel the massive bugled forming in his pants already, he growls into the phone just to reel up his kitten. “That’s a good boy, Donnie. Now make sure to be ready for me later tonight… I want to make sure that hole is going to be extra wet for me.” He bites his lip. “O-okay daddy… Nya” The whimper sends waves of pleasure through his body. “Good boy. Well I have to go now, I have important matters that I have to figure out.” Trump whines about Bill having to go. “Okay Senpai, nya.” The call ended. The two lovers are so far away from one another. Jeffrey snickers at the two love sick idiots, he loves how he has more material to tease Bill with. Meanwhile across the sea further west, president Putin is listening to their conversation via top down spyware. He giggles to himself every time he hears that little piggy being like an obedient slut, but yet there is just something about it that turns him on. Maybe it was because he craves a man to pin down and penetrate, or that the lonely winters are making him extremely desperate. He sighs as he closes his computer, maybe one day he’ll find a nice submissive femboy like Trump, but his internal homophobia wouldn’t let him be what he wants most… a homosexual. Back to America in the cybertruck factories where there are a lot of robots building cars then humans building them, since a very greedy business person is running this place. Elon sits at ze desk with a hundred tabs open on zir computer while ze makes more Twitter bots to bully zir, ex Trump. Giggling at every Trumpie and MAGA supporter trying to defend their “king”. Elon wonders why ze ever dated that whore bag, wasted so much money on that orange bastard, but yet he was still so god damn sexy to zir. Elon shakes zir head trying to not think in such a sinful way about the man who cheated on zir with Clinton. Ze eyes flair with bitterness and jealousy, Trump was supposed to be zirs and zirs only and one day he’ll come to his senses that Elon was the one for him all along. Elon stands from ze chair with a possessive glare in those ocean blue orbs. “He will be mine one way or another even if he gets hurt! I will ruin his image so the only person he can turn to is me once I get rid of Bill and-” ze gets interrupted by a ding on his computer. Ze sits back down and opens the private DM, and the DM was from none other than Epstein. Elon was surprised to know that he was alive, ze opens the message to just see a long threat. “Elon, if you keep this up with all the bullshit you’ve been saying about Trump and I… then the public will know all about that foot kink of yours and what you did to those girls on the island. If you refuse to stop at that length then maybe some friends of mine should have a nice long chat with you. Do I make myself clear, Elon.” Elon looks at the screen in disbelief, ze just found out that he isn’t dead and now ze is getting threatened by the supposed dead creep! Ze was about to throw a tantrum, but ze thought of something that would be betraying zir love. Ze didn’t want it to be like this, but Epstein had to push zir to this point. In the morning Elon checked zir post ze made last night about how big of a whore Trump is and outing him to be on the list, people found it suspicious that “he” of all people would know that unless “he” is also on the list. Ze slams zir fists on zir desk, this isn’t the outcome ze wanted to come of this, “This is all because of that rich fucking pig, Epstein!” ze grids zir teeth at that thought of that crook. Meanwhile with Trump, his morning is doing much better than Elon’s. Trump is protectively nuzzled into Bill’s strong and warm embrace, with his face buried in Bill’s chest. The two are still asleep from them staying up late and Bill blowing Trump’s back out. Bill groans in his sleep holding Trump closer to him with his 8 inch erected cock pressed against his omega’s thigh. Donald starts to stir from his restful slumber, he looks up at his big strong alpha to see that he is still in a deep state of sleep, then he looks down at his morning wood and blushes, “B-B-Bill Senpai! Your big juicy penis is hard, nya! D-Do you want your little kitten to help you out? Nya,” he asked as he shook Bill to try to awake him. Bill slowly opens his eyes to see his little omega is so eager to help him out again. He chuckles in that deep and seductive way that always had Donnie on his knees and begging for him to breed him like the good femboy he is, of course when he show Bill those adorable blue orbs it just makes his instinct go wild and want to pin down the submissive male and take him over and over again till he a drooling mess, “Aww is my kitten already begging for daddy to pound this little asshole of yours. Daddy gives you permission to ride his meat.” he lays on his back now with Trump on his laps Trump excitedly positions himself above Bill’s cock that has already dripped with precum, he slowly lowers himself onto it feeling it go fully in him. He lets out a loud moan, “Oh my, senpai! Y-Your so big and thick!” He starts to bounce up and down on Bill’s cock. But someone is watching them but who? Putin sits at his desk watching the two go at it. He strokes his cock wishing that was him getting rode by an twink, he grunts as his hand strokes get faster and more sloppy, “Дa Дa Дa!” He ejaculated all over his hand panting, but that pose nut clarity hit him and he feels so dirty and ashamed of what he just did. He throws his computer in a fit of rage, he can’t take how disgusting he is for jerking off to two men instead of a woman and a man. The internal war he has with himself is getting to a point to the real him is starting to win, the true homosexual he is, is starting to shine through the darkness.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75565496	{"authors": ["Zara_star9"], "language": "English", "title": "Trump X Bill: True Love At Once"}
If there is a right time Janis rolled down her window letting some fresh air into the stuffy car. They'd set off from Evanston yesterday, stayed in a motel overnight getting up at an ungodly hour this morning to finish their journey."You just had to choose a college 3 states away, didn't you?" Her mum joked"Most parents would be proud their art freak daughter made it into penn state" Janis retorted with a smile"You're not a freak and you know I'm proud of you kid, I just can't believe you're actually leaving me" her mum's eyes started to well with tears again.So far the drive had consisted of many many tears, mostly from her mum, but she'd shed a few herself when she thought her mum wasn't watching. Logically, escaping Evanston was a fundamental need, after everything, the bullying, the revenge plot, the bus. She needed a fresh start, where no one knew her and she could be who she really wanted to be.But now it was actually happening, all she could think about was what she was going to miss, mainly her mum, Damian and Cady. The thought of not seeing them every day, not having that support system, it terrified her. She could feel the anxiety creeping in, felt the tears building again. A supportive hand reached over and squeezed hers just before they spilt over."You've got this Jay, you've always been capable, you're going to do amazing and I'll be right on the other end of the phone when you need me" her mum reassured, squeezing her hand again for emphasis.The rest of the drive passed uneventfully, they finally made it to the dorms. Janis ran her fingers through her tangled curls, swiped away any smudged makeup and hopped out the car.She approached an overly enthusiastic helper at the welcome table "welcome to penn state, what's your name?""Janis Im'ike, I'm in the East halls" Janis replied"Oh yep here you are, here's your dorm pass, room key and welcome pack. Your roommate hasn't checked in yet so you've got a headstart on picking the best side. You're on the fourth floor just follow the signs round" the girl thrust a wad of information into Janis' waiting arms.Janis made her way back to her mum waving the key in the air. Her mum hopped out and unpacked some of Janis' bags. They balanced as much as they could and trekked up all four flights of stairs."Well at least I don't need to worry about you getting exercise" her mum stammered out once they reached the door.Janis unlocked and swung the door open to take in her home for the next year. It was a typical dorm, a dresser and wardrobe on each side, followed by two beds at the foot of the beds were the two desks lined up in front of the window. It was cosy, exactly how she'd pictured.They spent the next two hours getting everything setup, her mum insisted on unpacking as much as possible."okay so I've put your put your t-shirts in this draw and then I've hung your nice tops, oh and -""okay mum so that was t-shirts hanging up, other tops in the drawer?""What? No, no, oh god let me just start over""muuuuum I'm kidding, I heard you" Janis swung an arm around her mum's shoulder pulling her in for a hug, leaning their heads together she whispered "thanks, I appreciate it, I promise I'll be fine"Her mum turned to look at her, eyes glassy "I know I know, you're just my baby, I want to make sure you're all setup"Janis pulled away, feeling a lump in her throat. She knew college move in day would be emotional but as the time for her mum to leave got closer she could feel a tidal wave start to edge in.Her mum pulled herself together, "okay my love, i get it, it's time for me to go" she put a hand on Janis' cheek "you're going to do amazing". Janis walked her back down to the car, keeping a smile on her face as she waved her away.She made it back to her dorm before the tears fell. She allowed herself exactly10 minutes of wallowing before pulling herself back together. This was a new start, she wanted this, she needed this.She looked at the pictures that now littered her wall, her and Damian at spring fling, her Damian and Cady at a movie night, them all at graduation, pictures of her at all awkward teenage phases.Only one picture hadn't made it to the wall, it was now stuffed back into the shoe box it came from and buried deep under the bed. She could still see it though even without it in front of her. It was a Polaroid of her and Regina, 13 years old smiles wide. Janis wasn't even sure why she'd bought it, the cursed unicorn beanie baby lay next to it. Both doomed to spend the next year in the dark. She couldn't explain it, but, she couldn't bring herself to leave them behind. It bought her comfort having them here, even if she refused to look at them.Janis shook her head, shaking away the thoughts of Regina. Nope absolutely not, she was not spending her first day at college thinking about Regina.She checked her phone, responding to the good luck messages in her group chat with Damian and Cady then glanced at the time. Shit. She was going to be late for the dorm	If there is a right time Janis rolled down her window letting some fresh air into the stuffy car. They'd set off from Evanston yesterday, stayed in a motel overnight getting up at an ungodly hour this morning to finish their journey."You just had to choose a college 3 states away, didn't you?" Her mum joked"Most parents would be proud their art freak daughter made it into penn state" Janis retorted with a smile"You're not a freak and you know I'm proud of you kid, I just can't believe you're actually leaving me" her mum's eyes started to well with tears again.So far the drive had consisted of many many tears, mostly from her mum, but she'd shed a few herself when she thought her mum wasn't watching. Logically, escaping Evanston was a fundamental need, after everything, the bullying, the revenge plot, the bus. She needed a fresh start, where no one knew her and she could be who she really wanted to be.But now it was actually happening, all she could think about was what she was going to miss, mainly her mum, Damian and Cady. The thought of not seeing them every day, not having that support system, it terrified her. She could feel the anxiety creeping in, felt the tears building again. A supportive hand reached over and squeezed hers just before they spilt over."You've got this Jay, you've always been capable, you're going to do amazing and I'll be right on the other end of the phone when you need me" her mum reassured, squeezing her hand again for emphasis.The rest of the drive passed uneventfully, they finally made it to the dorms. Janis ran her fingers through her tangled curls, swiped away any smudged makeup and hopped out the car.She approached an overly enthusiastic helper at the welcome table "welcome to penn state, what's your name?""Janis Im'ike, I'm in the East halls" Janis replied"Oh yep here you are, here's your dorm pass, room key and welcome pack. Your roommate hasn't checked in yet so you've got a headstart on picking the best side. You're on the fourth floor just follow the signs round" the girl thrust a wad of information into Janis' waiting arms.Janis made her way back to her mum waving the key in the air. Her mum hopped out and unpacked some of Janis' bags. They balanced as much as they could and trekked up all four flights of stairs."Well at least I don't need to worry about you getting exercise" her mum stammered out once they reached the door.Janis unlocked and swung the door open to take in her home for the next year. It was a typical dorm, a dresser and wardrobe on each side, followed by two beds at the foot of the beds were the two desks lined up in front of the window. It was cosy, exactly how she'd pictured.They spent the next two hours getting everything setup, her mum insisted on unpacking as much as possible."okay so I've put your put your t-shirts in this draw and then I've hung your nice tops, oh and -""okay mum so that was t-shirts hanging up, other tops in the drawer?""What? No, no, oh god let me just start over""muuuuum I'm kidding, I heard you" Janis swung an arm around her mum's shoulder pulling her in for a hug, leaning their heads together she whispered "thanks, I appreciate it, I promise I'll be fine"Her mum turned to look at her, eyes glassy "I know I know, you're just my baby, I want to make sure you're all setup"Janis pulled away, feeling a lump in her throat. She knew college move in day would be emotional but as the time for her mum to leave got closer she could feel a tidal wave start to edge in.Her mum pulled herself together, "okay my love, i get it, it's time for me to go" she put a hand on Janis' cheek "you're going to do amazing". Janis walked her back down to the car, keeping a smile on her face as she waved her away.She made it back to her dorm before the tears fell. She allowed herself exactly10 minutes of wallowing before pulling herself back together. This was a new start, she wanted this, she needed this.She looked at the pictures that now littered her wall, her and Damian at spring fling, her Damian and Cady at a movie night, them all at graduation, pictures of her at all awkward teenage phases.Only one picture hadn't made it to the wall, it was now stuffed back into the shoe box it came from and buried deep under the bed. She could still see it though even without it in front of her. It was a Polaroid of her and Regina, 13 years old smiles wide. Janis wasn't even sure why she'd bought it, the cursed unicorn beanie baby lay next to it. Both doomed to spend the next year in the dark. She couldn't explain it, but, she couldn't bring herself to leave them behind. It bought her comfort having them here, even if she refused to look at them.Janis shook her head, shaking away the thoughts of Regina. Nope absolutely not, she was not spending her first day at college thinking about Regina.She checked her phone, responding to the good luck messages in her group chat with Damian and Cady then glanced at the time. Shit. She was going to be late for the dorm welcome meeting.Quickly she gave herself a once over in the mirror, pulled at the mesh cropped top, smoothing over her black ripped jeans, grabbing a flannel to throw over the top, she headed out.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75565506?view_full_work=true	{"authors": ["Wheredowegonow"], "language": "English", "title": "If there is a right time"}
Solid and Strong If Ray's honest, he's drunk enough that he thinks he can kiss Pete. It's certainly not a new thought, but it, typically, isn't this strong. Typically, when he thinks of kissing Peter McVries, it's when he stares at him for too long or when he's in the middle of doing homework or in the middle of jacking off. Typically, he gets embarrassed and pushes the thought away, moving to another task (he never finishes when it comes to mind during his own “personal” time). But right now, he's feeling really good and Pete looks really good, so he figures, why not? They're walking back to their crummy apartment, arms linked around one another, Ray giggling as Pete talks when Ray stops them both, his hands finding Pete's strong biceps and he'd leans forward. It's only a quick peck, nothing crazy, but it feels nice. Casual. Pete doesn't kiss back, only stares at Ray for a moment before laughing slightly, smiling wide. “How about we get you back home, compadre?” He says simply, moving his arm back around Ray's shoulders. Ray tumbles and wobbles, but Pete still holds him up. Solid and strong. Ray likes that. He kisses Pete again once they're home, but again, Pete makes no real reaction other than a joke: “Let's get you to bed before you start making confessions.” The moment Ray's head hit his flat, very fluff deprived pillow, he falls asleep. The third thing Ray feels once he's awake, long after the pounding of his head and soreness of his feet, is guilt. It curled around him like kudzu around a tree, consuming him, threatening to devour him fully. He had gone to apologize to Pete, but the man was gone, his room left untouched, bed still made from the day before. Ray knows he didn't spend the night at home because the cup he typically used for his protein shakes was still in the sink, unwashed. He tries to text Pete and the message goes through, but the message is left unread for hours. He tries to call, but he's sent straight to voicemail every time. He texts Art, but Art has no clue. The same with Hank, Stebbins and Barkovitch (though he should have figured Barkovitch would be the last person to hear from Pete). However, the only person who does know, is Collie. I don't know what you did, but he's really upset, the message had read when Ray had asked. Did he say anything at all? Only that he needed to spend some time here. How do you know it's about me? Deductive reasoning, came Collie's response before he immediately sent as a follow up: Plus, he never likes being away from you. Even when you guys get into a fight. This makes Ray's stomach tighten worse. He sends a last, quick ‘thanks, man’ text to Collie before hitting the power button on his phone and allowing his form to fall fully back against the couch. He fucked up. He fucked up and now he's going to never hear from Pete again and he'll never get to hear his stupid guitar in the other room again. He takes a deep breath in a poor attempt to steady his racing mind. He needs to find a way to get Pete to talk to him, but he's not sure how. He doesn't want to just bombard him with texts until he's either blocked or yelled at (though Pete would never). Maybe if he goes to Collie's he can talk to Pete? No, Collie would send him away. Maybe if he asks Pete to meet up somewhere so they could talk in public? There's a large possibility that Pete won't show, much less that he'd show Ray his true feelings. Ray frowns, running over a million different ideas before he opens his messages with Collie again, sending a quick and final message. Tell him I'm with Art. Ray's breathing is shaky, his body in desperate need to let out some energy, but Ray is trying hard to be still. The apartment is dark, every light off and his phone long gone at Art’s apartment, just to show that Ray's location was with the taller male. (Art had raised a brow and told Ray that his idea was stupid and probably manipulative, but he still took the phone nonetheless. “I guess, if you work it out, text me from Pete's phone, I'll come over to give this to you.” Hank, who had been on call with Art, shouted through the phone speaker, “Tell us if you guys fuck!”) Ray's been waiting for an hour now, heart thumping wildly in his ears, eyes struggling to focus in the now darkened room. His eyes feel heavy, body rushing with exhaustion after hours of feeling panic and guilt, but he refuses to sleep in case Pete comes back; Ray doesn't want to miss him without at least saying he's sorry. He hears footsteps finally, they stop at the door before he’s met with quiet once more. He strains his ears to listen and imagines Pete doing the same. He prays his pounding heart won’t be heard. He gives a soft sigh of relief as a the sound of a key entering the lock reaches his ears. Ray’s eyes look up as the door opens. The moment the light flickers on, they're staring at one another. Pete’s brows furrow in confusion and he blinks a few times before schooling his expression. “Hey,” Ray starts finally. “Hey,” Pete	Solid and Strong If Ray's honest, he's drunk enough that he thinks he can kiss Pete. It's certainly not a new thought, but it, typically, isn't this strong. Typically, when he thinks of kissing Peter McVries, it's when he stares at him for too long or when he's in the middle of doing homework or in the middle of jacking off. Typically, he gets embarrassed and pushes the thought away, moving to another task (he never finishes when it comes to mind during his own “personal” time). But right now, he's feeling really good and Pete looks really good, so he figures, why not? They're walking back to their crummy apartment, arms linked around one another, Ray giggling as Pete talks when Ray stops them both, his hands finding Pete's strong biceps and he'd leans forward. It's only a quick peck, nothing crazy, but it feels nice. Casual. Pete doesn't kiss back, only stares at Ray for a moment before laughing slightly, smiling wide. “How about we get you back home, compadre?” He says simply, moving his arm back around Ray's shoulders. Ray tumbles and wobbles, but Pete still holds him up. Solid and strong. Ray likes that. He kisses Pete again once they're home, but again, Pete makes no real reaction other than a joke: “Let's get you to bed before you start making confessions.” The moment Ray's head hit his flat, very fluff deprived pillow, he falls asleep. The third thing Ray feels once he's awake, long after the pounding of his head and soreness of his feet, is guilt. It curled around him like kudzu around a tree, consuming him, threatening to devour him fully. He had gone to apologize to Pete, but the man was gone, his room left untouched, bed still made from the day before. Ray knows he didn't spend the night at home because the cup he typically used for his protein shakes was still in the sink, unwashed. He tries to text Pete and the message goes through, but the message is left unread for hours. He tries to call, but he's sent straight to voicemail every time. He texts Art, but Art has no clue. The same with Hank, Stebbins and Barkovitch (though he should have figured Barkovitch would be the last person to hear from Pete). However, the only person who does know, is Collie. I don't know what you did, but he's really upset, the message had read when Ray had asked. Did he say anything at all? Only that he needed to spend some time here. How do you know it's about me? Deductive reasoning, came Collie's response before he immediately sent as a follow up: Plus, he never likes being away from you. Even when you guys get into a fight. This makes Ray's stomach tighten worse. He sends a last, quick ‘thanks, man’ text to Collie before hitting the power button on his phone and allowing his form to fall fully back against the couch. He fucked up. He fucked up and now he's going to never hear from Pete again and he'll never get to hear his stupid guitar in the other room again. He takes a deep breath in a poor attempt to steady his racing mind. He needs to find a way to get Pete to talk to him, but he's not sure how. He doesn't want to just bombard him with texts until he's either blocked or yelled at (though Pete would never). Maybe if he goes to Collie's he can talk to Pete? No, Collie would send him away. Maybe if he asks Pete to meet up somewhere so they could talk in public? There's a large possibility that Pete won't show, much less that he'd show Ray his true feelings. Ray frowns, running over a million different ideas before he opens his messages with Collie again, sending a quick and final message. Tell him I'm with Art. Ray's breathing is shaky, his body in desperate need to let out some energy, but Ray is trying hard to be still. The apartment is dark, every light off and his phone long gone at Art’s apartment, just to show that Ray's location was with the taller male. (Art had raised a brow and told Ray that his idea was stupid and probably manipulative, but he still took the phone nonetheless. “I guess, if you work it out, text me from Pete's phone, I'll come over to give this to you.” Hank, who had been on call with Art, shouted through the phone speaker, “Tell us if you guys fuck!”) Ray's been waiting for an hour now, heart thumping wildly in his ears, eyes struggling to focus in the now darkened room. His eyes feel heavy, body rushing with exhaustion after hours of feeling panic and guilt, but he refuses to sleep in case Pete comes back; Ray doesn't want to miss him without at least saying he's sorry. He hears footsteps finally, they stop at the door before he’s met with quiet once more. He strains his ears to listen and imagines Pete doing the same. He prays his pounding heart won’t be heard. He gives a soft sigh of relief as a the sound of a key entering the lock reaches his ears. Ray’s eyes look up as the door opens. The moment the light flickers on, they're staring at one another. Pete’s brows furrow in confusion and he blinks a few times before schooling his expression. “Hey,” Ray starts finally. “Hey,” Pete responds. It falls quiet again and Ray's leg finally bounces, trying to piece words together so he can properly apologize. He isn't sure if he should apologize for kissing him while drunk or for doing it at all and his mouth opens and closes several times in a desperate attempt to say something, but he can't seem to push the words out. Finally, Pete opens his mouth and states, “I'm gonna go grab my things.” Ray nods, standing to follow behind Pete like a lost dog, because that's how Pete's always made him feel. Small. Weak. Pathetic. Desperate for some semblance of love, even if Pete is the nicest person he's ever met. Pete says nothing of Ray following. He simply opens his door and enters, grabbing the empty bag from his closet and filling it up with clothes. Ray watches, mouth still opening and closing before his brain finally seems to scream, SAY SOMETHING! And he let's out in a rushed tone, “I'm sorry.” Pete's hands freeze on the shirt that sits on the hanger, glancing back before he continues. “No, you're good.” “No. I'm not good! I shouldn't have done that, Pete!” “It's fine, Ray-” “It's not! I shouldn't have kissed you-” Pete throws in some underwear from the top drawer, not meeting Ray's gaze. “Look, it was a mistake. That stuff happens.” “But it shouldn't happen with you!” “But it's okay that it did-” “No, it's not! You don't deserve that, Pete,” Ray exasperates as he moves closer to his best friend. “I shouldn't have done that just because I was drunk. It wasn't fair to you, especially after everything you've been through. I don't want to make you feel used like that.” “I don't feel used,” Pete lies, looking up at Ray with a carefully neutral expression, face looking almost bored, the same way it always does when he lies. “You do. I know you do, Pete. You're allowed to be mad at me about this- fuck, I want you to be! I deserve you to be mad at me! I kissed you and now you're not even talking to me or sleeping on our apartment. I don't like that you feel like you need to get away from me because of this.” Ray moves closer, his hand moving to touch the other's forearm. Pete flinches, but Ray doesn't pull his hand away. “I want you back home, Pete. I don't like you being gone in the mornings.” Pete snorts, his lips curling up slightly, brow raising. “You're making it sound like we sleep in the same bed.” “I’m making it sound like I messed up,” Ray frowns. “Because I did.” “Ray, it's fine if you regret kissing me-” “I don't regret kissing you, I regret making you upset!” Ray cuts him off, brows furrowing. Pete's brows knit together, eyes narrowing as he stares at Ray for a moment, studying him. His eyes flicker to every corner of Ray's face, taking note of every crease and fold, every imperfection and worry. Ray goes to say something, but Peter is already talking. “You don't regret kissing me?” He asks in a low, measured tone. “No,” Ray huffs. “Garraty, you're not into men-” “That's such a shit thing to say, Pete-” The bag is out of Pete's hands, hitting the floor with a plop! and suddenly there are two hands cupping Ray's face and plump, soft lips against Ray's own. He doesn't have time to react before they're gone, Pete staring up at him with narrowed eyes, still holding his face. Ray stares down at him, eyes wide and lips parted, he wants to say something—anything—but he figures maybe he should stop talking for once, so instead, he leans close, crushing their lips together again. It's heated and desperate and awkward, but that doesn't seem to deter either of them because before Ray knows it, the back of his legs are hitting Pete's bed and his legs are giving way. Ray's hands try to stop the fall while Pete seems content to let it happen. By the time Ray realizes this, his back is against the mattress, all of Pete's weight on top of him. Solid and strong, the way Ray likes.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75569566/chapters/197609166	{"authors": ["bowlingsocks"], "language": "English", "title": "Solid and Strong"}
Where the Gun Echoed The road turned smooth under the truck’s tires, but Rawlins didn't feel any safer for it. He sat with his back against the hot boards of the truck, his shoulders aching from the long ride. Dust blew up like veils behind them before sliding away into the flat distance. The sound of a chain rattling whenever the truck hit a bump kept jerking him back from the edge of overthinking. Eventually, the guard stood up near the tailgate, one hand on his partner's shoulder, squinting back at a sign they had just passed. Some Spanish name Rawlins couldn’t remember. It all blurred together now. Towns with white churches and narrow streets and dogs sleeping in doorways, then empty miles of nothing. Mexico had finally stopped feeling like a place they were searching for and had become a place they were trapped in. The guard sat back down, seemingly satisfied, and the two of them stared back out across the country, rifles held loosely in their hands. Once back on the road, the truck picked up speed. The hot wind clawed at Rawlins' face. He tried not to watch how fast the ground went by. Because fast meant far. And far meant nobody knew where the hell they were. Blevins was near the sideboard, watching the sky. The kid had the same damn squint he always got when he was cooking up some notion, except now he wasn't talking. His eyes tracked the lightning out there in the thunderheads piling up in the north. Now and then, he glanced at the dust behind the truck, almost like he was testing the wind and thinking about storms and horses instead of the shackles and guns of their reality. Rawlins wished he’d talk, just for a second, so he could tell him to shut up. Now the kid was quiet, and that silence just felt wrong. The truck left the pavement without warning. Rawlins felt the change in his bones before he even saw the road. He felt the roughness underneath, the stones and earth. He lifted his head. They weren't on any kinda road he recognised. They were on some pale track, wandering off across open fields. Grasslands rolled away in all directions, empty and colourless. No houses, no fences, no people, just the occasional scatter of cattle, pale and pasty. This aint good, he thought. He didn't say it out loud. He knew John didn't need to hear it, he had his own troubles to think on. But the thought weighed on him nonetheless. You didn't take prisoners off the main road for nothing. And you didn't drive them off into nowhere unless you meant something by it. The truck groaned, crossing a dry riverbed, sand grinding under the tires. Dust rose up and covered them all in a fine chalk. Rawlin’s tongue felt thick. His mouth tasted like fear and old cigarettes he wished he still had. They climbed out of the riverbed and into taller grass. The stalks rasped against the truck like they were alive, swarming against the metal. The dark shapes appeared ahead, low buildings slumped into themselves. The skeleton of sheep pens, grey and broken. Trees gathered beyond, black and tightly packed, ebony trees dense enough to hide anything. The truck rolled to a stop in the middle of the yard. Rawlins watched as the captain stepped down from the cab, his boots raising small puffs of dust. The man adjusted his hat, took in the place like he was familiar with it and didn't quite care for it. He said something in Spanish and jerked his head. The guards got to their feet. One of them leaned his rifle against the side of the truck and fumbled for a ring of keys. The clank of the chain being unlocked rang sharper in the air than it had any right to. As Rawlins felt the weight go from his ankles, he didn't feel any freer. Blevins was already looking around, wide-eyed and taking in the ruined buildings, the empty pens, the gnarled trees. Rawlins didn't need to ask to know the questions circling in his head. This ain’t a jail, the question said. This aint a courthouse. Then what is it? The captain sent one of the guards to check the edges of the place. Another leaned on the truck along with the charro. He smoked slowly, one thumb hooked in his belt, his rifle resting easily. Rawlins’ bladder ached suddenly, sharp as any thought. “I got to take a leak,” he said His voice came rough like he hadn’t spoken in days. No one stopped him. He and Grady stepped through the grass, Blevins hobbling after them on his sore feet. The chain might be off, but the distance they went was small and might as well have had walls. The guards watched them with a kind of lazy indifference, like the country itself would keep the prisoners where they wanted them. Empty land as a new set of bars. Rawlins took care of his business, facing the trees back to the truck, before glancing sideways at John. John’s face was still, closed in that way he had before, like he’d pulled down a shade and gone somewhere else. It bothered Rawlins, that look. It always had. He never knew if it meant John wasn't worried or if it meant he was so worried he stopped showing it. “Reckon	Where the Gun Echoed The road turned smooth under the truck’s tires, but Rawlins didn't feel any safer for it. He sat with his back against the hot boards of the truck, his shoulders aching from the long ride. Dust blew up like veils behind them before sliding away into the flat distance. The sound of a chain rattling whenever the truck hit a bump kept jerking him back from the edge of overthinking. Eventually, the guard stood up near the tailgate, one hand on his partner's shoulder, squinting back at a sign they had just passed. Some Spanish name Rawlins couldn’t remember. It all blurred together now. Towns with white churches and narrow streets and dogs sleeping in doorways, then empty miles of nothing. Mexico had finally stopped feeling like a place they were searching for and had become a place they were trapped in. The guard sat back down, seemingly satisfied, and the two of them stared back out across the country, rifles held loosely in their hands. Once back on the road, the truck picked up speed. The hot wind clawed at Rawlins' face. He tried not to watch how fast the ground went by. Because fast meant far. And far meant nobody knew where the hell they were. Blevins was near the sideboard, watching the sky. The kid had the same damn squint he always got when he was cooking up some notion, except now he wasn't talking. His eyes tracked the lightning out there in the thunderheads piling up in the north. Now and then, he glanced at the dust behind the truck, almost like he was testing the wind and thinking about storms and horses instead of the shackles and guns of their reality. Rawlins wished he’d talk, just for a second, so he could tell him to shut up. Now the kid was quiet, and that silence just felt wrong. The truck left the pavement without warning. Rawlins felt the change in his bones before he even saw the road. He felt the roughness underneath, the stones and earth. He lifted his head. They weren't on any kinda road he recognised. They were on some pale track, wandering off across open fields. Grasslands rolled away in all directions, empty and colourless. No houses, no fences, no people, just the occasional scatter of cattle, pale and pasty. This aint good, he thought. He didn't say it out loud. He knew John didn't need to hear it, he had his own troubles to think on. But the thought weighed on him nonetheless. You didn't take prisoners off the main road for nothing. And you didn't drive them off into nowhere unless you meant something by it. The truck groaned, crossing a dry riverbed, sand grinding under the tires. Dust rose up and covered them all in a fine chalk. Rawlin’s tongue felt thick. His mouth tasted like fear and old cigarettes he wished he still had. They climbed out of the riverbed and into taller grass. The stalks rasped against the truck like they were alive, swarming against the metal. The dark shapes appeared ahead, low buildings slumped into themselves. The skeleton of sheep pens, grey and broken. Trees gathered beyond, black and tightly packed, ebony trees dense enough to hide anything. The truck rolled to a stop in the middle of the yard. Rawlins watched as the captain stepped down from the cab, his boots raising small puffs of dust. The man adjusted his hat, took in the place like he was familiar with it and didn't quite care for it. He said something in Spanish and jerked his head. The guards got to their feet. One of them leaned his rifle against the side of the truck and fumbled for a ring of keys. The clank of the chain being unlocked rang sharper in the air than it had any right to. As Rawlins felt the weight go from his ankles, he didn't feel any freer. Blevins was already looking around, wide-eyed and taking in the ruined buildings, the empty pens, the gnarled trees. Rawlins didn't need to ask to know the questions circling in his head. This ain’t a jail, the question said. This aint a courthouse. Then what is it? The captain sent one of the guards to check the edges of the place. Another leaned on the truck along with the charro. He smoked slowly, one thumb hooked in his belt, his rifle resting easily. Rawlins’ bladder ached suddenly, sharp as any thought. “I got to take a leak,” he said His voice came rough like he hadn’t spoken in days. No one stopped him. He and Grady stepped through the grass, Blevins hobbling after them on his sore feet. The chain might be off, but the distance they went was small and might as well have had walls. The guards watched them with a kind of lazy indifference, like the country itself would keep the prisoners where they wanted them. Empty land as a new set of bars. Rawlins took care of his business, facing the trees back to the truck, before glancing sideways at John. John’s face was still, closed in that way he had before, like he’d pulled down a shade and gone somewhere else. It bothered Rawlins, that look. It always had. He never knew if it meant John wasn't worried or if it meant he was so worried he stopped showing it. “Reckon they’re just coolin' their heels”, Rawlins muttered, mostly to himself. It sounded stupid even as it left his mouth. They drifted back towards the truck, prisoners again by choice or lack thereof. The charro dropped his cigarette and ground it under his heel. His eyes cut towards Blevins in a way Rawlins didn't like at all. Like the kid was something he was tired of seeing around. Blevins sat down apart from them, like he felt that look too. The charro said nothing. Just watched, waiting, like he already knew how this scene ended. The kid got up, drawn toward the rear of the truck where Grady and Rawlins were standing. His voice was a whisper, but it still carried. “What are they goin to do?” Rawlins swallowed. The chain might be gone, but the question hit like a weight around his throat. He didn't answer right away. The guard without a rifle came around the back of the truck. “Vámonos,” the man said. Rawlins pushed himself upright from where he’d been leaning on the truckbed. His knees felt shaky, but he hoped it didn't show. “Soyo el chico,” the guard added, jerking his head at Blevins. The Boy. The kid. Rawlins looked at John. “What are they goin to do?” Blevins said again, voice higher now, fraying around the edges. “They aint goin to do nothin,” Rawlins said. The words came out easy, automatic, the way a man might tell a horse it’s alright when he knows damn well it isn't. He kept his face straight, didn't let his eyes go back to the trees. He looked at John instead. John didn't say a thing. That silence sat heavier than any lie Rawlins could ever tell. The guard reached for Blevins' arm. “Vámonos.” “Wait a minute,” Blevins said. The guard said something else, waiting, they're waiting, and Rawlins felt the back of his neck go cold. Waiting for what? For who? Blevins twisted away and dropped to the ground. The guards face darkened, like a cloud had crossed the sun. He looked toward the captain by the truck, seeking instruction or permission, it wasn't clear which. Blevins yanked off his boot with trembling hands, digging inside like a dog after a bone. The smell of sweat hit the air. He tossed the insole and went in again. The guard bent down, got a grip on his thin arm, and tried to haul him back up. The kid fought to turn towards John, something clenched in his fist. “Here,” he hissed. “Here.” John stared at him. “What do I want with that?” Rawlins could’ve told him that answer. Because the kid knew. Because the kid had always known they were the only people in this country who’d ever given half a damn if he lived or died. Because you didn't carry money where that boy was going. “Take it,” Blevins said. He shoved the crumpled wad into John’s hand just as the guard wrenched him around and drove him forward. The boot left in the dust. “Wait,” Blevins said. “I need to get my boot” The guards didn't bother answering. He just pushed the boy past the truck, across the clearing toward the edge of the ebony trees. The captain walked alongside, one hand at the small of the boy’s back, like they were all friends here and this was a regular Sunday stroll. The charro went behind, rifle in his limp grip. Rawlins watched Blevins limp away. One boot on, one barefoot, the kid’s thin shoulder hunched under the heat and weight of whatever he knew was coming. He looked smaller with each step. Less a person and more like some stray thing that had wandered too far from its kind. Rawlins’ mouth tightened until his jaw ached. John watched too, eyes fixed on the ragged figure. There was so little to the kid. Not much flesh, not much age. It seemed wrong that such a small thing could command so much anger from grown men, wrong that he could matter enough to be marched off under armed guard. “Don't you say nothin,” Rawlins said. The words came out suddenly, before John could open his mouth, as if he’d had to slam the door on something. “All right,” John said. “Don't you say a damn word.” Rawlins wasn't sure who he was talking to anymore. John, or himself, or God. He didn't want to hear John say there was nothing they could do, or that it’d be all right, or that it wouldn't. He didn't want any words in the air that might make this moment realer than it already was. John turned, looked at him. Then he looked away. “Alright,” he said again. “I won’t” Rawlins leaned forward, braced his fists on the boards of the truck and lowered his head until his forehead pressed against the sun-warmed hood. He closed his eyes tight, as if he could shut out the trees and the small figure hobbling among them. His stomach rolled. His throat felt thick. He couldn't remember the last time he’d been this scared. Not even when they’d first been locked up. Jails had walls, rules, and routines. This had none of that. This was just open land and men with guns and no witnesses. After a time, he raised his head again. He had to. Not looking didn't stop a thing. “They caint just walk out there and shoot him,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He wasn't sure who he was arguing with. The guards. The captain. God? Himself? “Hell fire,” he muttered. “Just walk out there and shoot him.” He looked at John as though he might have an answer, like he always had before. John only looked back, empty and grave. Then the sound. A pistol shot, flat and small, as if someone had just clapped their hands in the distance. The air seemed to hold its breath. A moment later, another shot, the echo of snagging in the black branches of the trees and then dissolving into a silence so complete Rawlins could hear his own heartbeat. He stood there, hands shaking, and knew exactly what had happened in those trees even though he hadn't seen it. It was simple. A boy, a gun, a patch of dirt. The kind of simple that didn't make sense, no matter how long you chewed it. He swallowed hard. The inside of his mouth tasted like rust. When they came back out of the trees, the captain was alone with the charro. The rifle was carried easily again. The captain held the handcuffs in one hand like some small chore had been finished, and now it was time to get on with the rest of the day. “Vámonos,” he called. The guards moved like a flock at the word. And like that, business resumed. Somewhere in the ruins, the driver reappeared, dusting his hands, walking like he hadn't heard a thing. “We’re okay”, Rawlins whispered. The words slipped out broken and thin. He wasn't sure if he believed them. But he said them anyway. Someone had to put something in the air that wasn't just gunshots and Spanish. “We’re okay.”	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75565511	{"authors": ["Rrancher"], "language": "English", "title": "Where the Gun Echoed"}
Cafe Discourse Sometimes, maledictions would encroach it’s way to places whom would make their best tries at staving them. Sometimes, the most silent places would have the most irritating mosquito hums possible. And sometimes, tranquility would get its space invaded by mayhem… In the suburb of a nearby city, entrenched in the scent of nosegay, you would certainly hypothesize and expect placidity to predominate in such area; but good merges itself with bad, no matter where, when, or how; nature allows it, and so does society. Deep in the chasms of this suburban landscape, three alliances with young visages present themselves discussing peculiar topics amidst what was supposed to be an ordinary cafe session; a more masculine-presenting girl—who is indulging in her coffee—interjects the chimera sitting beside her: "The likelihood of Rei possessing some aspect of mental maturity isn’t much, Teto." her tone wouldn’t garner any sort of remorse, endorsing a prosy speech within its wake. and that…that would veritably make Teto demonstrate just how their forebears would act upon feeling fury in their system. "Shut UP." Their wings flexed briefly, followed with the rapid slam of their fist on the table, causing the other girl’s coffee to churn. "at least she’s nice, unlike a certain person in this table." But Uta wouldn’t falter. If anything, she’d continue her ostentation. "There’s a thin line between gentleness and obliviousness." The blankness in his voice would progress, not showing any indication of vacillating. Teto would soon retort: "She can do hand puppets!" "I wonder what else those hands could do…" "DEFOKO!" But then, silence would briskly emerge the moment a demure-like girl would lift her head up, drawing her focus to Uta instead the psychology book she had been sowing her oats with. She appeared to be unamused, almost disappointed in both the humor Uta would condemn to be righteous and the subject of the conversation. Both of the friends would stare at her apprehensively. She extended her arm across the table with the palm wide open, reaching her hand towards Defoko; as if she were pledging for assistance. "Give me your hand." Momo’s soft voice spoke up simultaneously. "…what?" "I’ll demonstrate what Rei could do with her hands." It seemed Momo could always strike a cord within Uta; he would seem to falter, the furrow of his eyebrows would indicate latent uncertainty, she would note all those details; how his indifference would turn rickety in reaction to the gaucherie in the ambience, she could cite the prayers Uta was reciting in his head, and all thanks to the book—and several others—she was currently catering to. Uta would visibly hesitate, torn in the various options her mind would’ve prescribed, alas, none of them would ease the situation out; she rested the palm of her hand at Momo’s own. The unbothered girl’s hand sluggishly encased Uta’s. "This is what Rei can do with her hands, Defoko." Momo retrieved her hand. Silence. …that is until Teto’s boisterous guffaws joined in the tactlessness. It seems their puerileness wouldn’t have strayed away even once, unlike Uta’s gaze; her machinery would whir audibly in ignominy, soaring whiny—her nonchalance notably cracked at last. "Don’t be ashamed of hand-holding, Defoko. It’s normal." Momo’s remark would only be interpreted as a tease in Uta’s eyes, leaving him further conflicted. "I’m not embarrassed." "Whaddayamean? Your confidence is all crumpled up now!" "Shut up, Teto." Uta took a long-lasting sip of her coffee as a hopeless attempt to cover up her humiliation, clearing her throat afterwards; that would come in vain for her nonchalance seemingly had annihilated. Her nervous fidgeting wouldn’t go unnoticed, getting marked by Teto’s whisper: "You should do this more often." "Only if she starts insulting people again." This day was the day etched into the UTAU girls’ history: The Disappearance of Utane Uta’s Nonchalance.	Cafe Discourse Sometimes, maledictions would encroach it’s way to places whom would make their best tries at staving them. Sometimes, the most silent places would have the most irritating mosquito hums possible. And sometimes, tranquility would get its space invaded by mayhem… In the suburb of a nearby city, entrenched in the scent of nosegay, you would certainly hypothesize and expect placidity to predominate in such area; but good merges itself with bad, no matter where, when, or how; nature allows it, and so does society. Deep in the chasms of this suburban landscape, three alliances with young visages present themselves discussing peculiar topics amidst what was supposed to be an ordinary cafe session; a more masculine-presenting girl—who is indulging in her coffee—interjects the chimera sitting beside her: "The likelihood of Rei possessing some aspect of mental maturity isn’t much, Teto." her tone wouldn’t garner any sort of remorse, endorsing a prosy speech within its wake. and that…that would veritably make Teto demonstrate just how their forebears would act upon feeling fury in their system. "Shut UP." Their wings flexed briefly, followed with the rapid slam of their fist on the table, causing the other girl’s coffee to churn. "at least she’s nice, unlike a certain person in this table." But Uta wouldn’t falter. If anything, she’d continue her ostentation. "There’s a thin line between gentleness and obliviousness." The blankness in his voice would progress, not showing any indication of vacillating. Teto would soon retort: "She can do hand puppets!" "I wonder what else those hands could do…" "DEFOKO!" But then, silence would briskly emerge the moment a demure-like girl would lift her head up, drawing her focus to Uta instead the psychology book she had been sowing her oats with. She appeared to be unamused, almost disappointed in both the humor Uta would condemn to be righteous and the subject of the conversation. Both of the friends would stare at her apprehensively. She extended her arm across the table with the palm wide open, reaching her hand towards Defoko; as if she were pledging for assistance. "Give me your hand." Momo’s soft voice spoke up simultaneously. "…what?" "I’ll demonstrate what Rei could do with her hands." It seemed Momo could always strike a cord within Uta; he would seem to falter, the furrow of his eyebrows would indicate latent uncertainty, she would note all those details; how his indifference would turn rickety in reaction to the gaucherie in the ambience, she could cite the prayers Uta was reciting in his head, and all thanks to the book—and several others—she was currently catering to. Uta would visibly hesitate, torn in the various options her mind would’ve prescribed, alas, none of them would ease the situation out; she rested the palm of her hand at Momo’s own. The unbothered girl’s hand sluggishly encased Uta’s. "This is what Rei can do with her hands, Defoko." Momo retrieved her hand. Silence. …that is until Teto’s boisterous guffaws joined in the tactlessness. It seems their puerileness wouldn’t have strayed away even once, unlike Uta’s gaze; her machinery would whir audibly in ignominy, soaring whiny—her nonchalance notably cracked at last. "Don’t be ashamed of hand-holding, Defoko. It’s normal." Momo’s remark would only be interpreted as a tease in Uta’s eyes, leaving him further conflicted. "I’m not embarrassed." "Whaddayamean? Your confidence is all crumpled up now!" "Shut up, Teto." Uta took a long-lasting sip of her coffee as a hopeless attempt to cover up her humiliation, clearing her throat afterwards; that would come in vain for her nonchalance seemingly had annihilated. Her nervous fidgeting wouldn’t go unnoticed, getting marked by Teto’s whisper: "You should do this more often." "Only if she starts insulting people again." This day was the day etched into the UTAU girls’ history: The Disappearance of Utane Uta’s Nonchalance.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75565516	{"authors": ["SolarKat"], "language": "English", "title": "Cafe Discourse"}
Hyungnim, marry me It was the tenth of the month, which meant Jung-bae was heading down to the horse races to bet on his current lucky number: 10. Last month, that number hadn’t let him down. He’d won 350,000 won and taken Dae-ho out to a fancy french restaurant, wanting to make his partner happy. And he did, aside from the tiny portion sizes that left them both hungry even after the hefty bill. Still, it had been a nice evening, and certainly a better alternative than blowing the prize money on yet another bet he would’ve lost anyway. So, on the 10th, he woke up early, hoping that when he won again, he might even be able to book a nice place in advance. But he only got as far as the door. No matter how much ex-marine strength he put into it, the door wouldn’t budge. What the hell? Were they locked in? For a split second, Jung-bae half expected the golden piggy bank to drop from the ceiling again, and the pink guards to march out of the living room. A shiver ran down his spine. No, of course not. Those days were behind him, and he and his team had gotten out safely, leaving him free to build a new life – mostly debt free. That new life now included Dae-ho, who he’d grown more than a little… close to during the games, and who also had nowhere else to go. Thinking of his partner only made Jung-bae more determined to get to that prize money he knew was waiting for him. With all his might, he charged the door like a battering ram. It ended with him whining in pain while the door remained completely unmoved. “Hyungnim? What are you doing?” a tired-looking Dae-ho asked as he shuffled from their bedroom. “Door’s not budging,” Jung-bae grumbled. “Maybe the lock’s broken.” He rattled the doorknob to test the theory, only managing to make himself look foolish. He heard Dae-ho burst into laughter behind him. “It’s not the door, Hyung. It’s the snow. We’re snowed in.” He said it like not being able to go outside didn’t bother him at all. “Why? What happened?” This new information immediately made Jung-bae even more restless and jittery. Dae-ho went to the counter, filled the electric kettle with water, and set out two mugs and packets of ginger tea. “They said it on the news – one meter of snow this morning. A lot of it will melt during the day, but for now, we’re snowed in.” He shot Jung-bae a teasing grin. “Unless you want to shovel it?” Dae-ho knew his partner preferred the easy way out, so that option was an absolute no-go. Jung-bae, however, actually considered it for a moment, until he remembered they didn’t even own a big enough shovel. He walked to the living room window and frowned at the thick blanket of snow piled against it. So it really was true. They were stuck inside for the day. And here he’d been planning to take Dae-ho out for another fancy dinner… and chase the thrill of seeing horse #10 make it to the finish line first. Dae-ho didn’t even have to ask what was wrong. Jung-bae had the facial expressions of a cartoon character, and the familiar sad pout was already forming on his lips. “We can have fun without money today, Hyung. Besides, you said you were going to try kicking that gambling habit anyway.” Jung-bae supposed that was true. He lumbered his way over to Dae-ho, looking like a sad dog, and collapsed into his arms. Of course, Dae-ho returned the hug. Moments later they were seated on the couch, drinking their tea and trying to be entertained by some boring reality show. Life was undoubtedly surreal. Not only because he didn’t have to worry about creditors harassing him and his family, or only surviving on the cheapest meals he could find (if he could eat at all), but also because, on top of everything, he was actually in love again. With another man, no less – and a significantly younger one. Even after two years of him and Dae-ho dating, or being in a “partnership,” as Jung-bae had insisted on calling it (his traditional values still took center stage) he was still getting used to the age gap, and to how deeply Dae-ho seemed to be into him. he couldn’t help thinking that if Dae-ho could just get rid of some of his demons, he really could have any other guy he wanted (or lady for that matter). He wondered when he was going to wake up from this dream. Before he could finish the thought, his head dipped. Body surrendering to a tiredness he had been too eager to notice until then. His cheek landed softly on Dae-ho’s shoulder, and he barely registered the quiet hitch in Dae-ho’s breath before an arm slid around him. Warm and familiar in a way that still startled him sometimes. Dae-ho didn’t say anything, just held him, thumb brushing the side of his arm in slow, unconscious strokes. At some point, the world slipped away completely. When Jung-bae woke, the room was dimmer, everything quiet except for the faint sound of running water. He blinked, groggy, lifting his head from the couch cushion and realizing instantly that he had been out far longer than he meant to. A shame akin to the kind that	Hyungnim, marry me It was the tenth of the month, which meant Jung-bae was heading down to the horse races to bet on his current lucky number: 10. Last month, that number hadn’t let him down. He’d won 350,000 won and taken Dae-ho out to a fancy french restaurant, wanting to make his partner happy. And he did, aside from the tiny portion sizes that left them both hungry even after the hefty bill. Still, it had been a nice evening, and certainly a better alternative than blowing the prize money on yet another bet he would’ve lost anyway. So, on the 10th, he woke up early, hoping that when he won again, he might even be able to book a nice place in advance. But he only got as far as the door. No matter how much ex-marine strength he put into it, the door wouldn’t budge. What the hell? Were they locked in? For a split second, Jung-bae half expected the golden piggy bank to drop from the ceiling again, and the pink guards to march out of the living room. A shiver ran down his spine. No, of course not. Those days were behind him, and he and his team had gotten out safely, leaving him free to build a new life – mostly debt free. That new life now included Dae-ho, who he’d grown more than a little… close to during the games, and who also had nowhere else to go. Thinking of his partner only made Jung-bae more determined to get to that prize money he knew was waiting for him. With all his might, he charged the door like a battering ram. It ended with him whining in pain while the door remained completely unmoved. “Hyungnim? What are you doing?” a tired-looking Dae-ho asked as he shuffled from their bedroom. “Door’s not budging,” Jung-bae grumbled. “Maybe the lock’s broken.” He rattled the doorknob to test the theory, only managing to make himself look foolish. He heard Dae-ho burst into laughter behind him. “It’s not the door, Hyung. It’s the snow. We’re snowed in.” He said it like not being able to go outside didn’t bother him at all. “Why? What happened?” This new information immediately made Jung-bae even more restless and jittery. Dae-ho went to the counter, filled the electric kettle with water, and set out two mugs and packets of ginger tea. “They said it on the news – one meter of snow this morning. A lot of it will melt during the day, but for now, we’re snowed in.” He shot Jung-bae a teasing grin. “Unless you want to shovel it?” Dae-ho knew his partner preferred the easy way out, so that option was an absolute no-go. Jung-bae, however, actually considered it for a moment, until he remembered they didn’t even own a big enough shovel. He walked to the living room window and frowned at the thick blanket of snow piled against it. So it really was true. They were stuck inside for the day. And here he’d been planning to take Dae-ho out for another fancy dinner… and chase the thrill of seeing horse #10 make it to the finish line first. Dae-ho didn’t even have to ask what was wrong. Jung-bae had the facial expressions of a cartoon character, and the familiar sad pout was already forming on his lips. “We can have fun without money today, Hyung. Besides, you said you were going to try kicking that gambling habit anyway.” Jung-bae supposed that was true. He lumbered his way over to Dae-ho, looking like a sad dog, and collapsed into his arms. Of course, Dae-ho returned the hug. Moments later they were seated on the couch, drinking their tea and trying to be entertained by some boring reality show. Life was undoubtedly surreal. Not only because he didn’t have to worry about creditors harassing him and his family, or only surviving on the cheapest meals he could find (if he could eat at all), but also because, on top of everything, he was actually in love again. With another man, no less – and a significantly younger one. Even after two years of him and Dae-ho dating, or being in a “partnership,” as Jung-bae had insisted on calling it (his traditional values still took center stage) he was still getting used to the age gap, and to how deeply Dae-ho seemed to be into him. he couldn’t help thinking that if Dae-ho could just get rid of some of his demons, he really could have any other guy he wanted (or lady for that matter). He wondered when he was going to wake up from this dream. Before he could finish the thought, his head dipped. Body surrendering to a tiredness he had been too eager to notice until then. His cheek landed softly on Dae-ho’s shoulder, and he barely registered the quiet hitch in Dae-ho’s breath before an arm slid around him. Warm and familiar in a way that still startled him sometimes. Dae-ho didn’t say anything, just held him, thumb brushing the side of his arm in slow, unconscious strokes. At some point, the world slipped away completely. When Jung-bae woke, the room was dimmer, everything quiet except for the faint sound of running water. He blinked, groggy, lifting his head from the couch cushion and realizing instantly that he had been out far longer than he meant to. A shame akin to the kind that always surfaced around his ex-wife filled him. He’d slept through most of the day – the day he was supposed to spend with Dae-ho. Immediately needing to make up for it, he pushed himself upright with a groan, rubbing his face with both hands. “Aish,” he muttered to himself, standing and stretching his aching back. He walked to the tiny fridge, opening it with the cautious hope there would be something useful in there. Two eggs. Half an onion. A wilting bunch of scallions. And a leftover block of tofu. It wasn’t much, but he could work with it. While cooking, he caught a glimpse outside the window, and like Dae-ho had said, the snow seemed to have melted a lot. That familiar tickling in his chest appeared again. The betting. The prize money. The thrill of suddenly having double, sometimes triple, the amount of money he’d had before. But… “You’re making dinner? Thank god, I’m so hungry,” Dae-ho said as he strolled in, wiping his hair with a towel. “Don’t get your hopes up. This is just some bullshit I threw together with the leftovers we had.” Not seeming to mind, Dae-ho opened a cabinet right next to Jung-bae’s head, deliberately using the close proximity to steal a quick kiss from him, earning a startled yelp. He always giggled like a kid at how Jung-bae still hadn’t gotten used to being kissed. Dae-ho knew Jung-bae genuinely loved him, but he also knew the older man still needed time to adjust, the way anyone might after discovering they’re attracted to the same sex in their fifties. “I’m so hungry I could eat anything, Hyungnim,” Dae-ho said while setting the table. The meal wasn’t great, but it was warm, and it filled the small room with a quiet kind of peace. For a moment they just ate, clinking their chopsticks and stealing glances at one another without saying anything. Then, finally deciding to open his mouth, Jung-bae muttered, “Hey… thanks for being with me.” Dae-ho paused mid-bite. Jung-bae swallowed hard. “I mean it. I’m really lousy at being with someone… always forgetting things or doing stupid stuff on impulse,” he added, his voice tightening. “And… I’m so much older than you.” Across the table, Dae-ho set his chopsticks down. “You’re really not that much older, Hyungnim. Besides, I think it’s kinda cool.” He raised his eyebrows. “I like all of you. Even the parts you think I shouldn’t.” Jung-bae stared at him, jaw tense. “Well, except the gambling… that one I do want you to work on.” Jung-bae grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Once a week is okay, right? Or maybe every two weeks?” “No.” The firmness in Dae-ho’s voice made Jung-bae look up. “Hyungnim, you told he how you ended up in the games. And I would hate to see you in a downwards spiral, despite how much you crave that thrill.” He leaned forward, eyes bright with conviction. “And if it’s only the thrill you crave, I can give you one. A better one.” Heat shot straight up Jung-bae’s neck, blooming across his cheeks. “Y-yah, don’t say stuff like that while I’m eating…” Dae-ho grinned, pleased with himself, then softened. “I mean it, though. I’ll help you. I want you safe.” Jung-bae looked down at his plate, throat tight with both gratitude and embarrassment. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For looking out for me.” Dae-ho nodded once, then capturing Jung-bae’s eyes in his own, he asked: “Do you wanna marry me?” Jung-bae just blinked at him. The world froze. Even the sound of the fridge humming seemed to stutter. “Huh? What?” he choked out, eyes wide. Dae-ho shot him a lopsided grin, still not breaking the eye contact. He had made countless teasing jokes in their time being partners – fuck it – their time being boyfriends, But Jung-bae could absolutely recognize a completely earnest statement from the man sitting across from him, now fiddling with a ring he apparently had in his pocket the whole time. “Is that real?” Jung-bae gasped. Dae-ho glanced at it. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s from a thrift shop.” A breathy rush of relief escaped Jung-bae’s chest. It better not be real. He did not want Dae-ho to waste his… blood money on an expensive ring for him. (And it’s not like he had the cash to give him a gift of equal value in return.) He rubbed his forehead, overwhelmed. “We can’t even get married legally anyway.” “It’s just symbolic,” Dae-ho swore. “And we can still register as spouses if you want. But the thing is: I love you, and I want to be with you forever!” Jung-bae stared at him for a long moment, completely blindsided by his raw confession and the extreme way he was showing it on an otherwise completely mundane day. He really loved him too. For the first time, he was the one to initiate the kiss, leaning over and capturing Dae-ho’s lips with his own. It was Dae-ho’s turn to yelp in surprise, but he quickly melted into it, even letting out a soft moan at how Jung-bae took control for once. Then Dae-ho lightly pushed him back, breathless. “Hyungnim, yes or no? The food is getting cold!” “…Yes,” Jung-bae whispered, his voice a little hoarse from the kissing Then stronger: “Yes! I want to marry you!”	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75565521	{"authors": ["Ascendemi"], "language": "English", "title": "Hyungnim, marry me"}
Taneya Another crumbled piece of paper hits the trashcan. By this point they’d become so good at aiming that the idea of becoming an international basketball player was starting to sound like something achievable. The young writer leans back against their chair and stares at yet another angrily scribbled-out paragraph. Screw this. For all their love for fiction, they had always been a laughably terrible writer. It's a trait that runs in the family. No wonder they own a shop selling texts from seemingly anyone but their bloodline. No wonder the shop would never lack employees. They look at their own ink-stained hands and crossed-out draft and sigh; maybe this is the path they were always meant to take. Inheriting the family shop doesn’t sound terrible. There are fates worse than looking after a place with generations' worth of history in it, no matter how small-scale said history may be. Sometimes it just felt like the compulsion to write, but the inability to do so would someday eat them from the inside out. The future shop owner sighs once again, slides their chair a little further back and swings their feet onto the antique table in front of them. After all, their mother isn’t there to scold them for it today. What the slacking youngster unfortunately seems to forget is the still-open pot of ink they had left at the edge of the table earlier. In their carelessness they accidentally knock it over and it goes flying off the table. The glass immediately shatters upon impact and pitch-black ink soaks the fragile bamboo floorboards. They follow the once inkpot – now ink puddle – to the floor, letting out a string of swearwords their mother definitely would scold them for. Their pants soak up some of the offending liquid immediately. The inexperienced shop owner doesn’t even seem to notice, busy saving stacks of yellowed paper from the ink’s destructive path. Once everything papery is moved out of harm’s way, they allow themselves to relax. Curse them and their clumsiness. Haven’t they wasted enough paper for a lifetime already? After calming down from the shock and scolding themselves thoroughly in their head, they finally look at the stack of records they almost accidentally destroyed. It’s one of their older manuscripts; they could tell immediately by the way the papers’ edges are yellowed and crisp. They can’t remember ever seeing this particular document before though. Curiously, they skim over the messy writings. It seems like a diary of sorts, though they can’t read the original document, as it isn’t written in Japanese. The second half of the stack is less yellowed by age, a translation, the future shop owner realises quickly. It’s written in a handwriting they recognise, it haunts almost every corner of their family home. They should have realised sooner that the manuscript belonged to their late grandfather’s collection by how close to the floor it had been stored away. How ironic that a manuscript was almost lost to time in a shop that specialises in old documents. Though, they suppose irony is one of the things that keeps life engaging. Still, it fills their heart with some melancholy. They never met their grandfather, but their mother used to rave about their similarities until she stopped when her child had turned into an angsty and easily annoyed teenager. For the third time today they sigh; how their mother had been able to put up with them during those years would always remain a mystery. The sound of the doorbell chiming and a feminine voice calling out alerts the now young adult about the presence of a new customer. They scramble off the ground as quickly as they can, readjust their glasses and tuck a few especially askew copper strands of hair behind their ears to make themselves look at least a little bit more presentable. Nothing could be done about the ink-soaked pants now. It would most likely stain too; ink always clings to fabric quite stubbornly. Especially light fabric. Well, they suppose this is also a way of leaving a mark on the world.	Taneya Another crumbled piece of paper hits the trashcan. By this point they’d become so good at aiming that the idea of becoming an international basketball player was starting to sound like something achievable. The young writer leans back against their chair and stares at yet another angrily scribbled-out paragraph. Screw this. For all their love for fiction, they had always been a laughably terrible writer. It's a trait that runs in the family. No wonder they own a shop selling texts from seemingly anyone but their bloodline. No wonder the shop would never lack employees. They look at their own ink-stained hands and crossed-out draft and sigh; maybe this is the path they were always meant to take. Inheriting the family shop doesn’t sound terrible. There are fates worse than looking after a place with generations' worth of history in it, no matter how small-scale said history may be. Sometimes it just felt like the compulsion to write, but the inability to do so would someday eat them from the inside out. The future shop owner sighs once again, slides their chair a little further back and swings their feet onto the antique table in front of them. After all, their mother isn’t there to scold them for it today. What the slacking youngster unfortunately seems to forget is the still-open pot of ink they had left at the edge of the table earlier. In their carelessness they accidentally knock it over and it goes flying off the table. The glass immediately shatters upon impact and pitch-black ink soaks the fragile bamboo floorboards. They follow the once inkpot – now ink puddle – to the floor, letting out a string of swearwords their mother definitely would scold them for. Their pants soak up some of the offending liquid immediately. The inexperienced shop owner doesn’t even seem to notice, busy saving stacks of yellowed paper from the ink’s destructive path. Once everything papery is moved out of harm’s way, they allow themselves to relax. Curse them and their clumsiness. Haven’t they wasted enough paper for a lifetime already? After calming down from the shock and scolding themselves thoroughly in their head, they finally look at the stack of records they almost accidentally destroyed. It’s one of their older manuscripts; they could tell immediately by the way the papers’ edges are yellowed and crisp. They can’t remember ever seeing this particular document before though. Curiously, they skim over the messy writings. It seems like a diary of sorts, though they can’t read the original document, as it isn’t written in Japanese. The second half of the stack is less yellowed by age, a translation, the future shop owner realises quickly. It’s written in a handwriting they recognise, it haunts almost every corner of their family home. They should have realised sooner that the manuscript belonged to their late grandfather’s collection by how close to the floor it had been stored away. How ironic that a manuscript was almost lost to time in a shop that specialises in old documents. Though, they suppose irony is one of the things that keeps life engaging. Still, it fills their heart with some melancholy. They never met their grandfather, but their mother used to rave about their similarities until she stopped when her child had turned into an angsty and easily annoyed teenager. For the third time today they sigh; how their mother had been able to put up with them during those years would always remain a mystery. The sound of the doorbell chiming and a feminine voice calling out alerts the now young adult about the presence of a new customer. They scramble off the ground as quickly as they can, readjust their glasses and tuck a few especially askew copper strands of hair behind their ears to make themselves look at least a little bit more presentable. Nothing could be done about the ink-soaked pants now. It would most likely stain too; ink always clings to fabric quite stubbornly. Especially light fabric. Well, they suppose this is also a way of leaving a mark on the world.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75565536	{"authors": ["ErdeiEper"], "language": "English", "title": "Taneya"}
brought up in spring, fly down in fall this isn’t working out. it’s over between us. i never want to see you again. Those words rang in Genya’s head the night he lost a big piece of himself. his heart. previously, Genya had a girlfriend. His quiet nature and role as the schools ace had a specific girl on his shoulder. she gave him the sweet experience of teenage love and admired him for who he was. or so he thought. she just called it quits out of nowhere after school. No phone call to let him know she was losing interest, no text ahead of time that maybe they should go on a break, nothing. She went to Genya’s last class of the day and dragged him outside where she rudely waved him off, gave a mean goodbye to their relationship. Genya stood there for a moment stunned. he could not believe that just happened. especially since there were a few people who saw him get broken up with like that. the embarrassment was immense. but nontheless while still in the heat of that moment he picked up his bag that she had knocked over and walked home. Sanemi wouldn’t be home for a little while longer, as he had to stay behind to grade worksheets he handed out. Genya’s heart pounded in his chest on the walk. his eyes were teary, his breathing was ragged as if he had been running non-stop. he had no idea that something as simple as a goodbye would affect him this much. this was all new to him. Genya had never had a girlfriend before her, as girls would normally find him scary or “weirdly huge” due to his size. he did not mind it since he himself was awkward around girls, but there being one who wasn’t afraid of him but “loved” him just made him the happiest teenage boy around. he was ecstatic when his now ex-girlfriend asked him out on a date to where he had sanemi give him advice and tips on what to do and what NOT to do during the date. When Genya came back later that night with lipstick marks all on his face, sanemi was your typical big brother and gassed Genya up ALL night. It was a surreal feeling. being able to spend his energy and time into someone who was doing the same for him, what more could he ask for? his lips trembled as his eyes stung a bit. stinging. he was crying. shit. his eyes get puffy when he cries, so it’s hard to hide. He doesn’t feel like explaining what happened to his mom cause he knows she’ll be worried sick or his little siblings nagging at him. he gently grabbed the cuffs of his sweater and pressed down on his eyes to get that puffiness to go away. as he approached the apartment’s, his sniffling came to a stop and he forced a regular pattern of breathing as he stepped inside. smile. yeah, he’ll just smile. Smile as if his whole world hadn’t been turned upside down half an hour ago. “Nii-chan!!!! I’ve been waiting on you! Come see what i made!” his little brother Hiroshi pressed. he had just made a Lego castle and was DYING to show someone that wasn’t already in the house. Genya obliged quite easily, as he needed something else to think about anyway. He spent his afternoon playing with his siblings and finishing up homework, both of which he was greatful for, so he wouldn’t be stuck with that godawful feeling in his chest. The feeling of suffocation. He hated hiding his true feelings from the people he loved, but this is something they just wouldn’t understand. ..or so he thought. Sanemi had got home a little later that night due to traffic and grabbed the family dinner on the way back. after greeting his mom with a kiss on the cheek and his siblings huddling on him like a pack of wild dogs with a slab of meat, he sat down and relaxed a bit while his mom continued laundry. but something was off. Normally he’d see Genya helping her out with whatever she was doing, but tonight he was nowhere to be found. that was concerning. no matter what, Genya would be somewhat glued to his mothers side at home if he wasn’t out with friends or completing assignments. so what was so bad that he was nowhere to be found now? The overprotective part of sanemi took over and he got up to go search for the younger boy. “Genya? You around?” Sanemi asked, his voice low, in worry that Genya could be sleeping right now and sanemi would feel terrible for waking him up. but much to his dismay, Genya did not answer. Sanemi inched closer to Genya’s bedroom door. The knocks on the door startling Genya, who quickly jolts up and runs over to the closet, hiding his face. That was weird behavior. “Genya…?” Sanemi asked again, now knowing that Genya was well and aware. “Yeah, Aniki?” Genya replied, his voice strained. “Mom’s in the other room doing laundry, im surprised you’re not down there since you normally always are when she’s dealing with things that could be heavy.” Sanemi chuckled, hoping to have broke the tension. Genya forced a chuckle back as he continued to “look for something” (hide his teary eyed face). “uh, hey.. is everything going well in school? I walked down towards the front of the school to make sure you were	brought up in spring, fly down in fall this isn’t working out. it’s over between us. i never want to see you again. Those words rang in Genya’s head the night he lost a big piece of himself. his heart. previously, Genya had a girlfriend. His quiet nature and role as the schools ace had a specific girl on his shoulder. she gave him the sweet experience of teenage love and admired him for who he was. or so he thought. she just called it quits out of nowhere after school. No phone call to let him know she was losing interest, no text ahead of time that maybe they should go on a break, nothing. She went to Genya’s last class of the day and dragged him outside where she rudely waved him off, gave a mean goodbye to their relationship. Genya stood there for a moment stunned. he could not believe that just happened. especially since there were a few people who saw him get broken up with like that. the embarrassment was immense. but nontheless while still in the heat of that moment he picked up his bag that she had knocked over and walked home. Sanemi wouldn’t be home for a little while longer, as he had to stay behind to grade worksheets he handed out. Genya’s heart pounded in his chest on the walk. his eyes were teary, his breathing was ragged as if he had been running non-stop. he had no idea that something as simple as a goodbye would affect him this much. this was all new to him. Genya had never had a girlfriend before her, as girls would normally find him scary or “weirdly huge” due to his size. he did not mind it since he himself was awkward around girls, but there being one who wasn’t afraid of him but “loved” him just made him the happiest teenage boy around. he was ecstatic when his now ex-girlfriend asked him out on a date to where he had sanemi give him advice and tips on what to do and what NOT to do during the date. When Genya came back later that night with lipstick marks all on his face, sanemi was your typical big brother and gassed Genya up ALL night. It was a surreal feeling. being able to spend his energy and time into someone who was doing the same for him, what more could he ask for? his lips trembled as his eyes stung a bit. stinging. he was crying. shit. his eyes get puffy when he cries, so it’s hard to hide. He doesn’t feel like explaining what happened to his mom cause he knows she’ll be worried sick or his little siblings nagging at him. he gently grabbed the cuffs of his sweater and pressed down on his eyes to get that puffiness to go away. as he approached the apartment’s, his sniffling came to a stop and he forced a regular pattern of breathing as he stepped inside. smile. yeah, he’ll just smile. Smile as if his whole world hadn’t been turned upside down half an hour ago. “Nii-chan!!!! I’ve been waiting on you! Come see what i made!” his little brother Hiroshi pressed. he had just made a Lego castle and was DYING to show someone that wasn’t already in the house. Genya obliged quite easily, as he needed something else to think about anyway. He spent his afternoon playing with his siblings and finishing up homework, both of which he was greatful for, so he wouldn’t be stuck with that godawful feeling in his chest. The feeling of suffocation. He hated hiding his true feelings from the people he loved, but this is something they just wouldn’t understand. ..or so he thought. Sanemi had got home a little later that night due to traffic and grabbed the family dinner on the way back. after greeting his mom with a kiss on the cheek and his siblings huddling on him like a pack of wild dogs with a slab of meat, he sat down and relaxed a bit while his mom continued laundry. but something was off. Normally he’d see Genya helping her out with whatever she was doing, but tonight he was nowhere to be found. that was concerning. no matter what, Genya would be somewhat glued to his mothers side at home if he wasn’t out with friends or completing assignments. so what was so bad that he was nowhere to be found now? The overprotective part of sanemi took over and he got up to go search for the younger boy. “Genya? You around?” Sanemi asked, his voice low, in worry that Genya could be sleeping right now and sanemi would feel terrible for waking him up. but much to his dismay, Genya did not answer. Sanemi inched closer to Genya’s bedroom door. The knocks on the door startling Genya, who quickly jolts up and runs over to the closet, hiding his face. That was weird behavior. “Genya…?” Sanemi asked again, now knowing that Genya was well and aware. “Yeah, Aniki?” Genya replied, his voice strained. “Mom’s in the other room doing laundry, im surprised you’re not down there since you normally always are when she’s dealing with things that could be heavy.” Sanemi chuckled, hoping to have broke the tension. Genya forced a chuckle back as he continued to “look for something” (hide his teary eyed face). “uh, hey.. is everything going well in school? I walked down towards the front of the school to make sure you were going home and I saw you pick your bag up off the ground. you’re not being bullied again are you?” sanemi turned from out of Genya’s doorframe, now looking directly at Genya’s side with an expression that reads “if it’s true, im gonna commit murder.” Genya looked down at his shoe collection and bent down acting as if he was still searching for something. “No. I’m not.” Genya replied. Sounding like he wasn’t in any mood to talk. Sanemi wanted to press the issue, but didn’t want to anger Genya in fear of Genya NOT telling him if he was being bullied again, so he let it go. “Alright. but let me know if anything is going on. I’ll knock somebody out.” Sanemi always made threats in such a silly way that Genya couldn’t help but laugh. Genya didn’t laugh this time. Sanemi now officially knew that something was wrong. “Yeah, i will.” He replied softly. Sanemi then left his room and went back to the living room confused on what could possibly be troubling Genya at this moment. his grades were up to par, the whole house was giving him love, so it HAD to be something socially. And by all means he was going to figure out what. That next morning, Genya took his time getting ready ready and was clearly not looking forward to his day. he had classes with her. he had math class with her. Sanemi’s class at that. And they were put together on purpose. Oh god how was he supposed to ride that out today since his heart still felt like it was bleeding. but the first stage of grief is always denial. so Genya forced himself to think he would be fine in that class period. nothing would happen. ..right? at lunch, Genya sat with his usual people. Tanjiro, Inosuke, zenitsu, and sometimes kanao would drop by. but today it was just the boys, which he was greatful for because he believed kanao was cordial with his now ex-girlfriend. Genya was always quiet with them, but today he’s been quieter than usual, which struck Tanjiro since that boy can literally smell emotions. he turned towards Genya and fixed his mouth: “Genya, what’s wrong?” He had the most sympathetic look on his face. no “is something wrong?” no. Tanjiro knew something was wrong. So now Genya’s found himself in a sticky situation since the two other boys are now looking at him with that same empathetic gaze. “oh.. just a failed test. That’s all.” Genya shrugged as he forced more and more watermelon down his throat. He didn’t want to cry. Not right now. Not infront of them who most likely also knew the girl too. that would just embarrass him even further. as Inosuke starts to ramble on about classes since the topic had been changed, he mentions how the math assignment today required you to get into groups of 2 with the person you’re sitting next to. Genya shot his head up. his stomach dropped. His chest tightened. he tried to force an “im okay” look, but that failed. Terribly. “yo Genya, you sure you just failed a test?” Zenitsu chimed in. “Yeah yeah it’s just that no worries.” Genya replied weakly, taking deep breaths over and over. Fuck. This was terrible. “you’re sitting next to your girlfriend though, so im sure you’re giddy about that” inosuke cackled. Girlfriend. Genya shivered at that word. But that little action right there was a dead giveaway. Tanjiro looked at Genya with the most puppy-dog eyes you’ve ever seen. “Genya… why’d you guys break up?” no response. just… tears? What? Why’s he crying? He can’t cry. Not right now. Not… here… With a wet sob, he curled himself into a ball pulling his knees up to his forehead and just sniffled a lot afterward. The three boys were stunned. But they decided to comfort Genya in the best way they could before lunch was over. “You could ask shinazugawa-sensei to move you, if that would be better.” Zenitsu chimed in, his voice lower than what it normally is. Showing Genya respect. “No… I can’t tell him what happened with her. He’ll think im a loser.” Genya admitted softly. that’s what he thought about himself. He thought he was a loser. He thought he was pathetic. He must have did something wrong for her to leave him like that yet he had no idea what. he’s scary, intimidating, and embarrassing to be around. no wonder she left him. no wonder. My god the next period was brutal. not only were his eyes puffed up from that little moment he had with his friends, he was right next to her. her of all people. walking into the classroom to see her sitting there just made his stomach drop. normally he would’ve been lit up like a lightbulb trotting over to her but now… Now all he felt was dread. according to inosuke, the assignment today had partners and she was the LAST person he wanted to talk to. “I never want to see you again.” He remembers what she said the previous day. He had never felt like this before. He doesn’t know how to work with it and it’s killing him. He feels as if he’s drowning. sitting next to her after she just pulled that stunt made him feel nauseous. All he wanted to do was go home and—— A loud bang echoes from his desk. “Pay attention.” Sanemi asked. though as soon as he got a good look at Genya’s face, he could tell Genya had been crying. And his heart sank. he squinted his eyes at his younger brother before heading back to the front of the room to continue his lesson. time for the assignment. much to Genya’s luck, sanemi let his class pick their partners. God, yes. zenitsu was in the same period as Genya, so they worked together while Genya’s ex-girlfriend went with her other friend. but as she sat and worked on the assignment, he kept finding his eyes drifting back over to her. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she spoke, the way she wasn’t afraid to ask for clarification, it was all so much. Just watching her be alive without him just made him want to die. He spent the rest of that class period thinking down on himself, missing her, completing his assignment and listening to zenitsu talk endlessly which again was more preferable to him at the moment to once again ignore that suffocating feeling in his chest and the endless twisting in his stomach. It had been a week since Genya had his heart broken. As the days went by, his attitude and demeanor had changed drastically. He was no longer as cheerful as he was a week ago, sure he still laughed and smiled here and there but most of those smiles were not genuine. people who looked at him closely could tell. He also hadn’t mentioned that girl in a week either. Normally he would’ve had something to say about her. Like something she did that made his heart flutter or something that they talked about or their plans for the weekend. Nope. None of that. It was finally Saturday again, and all Genya wanted to do was stay in bed. Not going anywhere, not talking to anyone, just by himself. And he did just that. He spent most of his day in bed either on his phone or watching movies on his laptop he uses for both school and personal reasons. he thought about her almost all day. he wanted to talk to her, call her, ask her why she did that. If there’s something he could do to bring her back, if he needed to change, whatever it was just come back. The re-occurring thoughts of her gave him the stupid idea of going back through his camera roll and looking at the photo album he had saved of her and himself, just doing stupid teenage things together. Photobooth pictures, silly texts, silly voice messages, looking back at all of that made Genya’s heart frown. He hated himself. He hated that she was able to leave him just so easily after everything that they had done together. he dwelled on that for quite a while. seeing that it was around 8:00pm, he got up and headed towards the bathroom to take a shower due to the amount of sweat he had produced by working out in his room until the thoughts of that girl went away. he would’ve done anything just to get her out of his head. He only cried about it like 3 times total out of the week that they had been apart and god he needed to cry so. much. more. But he couldn’t. Cause that would only make him feel worse than he did now. Coming out of the shower and going back to his room in his iconic egg t-shirt and shorts, he plopped back down on his bed and sighed. Around this time, she would call him just to tell him about what she’s done today. a part of him still wanted to await that call, but much to his dissapointment it never came. after a full on 20 minutes of waiting for her to call, he picked up his phone again. went right back to that album, and looked even deeper into it. This time, he played videos of when they were together. The silly videos she took of them, them holding hands, just doing shit Genya thought he never would’ve gotten the chance to experience. Then he finds it. THAT message. it was her asking him out on a date for the first time. Genya’s eyes watered, his chest went up and down rapidly, his fingers felt numb. 2 months ago. 2 months ago she asked him to be her boyfriend. 2 months he spent on her. 2 months of love he could’ve just kept to himself. 2 months of lies. 2 months. he repeated that in his head until he emotionally could not take it anymore. He burst out crying. Not the soft cries, the loud, ugly cries you normally hear when someone has just lost something very dear to them. He sobbed into his pillow as memories of him and her on that date play over and over in his head. All her “i love you’s” All her “baby!!’s” What bullshit. To beileve someone actually wanted him. he was so stupid. Stupid. Stu— “Genya what the fuck?!” Sanemi burst through his door. Genya yelped as he sat up. “Why are you here? Get out!” He managed to push out between two separate sobs. sanemi looked at him in disbelief and worry. Genya hadn’t cried like this since their dad had been pronounced dead since he was killed in prison. sanemi rushed over to Genya and sat on the edge of his bed, edging closer to Genya himself. “Genya. You have to tell me what’s wrong.” Now, sanemi thought Genya was being picked on again due to Genya coming home upset regularly last year because of kids who’s dads were also in prison picking on Genya cause his dad ended up killed. It was all so stupid. Genya looked at sanemi, his eyes redder than his face, as he sat up and slowly made his way over to sanemi. sanemi welcomed him with open arms, and once Genya was in his grasp, he held Genya tightly. soothing him. “Genya.” Sanemi spoke. His voice low, but not intimidating. with that, Genya lost it. he broke down right in front of sanemi. The last person he wanted to find out. he cried into sanemi’s shoulder for quite a while. And sanemi? Sanemi sat there, letting Genya get it all out. He could tell Genya had pent his feelings up for him to cry like this. Sanemi’s silence was an invitation for Genya to let go. A few minutes later, Genya’s sobs come to a slowing point as he sniffles and tries to control his ragged breathing once again. “you wanna talk about it?” Sanemi asked cautiously. Genya nodded. “I don’t know what I did wrong. she left me. Just like that.” Sanemi’s eyes widen. Genya had been crying over a girl. That was the last thing sanemi thought Genya would be this upset over. Nonetheless, Genya continued: “she just called things off with me right then and there. Didn’t even give me a chance to talk.” His voice trembled. His hands were shaky and his heart felt so heavy. But that started ease up as he began telling sanemi almost everything that he felt in that moment and what he’s been feeling throughout the week. “oh… genyaaa…” sanemi cocked his head to the side slowly as he closely looked at Genya’s red, tear-ridden face. “you could have told me sooner that things ended with you guys. I would’ve been able to help out.” He gave a reassuring smile, but Genya refused to look his way. “it sucks how she did that right infront of other people. She could’ve atleast took you behind a tree or something.” Sanemi spoke once more, hoping to now grab Genya’s undivided attention. He grabbed Genya in a tighter hug, the younger boys head nuzzled into the older boys neck. “don’t let her affect your mood like this. Some relationships end. and i know you didn’t want it to but im sorry that happened. now the next step is learning to move on which can take a long time. Moving on has no time limit. It could take you even an eternity. But nonetheless as long as you’re making progress the time period it takes does not matter. she was your first love correct? It will definitely take you longer than usual to get over her, but don’t worry too much about it. Girls are weird, you may never find out why she did that. But the best thing to do is work on forgetting about her. I know that hurts to hear, but there’s no way i can beat around the bush this time. You’ll most likely feel like crap for a while longer, but this time, talk to me about it. I’ll do what I can to take the load off of you.” Genya sniffled, taking in all the advice sanemi was offering. And it made him feel a little bit better. normally sanemi wouldn’t burden the others with his darting life, but he felt the need to relate to Genya a bit more right now. Especially when this could turn into even better bonding time. “you know.. when Kanae and i broke up—-“ Genya snapped his head up. Sanemi smiled. He knew that would do it. “KANAE-SENSEI?!?!?!” Genya jumped. Instantly turning to meet the white haired man’s scarred cheek. “Yeaaaah….. things just didn’t work out with her and i was devastated over it.” Genya sat there in utter shock. he knew that Kanae and sanemi had something not-so-friendly going on, but he had no idea they actually became OFFICIAL at some point. “Oh my go- tell me what happened. Who broke up with who?” Genya asked, his mood clearly changing. “she left me, too. Although she did it in a more polite way. What i mean is, polite or rude, break ups still hurt. So don’t feel bad for your reaction, kid.” Sanemi rubbed Genya’s shoulder gently to send the message that he was being serious. “Well, now i know.” Genya smirked through another sniffle. After a small agreement they moved to the living room couch, grabbed blankets, and talked endlessly about anything and everything. How they didn’t understand girls to losing miserably at “try not to laugh” challenge videos to falling asleep horizontally across from eachother right on that couch. When their mom woke up, since her body was trained to wake up early, she saw them like that and almost died of a love overdose. She snapped like 5000 pictures and it took an insane amount of self control to not post them. Her two oldest babies doing the same thing they did when they were kids. She could’ve sworn her soul was taken right at that moment. She started cooking breakfast. Sanemi was first to rise, the scent of food hitting his nostrils in an instant. He got up slowly to help his mom out with breakfast. They finished just in time for the younger kids who all started to rise themselves one by one. The last one to wake up was Genya. But when he did, seeing his family all together in the living room with him just being lively made his heart warm up. Then he reached over the couch rest and checked his phone to see he had multiple messages from his friends. Tanjiro, zenitsu, tokito, all of them sent him messages to check up on him. They invited him out to lunch that day. Genya smiled warmly as he started to come to the realization that he really did not need his now ex-girlfriend to maintain happiness. His family was surrounding him with their chaotic love, his friends were surrounding him with THEIR chaotic love, and as he realized that, something inside him starting healing. His heart. He will be okay. Even if it takes a while, he will get over her. With the support of his family and friends, he can come to understand that she just wasn’t the one for him and that he will indeed find someone else who will love him even better than she did.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75565556	{"authors": ["sakuramochifetti"], "language": "English", "title": "brought up in spring, fly down in fall"}
Yummy éclairs! Garroth dung his nose deeper, the scent was somewhere. He just couldnt pin point when the house had become a maze in the night. Earlier laurence had made some éclairs, his favourite! But laurence said he have to wait till morning as it was late in the night and far too hot to eat then. Little does laurence know, there's never a wrong time to eat éclairs!. He held his head high in the air, taking a whiff using his new found werewolf senses. The éclairs had been hidden in the kitchen, he knew it!. But laurence did say he'd know if garroth tried to get them before he even took a bite of them.. Garroth didnt know what that meant. Or if he wanted to know. As he slowly crept into the kitchen he felt something on his foot, as he went to hold up his foot to see what it was, he slipped into a puddle of something warm and sticky. Garroth landed with a thud, his head banging onto the weirdly warm tiles. As he went to pick himself up he found himself stuck to the floor. "Told you." Garroth let out a squeak, his fur feeling soggy and strangely thick. He tried to speak but no words would leave his mouth for some reason. Laurence stood at the doorway, arms crossed with a smile on his face. Flicking the light switch on he took a long look at garroths face. "Awww, look who got caught." Laurence chuckled out, finally uncrossing his arms and taking careful steps towards Garroth who was frozen in shock and probably terror. Seemingly, Laurence had stuck a huge glue trap down right infront of where he had hid the éclairs. And Garroth was his prey, and he'd caught it. Laurence crept down on all fours, with Garroths wide body spread out it was slightly hard to crawl atop of him but Garroth didnt seem to mind. He didnt make a pip or squirm, just watched as laurence made his way atop his thighs. "If you wanted one so bad you should've just waited." Laurence glared into Garroths eyes, maintaining eye contact as he reached for the cabinet. As laurence reached his hand in, ruffling with what sounded like foil. "Close your eyes." Laurence ordered, Garroth obliged too shocked to even bother arguing. Slowly Garroth heard the door clunk closed, then moments later laurences hands were on his mouth. "Open." Garroth would do anything for laurence, and something about this was so arousing for Garroth. The idea of not knowing whats going on- and holy shit what has he just put in my mouth. Suddenly a squeak and little hands grabbed between garroths teeth. "Kill it and you wont get anymore of your treats." Laurence said as if was the weather. There was a live mouse in Garroths mouth. A live mouse. Garroth went to open his eyes before laurence held his hand to hold them down. One hand on his thigh and a low growl that told Garroth everything he needed to know. Stay still. Garroth held his eyes shut, beginning to shake from fear of killing the animal in his mouth. But now even fearful realising he couldnt properly move. No wriggling would help, only strengthening the glue further. Laurences hand trailed circles in his thigh before tugging down Garroths pants. Leaving Garroths strangely hard dick free with precum dribbling down. "Wow, cant believe you actually like this?" Laurence scoffed, not fully convinced this was happening either. Then laurence grabbed the base of of Garroths cock, stroking upwards till something incredibly warm touched Garroths tip. The squishy feeling as it went over made Garroth believe it was laurences mouth, but the wetness was far too thick to be. It made him moan nonetheless, struggling to not crush the creature in his mouth As the whole thing went over, Laurence used his fingers to open Garroths eyes. As Garroth took an actual look all he could see was the poor animal scared our of its mind and . Oh my fucking irene that was not laurences mouth. Laurence had pulled one of the éclairs out from the cupboard and slid it onto garroths dick, chocolate and pastry cream covering all his nooks and crannies. It was at this point Garroth remembered he had not washed down there in a good while. Having thick foreskin meant it was a struggle to clean somedays, and often days he just forgot too. Hes not really one to check his dick in the shower. So now you couldnt tell what was the cream, and what was the dick cheese. Laurence curled his hair behind his ear before giving garroth a smirk. Garroth tried to scream, but fear between his canines caught him. Leaving laurence to take his cheese sandwich of a dick in his mouth. Laurence began to eat pieces off, licking off the cream as well as the chocolate. With every bite, lick and slurp garroth huffed so deep, laurence thought the mouse would fly out of his mouth. As Laurences mouth worked Garroth he got tastes of cheese in the cream, wondering when he put that in there. But soon the taste of the chocolate distracted him from the other strange tastes. As Laurence looks bites and bites, Garroth begun to groan, his teeth curling into the animal that now squeaked furiously.	Yummy éclairs! Garroth dung his nose deeper, the scent was somewhere. He just couldnt pin point when the house had become a maze in the night. Earlier laurence had made some éclairs, his favourite! But laurence said he have to wait till morning as it was late in the night and far too hot to eat then. Little does laurence know, there's never a wrong time to eat éclairs!. He held his head high in the air, taking a whiff using his new found werewolf senses. The éclairs had been hidden in the kitchen, he knew it!. But laurence did say he'd know if garroth tried to get them before he even took a bite of them.. Garroth didnt know what that meant. Or if he wanted to know. As he slowly crept into the kitchen he felt something on his foot, as he went to hold up his foot to see what it was, he slipped into a puddle of something warm and sticky. Garroth landed with a thud, his head banging onto the weirdly warm tiles. As he went to pick himself up he found himself stuck to the floor. "Told you." Garroth let out a squeak, his fur feeling soggy and strangely thick. He tried to speak but no words would leave his mouth for some reason. Laurence stood at the doorway, arms crossed with a smile on his face. Flicking the light switch on he took a long look at garroths face. "Awww, look who got caught." Laurence chuckled out, finally uncrossing his arms and taking careful steps towards Garroth who was frozen in shock and probably terror. Seemingly, Laurence had stuck a huge glue trap down right infront of where he had hid the éclairs. And Garroth was his prey, and he'd caught it. Laurence crept down on all fours, with Garroths wide body spread out it was slightly hard to crawl atop of him but Garroth didnt seem to mind. He didnt make a pip or squirm, just watched as laurence made his way atop his thighs. "If you wanted one so bad you should've just waited." Laurence glared into Garroths eyes, maintaining eye contact as he reached for the cabinet. As laurence reached his hand in, ruffling with what sounded like foil. "Close your eyes." Laurence ordered, Garroth obliged too shocked to even bother arguing. Slowly Garroth heard the door clunk closed, then moments later laurences hands were on his mouth. "Open." Garroth would do anything for laurence, and something about this was so arousing for Garroth. The idea of not knowing whats going on- and holy shit what has he just put in my mouth. Suddenly a squeak and little hands grabbed between garroths teeth. "Kill it and you wont get anymore of your treats." Laurence said as if was the weather. There was a live mouse in Garroths mouth. A live mouse. Garroth went to open his eyes before laurence held his hand to hold them down. One hand on his thigh and a low growl that told Garroth everything he needed to know. Stay still. Garroth held his eyes shut, beginning to shake from fear of killing the animal in his mouth. But now even fearful realising he couldnt properly move. No wriggling would help, only strengthening the glue further. Laurences hand trailed circles in his thigh before tugging down Garroths pants. Leaving Garroths strangely hard dick free with precum dribbling down. "Wow, cant believe you actually like this?" Laurence scoffed, not fully convinced this was happening either. Then laurence grabbed the base of of Garroths cock, stroking upwards till something incredibly warm touched Garroths tip. The squishy feeling as it went over made Garroth believe it was laurences mouth, but the wetness was far too thick to be. It made him moan nonetheless, struggling to not crush the creature in his mouth As the whole thing went over, Laurence used his fingers to open Garroths eyes. As Garroth took an actual look all he could see was the poor animal scared our of its mind and . Oh my fucking irene that was not laurences mouth. Laurence had pulled one of the éclairs out from the cupboard and slid it onto garroths dick, chocolate and pastry cream covering all his nooks and crannies. It was at this point Garroth remembered he had not washed down there in a good while. Having thick foreskin meant it was a struggle to clean somedays, and often days he just forgot too. Hes not really one to check his dick in the shower. So now you couldnt tell what was the cream, and what was the dick cheese. Laurence curled his hair behind his ear before giving garroth a smirk. Garroth tried to scream, but fear between his canines caught him. Leaving laurence to take his cheese sandwich of a dick in his mouth. Laurence began to eat pieces off, licking off the cream as well as the chocolate. With every bite, lick and slurp garroth huffed so deep, laurence thought the mouse would fly out of his mouth. As Laurences mouth worked Garroth he got tastes of cheese in the cream, wondering when he put that in there. But soon the taste of the chocolate distracted him from the other strange tastes. As Laurence looks bites and bites, Garroth begun to groan, his teeth curling into the animal that now squeaked furiously. As laurence cleaned Garroth up with his tounge he realised that Garroth had a very thick, overspilled wall of smegma. As he continued to lick, slowly pushing Garroth to the edge and after taking a horrifying closer look he realised there was tiny marks in the mixture. Laurence tried to pull himself back in time, but nothing could save him from what he'd just realised. Laurence begun to throw up rapidly all over Garroth, in the meanwhile Garroth had shut his eyes and shot thick ropes of cum all over himself. Accidentally also killing the mouse in his mouth. Blood trickling down him now. As Garroth slowed down from his high he heard the noises, looked up to see the corpse in his mouth and cum and vomit mixed all over him. Laurence begun to have a panic attack, tear streaming down his face as his body began to convulse again. Great. And Garroth couldnt move from the glue and neither could laurence now. They were truly stuck together like the disgusting freaks they were.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75561296	{"authors": ["Altzombiegrls"], "language": "English", "title": "Yummy éclairs!"}
Little Christmas Miracles Andrew Doe was five years old when he first realised that miracles happened at Christmas. He already knew that Santa wasn’t real, not after the horrible Christmas he’d had the year before. But, that year, he found a present on his bed that no-one else had seen or stolen. When he opened it, he found the exact book he’d been wanting. None of the other kids seemed to be able to see it while he read it and he hid it so they’d never take it from him. He wasn’t able to take it with him when he moved on , but he remembered what had happened. Two years later, he was having a horrible time. Andrew hadn’t had much to eat in the last week. His foster parents were struggling. Only certain kids were going to receive presents, as long as their presents weren’t expensive. One of the younger ones was really ill, but the adults couldn’t afford to take them to a hospital. Then, on Christmas Eve, everything changed. The boy got better. Their ‘parents’ got jobs again. Somehow, the house seemed more joyful. To top it all off, Andrew found a present on his bed again, this time a cosy jumper. When Andrew turned to make sure no-one was watching, he was sure that he glimpsed something impossible: a boy his age with red hair and blue eyes and wings and a strange man standing behind him with a hand on the boy’s shoulder. But he blinked and the strange figures were gone. The next year brought Andrew a vision of the boy on his own, nervously wringing his hands. His wings were the purest white Andrew ever remembered seeing. And Andrew had needed to be invisible for Christmas day. The place he was in had a drunkard as a ‘father’ and the other kids had told him horror stories of Christmas Day and the way he would throw things at people. One kid was in a wheelchair because of him, though they’d claimed it was an accident. Over the days leading up to Christmas, the guy didn’t seem to be interested in Andrew or any of the children stuck there. Instead, he hit the woman too many times and the children were all moved on. So, when Andrew had just turned nine and his foster family decided they couldn’t keep him, he decided that he would use the strange power to stop it from happening. So, while the rest of the kids were watching TV, Andrew barricaded himself into their room and turned to the empty space behind him. He crossed his arms and said, “Okay, we’re alone. You can come out now.” Nothing happened. “I’m talking to you, the Christmas fairy or angel or whatever you are. I know you’re there. You’re always making miracles happen.” Andrew looked carefully around the room but no-one appeared, not even a flickering image. “But I don’t want a present this year,” he continued, stepping away from the door. Slowly he turned around looking for a hint of that red hair or the blue eyes. “And I don’t want to hide from anyone. I just want you to make it so I don’t need to leave; I don’t want to have to go to another foster family. So, do your little miracle thing and let me stay here.” A little silence followed his words. Andrew clenched his hands into fists and fought to stay calm. He would have to make more of a case. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have time. If he had to, he would keep asking, right up until Christmas Day. “It’s not that simple,” said a voice from behind him and Andrew spun to face the speaker. He moved so fast that he lost his balance and fell onto his own bed. There, he sat up and blinked at the person who stood before him. The boy really did have red hair - but not the bright red of crayons or pencils, a darker red that was much better than what Andrew had been drawing. And he did have blue eyes - but they were much brighter than any blue Andrew had ever seen, maybe even brighter than the sky on a sunny day. Then there were the pure white wings - feathers were definitely involved and they were bigger than when Andrew had last glimpsed him. But they didn’t seem big enough for the boy’s body. They also didn’t seem to stop moving, rustling and ruffling and twitching, as if the boy had somewhere else to be. Andrew blinked at him for a long moment, but he didn’t disappear. Relieved, Andrew said, “Why not?” “Because I’m a new angel,” the boy said. He was clutching at his dress - his toga - as he spoke, clearly nervous. “I can only make miracles happen for the twelve days leading up to Christmas and Christmas Day itself. Even if I made it so you could stay here, it would only be for Christmas.” “That’s stupid,” Andrew said, bluntly. “What kind of miracle has a time limit?” The boy suddenly looked teary. “I don’t know. But I’m not allowed to ask questions. And I shouldn’t be showing myself, either. I’m going to be in so much trouble…” In that moment, the angel looked a lot like most of the younger kids, frightened and far from what they knew as home. Andrew didn’t really like putting them at ease, but he knew he had to distract this strange being before Andrew got in trouble, too. “What’s your name?” Blinking, the angel	Little Christmas Miracles Andrew Doe was five years old when he first realised that miracles happened at Christmas. He already knew that Santa wasn’t real, not after the horrible Christmas he’d had the year before. But, that year, he found a present on his bed that no-one else had seen or stolen. When he opened it, he found the exact book he’d been wanting. None of the other kids seemed to be able to see it while he read it and he hid it so they’d never take it from him. He wasn’t able to take it with him when he moved on , but he remembered what had happened. Two years later, he was having a horrible time. Andrew hadn’t had much to eat in the last week. His foster parents were struggling. Only certain kids were going to receive presents, as long as their presents weren’t expensive. One of the younger ones was really ill, but the adults couldn’t afford to take them to a hospital. Then, on Christmas Eve, everything changed. The boy got better. Their ‘parents’ got jobs again. Somehow, the house seemed more joyful. To top it all off, Andrew found a present on his bed again, this time a cosy jumper. When Andrew turned to make sure no-one was watching, he was sure that he glimpsed something impossible: a boy his age with red hair and blue eyes and wings and a strange man standing behind him with a hand on the boy’s shoulder. But he blinked and the strange figures were gone. The next year brought Andrew a vision of the boy on his own, nervously wringing his hands. His wings were the purest white Andrew ever remembered seeing. And Andrew had needed to be invisible for Christmas day. The place he was in had a drunkard as a ‘father’ and the other kids had told him horror stories of Christmas Day and the way he would throw things at people. One kid was in a wheelchair because of him, though they’d claimed it was an accident. Over the days leading up to Christmas, the guy didn’t seem to be interested in Andrew or any of the children stuck there. Instead, he hit the woman too many times and the children were all moved on. So, when Andrew had just turned nine and his foster family decided they couldn’t keep him, he decided that he would use the strange power to stop it from happening. So, while the rest of the kids were watching TV, Andrew barricaded himself into their room and turned to the empty space behind him. He crossed his arms and said, “Okay, we’re alone. You can come out now.” Nothing happened. “I’m talking to you, the Christmas fairy or angel or whatever you are. I know you’re there. You’re always making miracles happen.” Andrew looked carefully around the room but no-one appeared, not even a flickering image. “But I don’t want a present this year,” he continued, stepping away from the door. Slowly he turned around looking for a hint of that red hair or the blue eyes. “And I don’t want to hide from anyone. I just want you to make it so I don’t need to leave; I don’t want to have to go to another foster family. So, do your little miracle thing and let me stay here.” A little silence followed his words. Andrew clenched his hands into fists and fought to stay calm. He would have to make more of a case. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have time. If he had to, he would keep asking, right up until Christmas Day. “It’s not that simple,” said a voice from behind him and Andrew spun to face the speaker. He moved so fast that he lost his balance and fell onto his own bed. There, he sat up and blinked at the person who stood before him. The boy really did have red hair - but not the bright red of crayons or pencils, a darker red that was much better than what Andrew had been drawing. And he did have blue eyes - but they were much brighter than any blue Andrew had ever seen, maybe even brighter than the sky on a sunny day. Then there were the pure white wings - feathers were definitely involved and they were bigger than when Andrew had last glimpsed him. But they didn’t seem big enough for the boy’s body. They also didn’t seem to stop moving, rustling and ruffling and twitching, as if the boy had somewhere else to be. Andrew blinked at him for a long moment, but he didn’t disappear. Relieved, Andrew said, “Why not?” “Because I’m a new angel,” the boy said. He was clutching at his dress - his toga - as he spoke, clearly nervous. “I can only make miracles happen for the twelve days leading up to Christmas and Christmas Day itself. Even if I made it so you could stay here, it would only be for Christmas.” “That’s stupid,” Andrew said, bluntly. “What kind of miracle has a time limit?” The boy suddenly looked teary. “I don’t know. But I’m not allowed to ask questions. And I shouldn’t be showing myself, either. I’m going to be in so much trouble…” In that moment, the angel looked a lot like most of the younger kids, frightened and far from what they knew as home. Andrew didn’t really like putting them at ease, but he knew he had to distract this strange being before Andrew got in trouble, too. “What’s your name?” Blinking, the angel sniffed. “Um… Nathaniel.” “Natha- Na- I’ll call you Nate.” Nathaniel shook his head. “My mentor gets called Nate.” Andrew shrugged. “Neil, then.” A smile struggled to appear on Neil’s face but, when it did, it made the room so much brighter. “Okay! I can’t help you with the family, but you’ll get to have a nice, family Christmas. With presents and food and everyone here.” “I told you-” Andrew began, frowning at him. Neil shook his head. “The miracle is that you’ll have nice memories of Christmas forever!” he said, rather excitedly. “Next year, I’ll see if I can do something better. I’ll be a better angel, then.” “That-” Andrew began, but they were interrupted by a thud on the other side of the door. Flinching, Andrew glanced away from Neil and, when he looked back, the angel had disappeared. As the other kids began to shout and whine, Andrew sighed and hoped that his new family would be better. On the next Christmas, Andrew didn’t expect to see Neil again. After all, Andrew didn’t believe in miracles any more. There was nothing in this world except the monsters that hurt him. And it wasn’t as if Neil could take him away from here - he’d said that it wouldn’t last past Christmas. So, Andrew lay on his bed, disgusted with himself and the hope that still flickered deep inside himself. Suddenly, something shifted in the corner of his eye. Alarmed, Andrew flinched and scrambled away from it. Then he realised that he was looking at Neil, his wings (bigger now) fluttering behind him. He looked horrified and Andrew knew then that Neil had seen what had happened in the middle of the night, only a few hours ago. Angry, Andrew turned his head away so that Neil would disappear. Instead, Neil said, “Andrew…” “Go away,” Andrew snapped. “I don’t need you or your ‘miracles’.” “But you do. That’s the reason I’m here.” Andrew turned over to glare at Neil. “Your miracles are worthless. If you want to give me a miracle, then you would take me away from here.” Neil looked upset and he was clutching at his toga again. That bunched the material up and Andrew could see more of his legs. If his foster dad could see him… Andrew felt sick and dragged his gaze up to Neil’s beautiful wings. They were fluttering more now in a response to Neil’s anxiousness. It irritated Andrew. “I could,” Neil said, quietly. His head was ducked down as if he was ashamed or embarrassed. “But it would only be until Christmas Day and then you would be back here.” Andrew felt the hope die within him. “Then I don’t want it. I don’t want anything from you. Just leave me alone.” “But I want to help!” Neil protested. He stepped closer and his wings began to spread out behind him. Neil seemed serious at that moment, but Andrew couldn’t cope with this false rescue. “I don’t care! If an angel can’t help me, there’s nothing that will. I can deal with it on my own.” Neil stared at him for a long moment, seemingly devastated. But Andrew was only one person. Angels had loads more people to watch over. So, with one last look at his Christmas angel, Andrew rolled over. By the time he had to roll back to watch him come into the room, Neil was long gone. “I’m so sorry, Andrew.” “I’ve failed you. But I’ll fix it.” “I know what to do now. Hang in there.” “Your miracle is coming, hold on.” “I’ve got everything ready. I’m coming, Andrew.” Andrew’s time at juvie was coming to an end. Soon, he would probably be put back into the system. Unless that Luther guy petitioned to take him home. Not that Andrew would go with him. He couldn’t risk being close to his ‘brother’. His twin. His other option was the Spears, though it wasn’t an option at all. For the past year or so, Andrew had been limiting his contact with Cass, so he doubted that she would take him home. Her letters, though… Some of them, he had had to rip apart when he saw his name. Others, he had kept until his roommate found them. Thankfully, he had his room to himself for a couple of hours. His latest roomie had been released - ‘just in time for Christmas!’. Andrew wished him well, especially with his newfound sexuality. If he didn’t hide it from his homophobic daddy. The rest of the facility was giving him a farewell party or doing their own thing. Andrew opted for lying on his bed and staring at the bunk above him. Sudden movement made Andrew flinch and he tried to cover it up by jerking upright, glaring at the doorway. He froze when he saw who it was. After their last conversation, Andrew had only seen him in his dreams. Little snippets of words had stuck with him. And, on occasion, Andrew’s Christmases would be a little bit more bearable than before. Neil looked like he had grown older at the same rate as Andrew, though they were both the same height now. His hair was tied in a long plait that was draped over his shoulder. For some reason, he was now wearing jeans and a t-shirt, both in a shade of grey that matched parts of his wings. It looked like Neil had been infected by something and it was slowly consuming him, spreading in large splotches. Was this what it looked like when an angel died? Still, Andrew didn’t want to see him, so he kept his face as blank as possible. “What are you doing here?” “I’m here to bring you a Christmas miracle,” Neil said. His voice had dropped and he seemed more confident in himself, if still rather restless. Behind him, his wings kept flapping slightly. “I told you that I don’t want one.” “This one will be more permanent,” Neil told him. Andrew narrowed his eyes at him. “You can’t do that. Are you lying to me?” “No.” Neil smirked, proud of himself. “I’m a new angel, so no-one knew what to do with me. I’ve been working in all the different departments. Christmas is the easiest as the miracles don’t have to last, so I started off there. Technically, I should have been watching over your Christmases until you died, but my mentor - my creator - decided that he wanted to see how I would do in the other departments.” “You mean, God.” “Nope. God doesn’t create angels anymore. They prefer making creatures with Free Will now and angels aren’t supposed to have any of that. But the angel who created me didn’t exactly create me perfectly.” Intrigued, Andrew leaned forward. “Is that why you look like that?” “Huh?” Neil looked down at himself, then glanced over his shoulder at his wings. They drooped when he turned back to Andrew. “Well, no… It’s because of what I’ve done to make this miracle stick.” Andrew went very still. “What did you do?” “Well, you’ve been refusing to meet your brother and uncle,” Neil explained, looking a little too proud of himself. “There’ll be a mix-up with their next request. They’ll be here in a couple of days to meet you.” “You had no right-” Andrew began, his jaw clenched. “And Cassandra Spear wants to adopt you,” Neil interrupted him. “You intend to go back into the system, die or get put back in here, don’t you?” Again, Andrew froze. “Stop-” “So, I’ve given you the options.” “Explain.” “You can go live with your biological family or you can be adopted by Cass,” said Neil with a careless shrug. “You know why I can’t go back to the Spears,” Andrew said, fighting to keep control. “I took care of that.” Andrew stared at him. “Explain.” Neil reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a raggedy scroll which he let unfurl. “He won’t be around to hurt you anymore.” Glancing down, Neil read something. “He’s going to get into a nasty car accident. A pile-up, actually. Everyone else will be miraculously saved. But he’ll die, slowly and in agony, completely alone.” He turned the scroll around to show something that hurt Andrew’s head. Amongst the strange writing, he saw the words Drake Spear and date of death and Hell. “Then,” Neil continued, “someone is going to find some rather incriminating evidence of his crimes. It wasn’t easy, you know. I had to steal this from the Angels of Death and I had to alter a few things in the Angels of Justice department. “He’s not going to hurt you anymore,” Neil finished, watching Andrew closely. But Andrew couldn’t muster up a response. All he could do was listen to the rushing in his ears and feel the pounding of his heart. Was it real? Or was it all going to collapse as soon as Andrew got out of here? “And, what, he comes back to life once Christmas is over?” “Nope!” Neil seemed a little excited. “I can extend the miracle now. I’ve got more powers now that I’ve gotten older.” Andrew stared at the angel in disbelief. Why had this guy gone out of his way just for Andrew? Slowly, his thoughts turned and he asked, “Why both of them?” “Hm?” “Why are my biological and foster family coming this year? You could have simply made it so that one of them took me in.” Neil shrugged. “I figured that I should give you some Free Will. You can choose which one you want to live with. I won’t make that decision for you.” “It’s not much of a choice,” Andrew pointed out. Again, Neil shrugged. Then he tilted his head, as if listening to something, before he grimaced. “I have to go, or all my work will be ruined. Just don’t fight this miracle, okay?” Andrew didn’t get a chance to reply; he blinked and Neil was gone. A few years later, the end of high school was approaching - as Nicky kept mentioning. Andrew didn’t really care, though the appearance of the Ravens had been particularly annoying. According to Nicky, Aaron, his high school coach, his uncle, the entirety of South Carolina and beyond, Andrew should have signed with them. But Andrew didn’t care about Exy as much as everyone wanted him to. Still, Aaron was freaking out about not having the money for college and not being able to get a scholarship. Andrew supposed he was going to have to figure something out for him, if only to get him to shut up. There weren’t many options, but it seemed as though Andrew was going to have to get a job. If he lived in a shitty apartment and sent Aaron all of his money, Aaron would be able to get by. It wasn’t as if Andrew would need much. He considered this as he blew out a plume of smoke as he leaned against the wall behind the gym. Technically, he should be in Math right now, but he had had a run in with the teacher a few days ago and so he’d been avoiding it. Besides, no-one knew he was here and no-one would bother to pick the lock on the gate just to get here. Andrew luxuriated in his solitude despite knowing it wouldn’t last. “So,” said a familiar voice from beside him. “You smoke here often?” Andrew forced himself not to react. Not that it mattered; he probably already knew how surprised Andrew was. It had been a while. Ever since he’d moved in with Tilda and Aaron, then Nicky, Andrew hadn’t received any more Christmas miracles. His last miracle had been more than enough. “What’s it matter to you?” Andrew asked before he looked over at the angel. Neil grinned at him. “Nothing, really. Just curious.” He paused, as if he was waiting for a retort. But Andrew was busy staring at Neil’s newest appearance. His wings were entirely grey now. For some reason, he was wearing tight, black jeans and a bright white, oversized t-shirt. However, it was his face that had suffered the worst of the changes. There were several scars - knife wounds on one side and what looked like a burn mark under his eye on the other cheek. The burn mark was in the shape of a scar and spread downwards and along his ear. Yet, Neil was still smiling. “What happened to you?” Andrew asked, hoping he sounded blasé. “War,” Neil replied with a shrug. “That’s why there’s been less miracles recently. The civil war in Heaven has taken up most of our time.” “Who was fighting God this time?” “My creator. It turns out that he was trying to overthrow God and that was the only reason he created me - to prove he could take over. But, well… He was kind of insane. And, after I had given you your last Christmas miracle, he made sure I knew that I wasn’t supposed to go against him.” Neil gestured at the marks on his face. Thankfully, there were more powerful people who threw in their lot with me and we fought against him, with God’s backing.” “Yet, you still appear to be a fallen angel.” Andrew gestured at Neil’s wings with his cigarette held between two fingers. Again, Neil glanced over his shoulder at them. “Well, I’m technically not an angel. Not a demon, either. I’ve got a little bit of both.” “Isn’t that just humanity?” “It sure is,” said Neil, cheerfully. “I’m just more powerful than your average human. God’s decided that I can choose where I go and what I do - back to the Free Will, you see.” Andrew eyed him. “And you decided to come to Earth.” “Yup. So, this is my last time giving you a miracle. Then, I’ll wipe my own memories and live like one of you.” “I don’t need a miracle.” “You do,” Neil said, suddenly serious. “I can see now, what it is you need to live. Don’t worry, you’ll be happy eventually.” “What, are you going to make a perfect boyfriend for me?” Andrew asked, derisively. “Of course not,” Neil said with a scoff. “Just make sure to go to practice today.” Andrew didn’t like the implications of that. He also didn’t like how this sounded like a final goodbye. Flicking his stick away, he pushed himself off the wall and turned to face Neil. “And what if I don’t.” “Then your life will never have another miracle in it,” Neil replied. “And you need miracles to survive.” Grabbing hold of Neil’s t-shirt, Andrew declared, “I don’t.” “You do. But don’t worry - that’s an angel thing.” Andrew growled. “Yes or no?” Neil didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” So, Andrew pulled the angel in for a lingering kiss. He could feel Neil’s initial surprise and almost pulled away. But Neil was quick to kiss back. Andrew didn’t know if this was a sin or not and he didn’t care. All he focussed on was the little bolts of pleasure that shot through him until, finally, the sensations faded and he opened his eyes to find that Neil was gone. Later, when David Wymack turned up with an offer that was almost too good to be true, Andrew knew it was his final miracle and he let it happen.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75561321	{"authors": ["Fire_Bear"], "language": "English", "title": "Little Christmas Miracles"}
i just thought that you would know i’ve gotta be honest, i think you know i’m covered in lies, and that’s okay and there’s somewhere beyond this, i know but i hope i can find the words to say never again, no. -vertical horizon, “you’re a god” because somewhere along the line, michael robinavich decided he wasn’t worthy of nice things. or worthy of things at all, actually. it’s early April in Pittsburgh and the weather feels hesitant. for more than two weeks it’s technically been spring, so it could be warmer. sunnier. more hopeful. but the days are still gray, sometimes rainy, with a heavy fog that rolls off the rivers and through the hills of the city at night. and he would very much prefer it if the weather stopped mirroring his mental state so closely. cold, gray, hesitant. the pre-contemplation stage of change. he’s been to all the hospital-mandated-you-survived-a-mass-casualty-event-in-your-ER therapy sessions, and he even took the list of referral options in case he decided to do the thing he should have done five years ago. it’s just that right now he seems to safely exist only in this liminal space, right on the precipice of what happened before and what could be in the future. and at some point during the aftermath, when he takes out his earbuds and tries to be present in his surroundings, he wonders what it would look like to take an inventory of the good in his life - - and he lands on three things. 1) employment 2) Jake 3) mutually respectful relationships with both ex-partners he grabs a PTMC pen from his scrub pocket and scribbles these items down on the back of a Duquesne Light envelope because he hasn’t had the time to “go paperless” even though the bill has been on autopay since he moved in. and that’s when he realizes there are only three things on the list. and all three things are also associated with his trauma. in multiple ways. fuck. not a great start. but he pretends, just for a moment, that there could be more than three things. so, let’s see. a home would be a nice place to start. a home that’s more than just a place to stare at the ceiling while he prays to a god he doesn’t always believe in that he won’t see the worst days of his life start playing like a goddamn SportsCenter highlight reel the moment he closes his eyes. somewhere familiar. a place where he knows every creaky stair, the exact location of all his favorite books on the shelves, the path to wind around the kitchen in the dark of midnight so he doesn’t hit his hip on the sharp corner of the table, the best part of the backyard for growing tomatoes in the hot summer sun. perhaps another human being to share that home with would be a thing for the list. one who knows all his shit and still sees his potential. sees a life beyond these things that haunt him. someone who might suggest he’s worth the time and energy it takes to heal. someone who brings safety and warmth to his life. someone who feels the way a honey cinnamon latte tastes on the first crisp morning of autumn. and maybe this person could hold his hand while he works up the courage to get better. okay then. how about a friend, at least? someone to reel him in during those moments when he feels, figuratively and literally, like stepping off the roof of a very tall building? (okay, at least he has that one. he goes back to add Abbott to the list.) four things. not being called a fruitcake when he is already teetering on the edge of a breakdown would be good, but that’s probably not going to happen anytime soon. a work-life balance. actually, he has to backtrack a little bit. a life. just a life. a life outside the hospital where he matters to someone. not because he’s their attending, not because they’re worried about patient satisfaction scores, and not because he just saved their life or the life of someone important to them. a life where he stops trying to fold himself up like a piece of origami paper so he doesn’t burden anyone with the fact of his existence. because right now he is compact like a paper swan, neat and tidy and unassuming. but it also has sharp corners that will give you a papercut if you look at it the wrong way. and in this imaginary life, he loves himself enough to put in the effort. he would take time to make the good coffee at home in the morning and stop filling his travel mug with the overpriced burnt shit from the corner store. he would actually read the Bon Appetit magazine that arrives in his mailbox each month, and he would tear out a recipe when he’s done. it would be a recipe for “fridge salad” because it says it holds up well for a few days and kale is good for you and he likes the practicality of meal planning. he would go to the grocery store, buy the things on the list, follow the instructions, and take said salad to work even though someone would inevitably make fun of him for it. (dana is high on the suspect list but santos isn’t far behind.) the magazine wouldn’t just be sitting atop a stack of other unread Bon	i just thought that you would know i’ve gotta be honest, i think you know i’m covered in lies, and that’s okay and there’s somewhere beyond this, i know but i hope i can find the words to say never again, no. -vertical horizon, “you’re a god” because somewhere along the line, michael robinavich decided he wasn’t worthy of nice things. or worthy of things at all, actually. it’s early April in Pittsburgh and the weather feels hesitant. for more than two weeks it’s technically been spring, so it could be warmer. sunnier. more hopeful. but the days are still gray, sometimes rainy, with a heavy fog that rolls off the rivers and through the hills of the city at night. and he would very much prefer it if the weather stopped mirroring his mental state so closely. cold, gray, hesitant. the pre-contemplation stage of change. he’s been to all the hospital-mandated-you-survived-a-mass-casualty-event-in-your-ER therapy sessions, and he even took the list of referral options in case he decided to do the thing he should have done five years ago. it’s just that right now he seems to safely exist only in this liminal space, right on the precipice of what happened before and what could be in the future. and at some point during the aftermath, when he takes out his earbuds and tries to be present in his surroundings, he wonders what it would look like to take an inventory of the good in his life - - and he lands on three things. 1) employment 2) Jake 3) mutually respectful relationships with both ex-partners he grabs a PTMC pen from his scrub pocket and scribbles these items down on the back of a Duquesne Light envelope because he hasn’t had the time to “go paperless” even though the bill has been on autopay since he moved in. and that’s when he realizes there are only three things on the list. and all three things are also associated with his trauma. in multiple ways. fuck. not a great start. but he pretends, just for a moment, that there could be more than three things. so, let’s see. a home would be a nice place to start. a home that’s more than just a place to stare at the ceiling while he prays to a god he doesn’t always believe in that he won’t see the worst days of his life start playing like a goddamn SportsCenter highlight reel the moment he closes his eyes. somewhere familiar. a place where he knows every creaky stair, the exact location of all his favorite books on the shelves, the path to wind around the kitchen in the dark of midnight so he doesn’t hit his hip on the sharp corner of the table, the best part of the backyard for growing tomatoes in the hot summer sun. perhaps another human being to share that home with would be a thing for the list. one who knows all his shit and still sees his potential. sees a life beyond these things that haunt him. someone who might suggest he’s worth the time and energy it takes to heal. someone who brings safety and warmth to his life. someone who feels the way a honey cinnamon latte tastes on the first crisp morning of autumn. and maybe this person could hold his hand while he works up the courage to get better. okay then. how about a friend, at least? someone to reel him in during those moments when he feels, figuratively and literally, like stepping off the roof of a very tall building? (okay, at least he has that one. he goes back to add Abbott to the list.) four things. not being called a fruitcake when he is already teetering on the edge of a breakdown would be good, but that’s probably not going to happen anytime soon. a work-life balance. actually, he has to backtrack a little bit. a life. just a life. a life outside the hospital where he matters to someone. not because he’s their attending, not because they’re worried about patient satisfaction scores, and not because he just saved their life or the life of someone important to them. a life where he stops trying to fold himself up like a piece of origami paper so he doesn’t burden anyone with the fact of his existence. because right now he is compact like a paper swan, neat and tidy and unassuming. but it also has sharp corners that will give you a papercut if you look at it the wrong way. and in this imaginary life, he loves himself enough to put in the effort. he would take time to make the good coffee at home in the morning and stop filling his travel mug with the overpriced burnt shit from the corner store. he would actually read the Bon Appetit magazine that arrives in his mailbox each month, and he would tear out a recipe when he’s done. it would be a recipe for “fridge salad” because it says it holds up well for a few days and kale is good for you and he likes the practicality of meal planning. he would go to the grocery store, buy the things on the list, follow the instructions, and take said salad to work even though someone would inevitably make fun of him for it. (dana is high on the suspect list but santos isn’t far behind.) the magazine wouldn’t just be sitting atop a stack of other unread Bon Appetits and New Yorkers and medical journals that are fading at the corners because who has time for any of that? he would take a day off and actually take a day off and not do that thing where he says he’s taking a day off but his brain won’t shut the fuck up so he has to find a distraction pretty quickly or he spirals into a near-literal puddle of complex post traumatic stress disorder. and he’s already watched all six seasons of Peaky Blinders. twice. which is how he ends up at work on days he’s not supposed to be at work, doing some fucked up version of self-soothing he doesn’t realize he’s doing by putting aside his own problems to help other people with theirs. a vacation would be nice, but he’ll settle for a vegetable at this point. or maybe just some peace and fucking quiet. it’s been a long day at the end of a long week at the end of a long month at the end of a long year five years decade? lifetime? he doesn’t really know anymore. but someone has to notice those lines around his eyes, right? because they suggest he used to smile. so, yeah. nice things would be another step above whatever the fuck this is.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75565531/chapters/197598856	{"authors": ["sportsnightnut"], "language": "English", "title": "i just thought that you would know"}
the whole village The echo of his sneeze rings out like a gunshot, startling a frazzled Casey into nearly dropping the entire block of cheese he was carefully crafting into thin slices onto the floor. “Oh boy,” Donnie says, looking up from where he’d been peering curiously into the pot that simmered on the stove, his brow crinkling with concern. “That sounds particularly… phlegmy.” In the other room, Donatello’s theory would be proven wrong, from where Mikey lounged pitifully on the couch, blindly reaching for the almost empty box of tissues before Leo hastily handed them to him with a click of his tongue. “You should try to sit up,” he tells him, watching with his arms crossed over his chest as Mikey miserably swiped at his snout, dampening it with the velocity of his snot. “It’ll shift it quicker than laying down.” Mikey groans, all crackly and half-there before he weakly attempts to push himself up onto his elbows at his brothers request. But even the smallest of efforts to move himself upwards seemed to demand too much of his energy, and so, with a defeated huff, he collapses back onto his shell once more, still clutching his balled up tissue. Leo sighs and moves forward to help him. It’d been like this for the last couple of days, when Mikey’s case of the sniffles had turned from exactly that to a full blown cold, to now a rather nasty version of the flu. It never took long, given particular living circumstances, for illnesses to mutate (pun not at all intended), and certain little brothers that perhaps could learn a thing or too about better handwashing practices, always seemed to be at the brunt of it all. “Ughhhhhhh,” is his long, drawn out response to most things since his sinuses swelled up. “This suuuuucks.” Leo makes a fuss of fluffing the pillows at his neck and ensuring he is in fact sat upwards instead of sliding halfway down the couch, and rolls his eyes, somewhat fondly at his antics. “Donnie and Casey are making soup and grilled cheeses and April and Raph should be home soon with some more NyQuil,” he tells him, expression softening in the way it almost always did when it came to his babiest brother. Mikey sniffs and then uses his used tissue to wipe at his snout again; it’s getting red from all the friction, but Leo had already texted ahead to April to pick up some aquaphor whilst they were out, which in response he’d gotten a sad face emoji, a thumbs up and then a candid of Raph riding the 7, bundled up in layers of scarves, a pair of sunglasses and a too big beanie hat to hide the fact he was a mutant turtle. Leo turns the phone around with a smile and shows the snapshot off to Mikey in hopes it might cheer him up somewhat. “See? Raph’s on his way back, not from the Met Gala, of course, but they’ll be home soon with something for you.” Whatever attempt Mikey tries to bring out his usual sunny laughter, turns into a hacking, spluttering disaster, that has Donnie poking his head around the kitchen door, commenting that it sounded like a round of CoD Zombies in here, which of course, only make Mikey laugh some more (when he wasn’t wincing in pain). True to their word, Raph and April arrive back home, shaking the dusting of snow that clung to their clothes with a shiver, showing off the goodies they had retrieved from nearly every drug store in Queens. It was hard to find something that could withstand mutant biology, and two regular amounts of cold medicine pills would barely touch the sides of Mikey’s horrendous cold, so stock intake was integral to essentially blasting this thing straight to hell from his body. “Saltine crackers,” April announces, placing the off brand, yet somewhat appetising box onto the kitchen table as they scope out the current loot of the evening. “For his throat. Gatorade, in every flavour since he couldn’t decide.” Before they’d left, April had sweetly asked him which drink he’d prefer, petting his cheek so tenderly, like he were some dying Victorian child, and she was taking him to some cold, windy beach for his final days. But Mikey being Mikey, despite how crappy he was feeling, had failed to give her a solid answer, which, after about five minutes of him bouncing between: “Fruit punch. Wait, grape… NO— Berry citrus. Hold on. Orange. Or maybe mango. But what about—” April had decided it would be a lot easier to hunt down a multipack and let him decide when she wasn’t crouched down in front of him getting cramp in her calves. They’d also grabbed a bunch of varying cold medicines and gels and heat packs and even a hot water bottle. “Dunno if these things do much with our plastrons,” Raph says as he unwinds the scarf from around his neck. “But it looked warm and fluffy so we figured it was worth a shot.” Donnie nods diplomatically as he takes stock of what they had for their sickly brother as he makes an attempt at the soup and sandwich they’d given him. “We’ll try him on the lower doses stuff first,” he says as he stifles a yawn — playing doctor, nurse and head	the whole village The echo of his sneeze rings out like a gunshot, startling a frazzled Casey into nearly dropping the entire block of cheese he was carefully crafting into thin slices onto the floor. “Oh boy,” Donnie says, looking up from where he’d been peering curiously into the pot that simmered on the stove, his brow crinkling with concern. “That sounds particularly… phlegmy.” In the other room, Donatello’s theory would be proven wrong, from where Mikey lounged pitifully on the couch, blindly reaching for the almost empty box of tissues before Leo hastily handed them to him with a click of his tongue. “You should try to sit up,” he tells him, watching with his arms crossed over his chest as Mikey miserably swiped at his snout, dampening it with the velocity of his snot. “It’ll shift it quicker than laying down.” Mikey groans, all crackly and half-there before he weakly attempts to push himself up onto his elbows at his brothers request. But even the smallest of efforts to move himself upwards seemed to demand too much of his energy, and so, with a defeated huff, he collapses back onto his shell once more, still clutching his balled up tissue. Leo sighs and moves forward to help him. It’d been like this for the last couple of days, when Mikey’s case of the sniffles had turned from exactly that to a full blown cold, to now a rather nasty version of the flu. It never took long, given particular living circumstances, for illnesses to mutate (pun not at all intended), and certain little brothers that perhaps could learn a thing or too about better handwashing practices, always seemed to be at the brunt of it all. “Ughhhhhhh,” is his long, drawn out response to most things since his sinuses swelled up. “This suuuuucks.” Leo makes a fuss of fluffing the pillows at his neck and ensuring he is in fact sat upwards instead of sliding halfway down the couch, and rolls his eyes, somewhat fondly at his antics. “Donnie and Casey are making soup and grilled cheeses and April and Raph should be home soon with some more NyQuil,” he tells him, expression softening in the way it almost always did when it came to his babiest brother. Mikey sniffs and then uses his used tissue to wipe at his snout again; it’s getting red from all the friction, but Leo had already texted ahead to April to pick up some aquaphor whilst they were out, which in response he’d gotten a sad face emoji, a thumbs up and then a candid of Raph riding the 7, bundled up in layers of scarves, a pair of sunglasses and a too big beanie hat to hide the fact he was a mutant turtle. Leo turns the phone around with a smile and shows the snapshot off to Mikey in hopes it might cheer him up somewhat. “See? Raph’s on his way back, not from the Met Gala, of course, but they’ll be home soon with something for you.” Whatever attempt Mikey tries to bring out his usual sunny laughter, turns into a hacking, spluttering disaster, that has Donnie poking his head around the kitchen door, commenting that it sounded like a round of CoD Zombies in here, which of course, only make Mikey laugh some more (when he wasn’t wincing in pain). True to their word, Raph and April arrive back home, shaking the dusting of snow that clung to their clothes with a shiver, showing off the goodies they had retrieved from nearly every drug store in Queens. It was hard to find something that could withstand mutant biology, and two regular amounts of cold medicine pills would barely touch the sides of Mikey’s horrendous cold, so stock intake was integral to essentially blasting this thing straight to hell from his body. “Saltine crackers,” April announces, placing the off brand, yet somewhat appetising box onto the kitchen table as they scope out the current loot of the evening. “For his throat. Gatorade, in every flavour since he couldn’t decide.” Before they’d left, April had sweetly asked him which drink he’d prefer, petting his cheek so tenderly, like he were some dying Victorian child, and she was taking him to some cold, windy beach for his final days. But Mikey being Mikey, despite how crappy he was feeling, had failed to give her a solid answer, which, after about five minutes of him bouncing between: “Fruit punch. Wait, grape… NO— Berry citrus. Hold on. Orange. Or maybe mango. But what about—” April had decided it would be a lot easier to hunt down a multipack and let him decide when she wasn’t crouched down in front of him getting cramp in her calves. They’d also grabbed a bunch of varying cold medicines and gels and heat packs and even a hot water bottle. “Dunno if these things do much with our plastrons,” Raph says as he unwinds the scarf from around his neck. “But it looked warm and fluffy so we figured it was worth a shot.” Donnie nods diplomatically as he takes stock of what they had for their sickly brother as he makes an attempt at the soup and sandwich they’d given him. “We’ll try him on the lower doses stuff first,” he says as he stifles a yawn — playing doctor, nurse and head chef was exhausting work, clearly. “See how he goes and then up the amount if he needs it.” They agree in unison, and then, whilst Mikey was busy scarfing down his lunch, they take the moment of calm to collapse into the kitchen chairs and groan wearily. *** The evening draws out and everyone migrates to the pit where they bring more blankets and bottles of Gatorade and let Mikey pick what episode of Crognard they watch, even if they have to suppress a groan when he picks the most controversial episode (it’s the Crognard backstory musical where it totally makes zero sense) but it’s allowed considering the situation. Once the episode is done, everyone is tired enough to call it a night, not before Donnie is loading Mikey up with the last dose of his carefully planned out medication plan, which the smaller turtle makes a fuss about, a nasally sound coming from the back of his throat when two little pills are held out in a palm in front of him. “You comfy there, Angie? Or you heading to bed?” Everyone else has either taken themselves home or to bed but Leo had hung back to observe the weary lump of blankets that had failed to move so much in the last fifteen minutes. Mikey sniffs and then pokes his head out of his cosy, stuffy little nest. “Hm. Can’t move. I’ll chill here, I’m fine.” Leo hesitates for just a second, then, because it feels right, he reaches down and adjusts the blanket around his chin and gives it a comforting pat. “Alright, you know where to find me if you need me,” he says gently. Mikey hums sleepily in response, his eyes fluttering shut with the weight of his exhaustion as well as the drugs slugging about in his system now. Leo takes himself to bed, glancing back once to ensure Mikey was alright before he goes. “Goodnight, Mike.”	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75561331	{"authors": ["angelmichelangelo"], "language": "English", "title": "the whole village"}
Like Lamb To The Slaughter Ever since his boss - and closest friend - had died, Xia Fei had been forced to live from pay-check to pay-check. It was stressful, it was hell, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. Before the modeling gigs, this had been his life too. Most of his fellow part-time models had similar issues- they'd all lost their jobs in the blink of an eye. It was why they'd ended up in a sort-of truce. Quietly informing each other about job-opportunities catering more to someone else than themselves. Sure, there were some who refused to share information, but that was fine. It was fine. No one was forcing them to help each other. Now, though, he was on the bus with a fellow model who used to work for Vein. They'd gotten a job outside the city- and were heading there now. The address was a hint sketchy, but up until they found the building, they didn't pay it much mind. They both needed the money, desperately. Next to him, Ava swallowed audibly. "S-Something is off" she murmured quietly, eyes shimmering in the light. Xia Fei, however, merely shrugged. "A job is a job" he found himself saying, despite already feeling exhausted. He'd wanted to stop working as a model ages ago- but he had a hard time finding a job in the field he'd actually studied for. He glanced down at his phone. 11:22AM, 3rd of June. They were early- the shoot was supposed to start at 12:45AM. They'd made good time, they'd need at least an hour getting ready. His eyes darted back to his ex-coworker and... currently only actual friend. "You can go if you want? It's paying big, so uh... I could lend you some of the money" he offered, despite rent being due soon. But Ava, stubborn when talking to friends despite her seemingly more timid nature around most, shook her head. "I'm... I'm fine, j-just a job. It's... it's nothing new, s-same old" she mumbled, rambling just a hint. That, rather than the light stutter, was what made him take note of her seeming to genuinely feel unwell. "Jinyan-" he started, switching to her real name in hopes of reassuring her that there was no reason for her to force herself, when she went ahead. He sighed, heavily so, and trailed after her. There were some men inside the building. Tall, intimidating and looking more like they belonged into some gym rather than at a modeling shoot. None of them had cameras, and they didn't look to be models either. Bodyguards, maybe. A scoff alerted him, and he turned around to find a familiar face. "Jack" he spat, annoyed. His ex-coworker only smiled, eyes darting between Xia Fei and Ava. "Long time no see. No hard feelings left, right?" Jack asked, light and casual. As if working with him back then, under Vein, had been just some friendly teasing rather than workplace-bullying. Next to him, he felt his friend step a hint closer. "P-Plenty hard feelings. You were... you were a dick t-toeveryone" Ava spat, and it took all of Xia Fei's will-power not to burst into laughter. Whereas Lu Guang had used logic, back when Jack had last come to bother him, Ava was being quite a lot more blunt and honest. It was entertaining, seeing Jack flounder with shock. Part of him had forgotten just how easily cursing came to Ava. Really, he ought to spend more time with one of the few friends he had left. "I- that- girls shouldn't talk like that!" the older model scowled, annoyed, when he finally caught himself. Then narrowed his eyes. "Why the hell are you two even here? We've got five others back in the dressing rooms, already" That left them silent, because truly- why were eight models present? The gig hadn't mentioned that there would be so many, but then again... besides paying a lot, it hadn't mentioned much in general. They couldn't talk any further, however. A tall, more lanky, man headed their way. Something about him seemed off, despite him clearly being the manager. "Ah, great, great. Finally all are here! To the dressing rooms, yes?" he gestured with a clipboard. "Stylist will be with you shortly" Xia Fei fought a frown. There was nothing on it, just a blank paper. Maybe for notes? If it was for that, the man had yet to take any. Still, he nodded. Heading into the indicated direction. Jack went ahead, perhaps wanting to avoid having more insults thrown his way. Ava, however, seemed a hint hesitant. "They feel... cold" she said, her tone just a hint odd. But the far-away tone, the hint of a shiver as if she stood in the middle of Bridon's streets on a cold December day rather than in a building in the early days of June. Still, he cracked a teasing smile. Oh, how he'd later wish he'd trusted her instinct more. "You say that about people all the time. We'll be fine" he said, even though he himself felt as though these men were looking at them with gazes that felt wrong. They headed separate ways, by the dressing rooms. They kind of had to, to get ready for the shoot. The stylist was late, when Xia Fei sat down. So he got started on what he knew he could do on his own: get changed	Like Lamb To The Slaughter Ever since his boss - and closest friend - had died, Xia Fei had been forced to live from pay-check to pay-check. It was stressful, it was hell, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. Before the modeling gigs, this had been his life too. Most of his fellow part-time models had similar issues- they'd all lost their jobs in the blink of an eye. It was why they'd ended up in a sort-of truce. Quietly informing each other about job-opportunities catering more to someone else than themselves. Sure, there were some who refused to share information, but that was fine. It was fine. No one was forcing them to help each other. Now, though, he was on the bus with a fellow model who used to work for Vein. They'd gotten a job outside the city- and were heading there now. The address was a hint sketchy, but up until they found the building, they didn't pay it much mind. They both needed the money, desperately. Next to him, Ava swallowed audibly. "S-Something is off" she murmured quietly, eyes shimmering in the light. Xia Fei, however, merely shrugged. "A job is a job" he found himself saying, despite already feeling exhausted. He'd wanted to stop working as a model ages ago- but he had a hard time finding a job in the field he'd actually studied for. He glanced down at his phone. 11:22AM, 3rd of June. They were early- the shoot was supposed to start at 12:45AM. They'd made good time, they'd need at least an hour getting ready. His eyes darted back to his ex-coworker and... currently only actual friend. "You can go if you want? It's paying big, so uh... I could lend you some of the money" he offered, despite rent being due soon. But Ava, stubborn when talking to friends despite her seemingly more timid nature around most, shook her head. "I'm... I'm fine, j-just a job. It's... it's nothing new, s-same old" she mumbled, rambling just a hint. That, rather than the light stutter, was what made him take note of her seeming to genuinely feel unwell. "Jinyan-" he started, switching to her real name in hopes of reassuring her that there was no reason for her to force herself, when she went ahead. He sighed, heavily so, and trailed after her. There were some men inside the building. Tall, intimidating and looking more like they belonged into some gym rather than at a modeling shoot. None of them had cameras, and they didn't look to be models either. Bodyguards, maybe. A scoff alerted him, and he turned around to find a familiar face. "Jack" he spat, annoyed. His ex-coworker only smiled, eyes darting between Xia Fei and Ava. "Long time no see. No hard feelings left, right?" Jack asked, light and casual. As if working with him back then, under Vein, had been just some friendly teasing rather than workplace-bullying. Next to him, he felt his friend step a hint closer. "P-Plenty hard feelings. You were... you were a dick t-toeveryone" Ava spat, and it took all of Xia Fei's will-power not to burst into laughter. Whereas Lu Guang had used logic, back when Jack had last come to bother him, Ava was being quite a lot more blunt and honest. It was entertaining, seeing Jack flounder with shock. Part of him had forgotten just how easily cursing came to Ava. Really, he ought to spend more time with one of the few friends he had left. "I- that- girls shouldn't talk like that!" the older model scowled, annoyed, when he finally caught himself. Then narrowed his eyes. "Why the hell are you two even here? We've got five others back in the dressing rooms, already" That left them silent, because truly- why were eight models present? The gig hadn't mentioned that there would be so many, but then again... besides paying a lot, it hadn't mentioned much in general. They couldn't talk any further, however. A tall, more lanky, man headed their way. Something about him seemed off, despite him clearly being the manager. "Ah, great, great. Finally all are here! To the dressing rooms, yes?" he gestured with a clipboard. "Stylist will be with you shortly" Xia Fei fought a frown. There was nothing on it, just a blank paper. Maybe for notes? If it was for that, the man had yet to take any. Still, he nodded. Heading into the indicated direction. Jack went ahead, perhaps wanting to avoid having more insults thrown his way. Ava, however, seemed a hint hesitant. "They feel... cold" she said, her tone just a hint odd. But the far-away tone, the hint of a shiver as if she stood in the middle of Bridon's streets on a cold December day rather than in a building in the early days of June. Still, he cracked a teasing smile. Oh, how he'd later wish he'd trusted her instinct more. "You say that about people all the time. We'll be fine" he said, even though he himself felt as though these men were looking at them with gazes that felt wrong. They headed separate ways, by the dressing rooms. They kind of had to, to get ready for the shoot. The stylist was late, when Xia Fei sat down. So he got started on what he knew he could do on his own: get changed into the outfit hung up. It wasn't anything fancy, and his nose wrinkled at the feel of the fabric. How were these people paying so much money, when their brand sucked so bad? He sat down, tapped his fingers idly. At 11:50AM, his stylist finally arrived. Nothing seemed amiss with the woman, on first glance. She was quiet, timid maybe. Eyes darting every which way, mumbling a soft greeting. Nervous? Xia Fei offered an easy-going smile and tried to make small talk while she worked on his hair. He didn't notice her slip something into his drink.He didn't notice the guilt in her eyes. Xia Fei passed out at 12:03AM, none the wiser to the quiet apology the woman murmured to him as she prayed her children were returned to her, now that the job was done. ~ When Xia Fei awoke, it was to a pounding headache. He couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten there. As he tried to move, he found his hand and feet bound. Slowly, he opened an eye. Then the other. Looked around cautiously. The first thing he registered was that they were moving. The second, that there were other people- other models. Ava and Jack. Archie and Sammy, part-timers who didn't stick to a specific agency. Alice and Joe, who used to work for Vein as well. A random guy who certainly wasn't a part timer- idly, he thought he looked like the guy Vein banned from the premise, years before he himself had joined. The truck stopped, eventually. A man lead them outside at gun point. None of them dared to act out, silently shuffling into the building as ordered. Xia Fei hated it- but he wasn't Vein. He wasn't capable of beating people twice his height and weight with a flick of his wrist and a leaping kick. All eight of them trembled in fear at what was to come. Inside the building, they were locked into a room. Down in the basement. The ropes binding them cut, however temporarily it may be. There wasn't much in the room- cots for them to lay on, uncomfortable and without blankets or pillows. A small door that led into the tiniest bathroom possible. No windows. No vents. Nothing that was usable as a weapon. Nothing that was usable to escape. These people, regretfully, seemed to know what they were doing. Xia Fei loathed them. It was likely the 4th of June now. Maybe the 5th, he wasn't sure. They were kept in the cell-like room with only minimal interactions with their captors. Pictures were taken of them. They must've looked terrible. A plate of food was brought. It was hardly enough for all of them. While Jack and the other guy who's name he wasn't certain on didn't seem happy to share, Xia Fei easily passed his part of the ration to the others who were more willing to share. He wasn't hungry. The thought of eating, at least in the moment, made him feel sick even though he knew, logically, that he needed his strength if he wanted to escape. When a second plate was brought, he took his chance. Approached their captor with the most fierce glare he could muster. "Hey, what do you people want from us?" He asked, channeled all the boldness and confidence he'd witnessed from Vein, back when he'd been alive. "I demand answers" The man paused, eyes narrowing. The next thing he knew was sitting on the floor, flanked by Alice and Joe. His cheek stung where he'd gotten slapped, it would bruise for sure. It hurt. His eyes burned, just a hint. He wasn't sure if it was from humiliation, from pain or from the shock and fear of realizing how bad this situation really was. The man sneered, eyes cold. His accent was heavy when he spoke, but there was no denying them: "People like you have no place to make demands" Xia Fei didn't find it in himself to counter anything, that day. Come evening, Alice and Sammy were dragged from their room. The rest of them huddled into a corner. In the middle of the night, he heard Ava fight a sob. He didn't point it out. He didn't ask. He understood. All of them were scared. Only Sammy returned the next morning, something haunted in her eyes and splatters of reddish brown staining her shirt and hands. She sat down in the far corner, curled up with a choked back sob. "They killed Alice" she said, voice shaky and weak. "They killed her, they killed her, they killed her-" Xia Fei didn't dare get closer, only pulled Ava against his side when he noticed her trembling, her eyes far away. They were all going to die, weren't they? From the uncertain stances, they all shared that worry. Silently, he wished Vein was alive. Wished he were here, or was alive and wondering where his models went. Because Vein was Vein, and he'd always been able to fix whatever went to hell. On the third day, he realized that no help was going to come. Vein was dead, had been for years, and the only people left to rely on where the seven of them. ~ It was on the fourth day since the kidnapping when things went from bad to worse. They were trying to take him from the room. He remembered Alice, her face tear streaked but stubborn when she and Sammy left. He remembered Sammy, coming back a crying mess and whispering over and over that Alice had died, eyes haunted and far away. He kicked the man where the sun never shone, scrambling back. There was a brief scuffle, but it was over as soon as it started. Xia Fei skidded across the floor and hit the wall near Sammy when a harsh kick connected with his side. "This is your first strike" said the apparent leader, the man who'd insulted him before. Mentally, he dubbed him Jackass. "For your trouble, I'll show mercy and only give you a taste of the potential consequences" He snapped his fingers, and one of the guards stepped up. Next to him, Xia Fei looked like a small stick figure. The brute stepped into the cell, eyes scanning over them. He seemed happy, to cause them so much fear. Slowly, he lumbered towards Sammy... only for Ava to stumble in front of her. Arms held out and with the most fierce glare he'd seen from her yet. "D-Don't touch her!" she shouted, and Xia Fei tried to get up. Emphasis on tried. The kick had knocked the air from his lungs, and his body refused to cooperate. With horror, he watched as the target changed from a coworker he hardly knew to the one he considered his currently best friend. From his angle, he could only see a punch. Then a kick. Perhaps a stomp. One or the other. It caused the most horrid crunching noises and a shrill scream that would haunt him for the rest of his life. ~ That night, Joe and the man who'd haughtily proclaimed himself to be called Daniel tried to escape. Xia Fei had only shook his head, cradling his best friend against his chest as she shook and sobbed, Archie desperately attempting to stabilize her broken ankle with what they had. It would do none of them good to leave someone injured and to their own devices- they wouldn't survive this, if they did. Jack stood at the far wall. Utterly silent. He'd been silent ever since this all started. Out of character, for someone like him, but selfishly Xia Fei was glad. He didn't know what he'd do if Jack acted like his usual self. They all watched the escape attempt in utter silence. They didn't get far- Joe chickened out when it mattered, but Daniel tried to push past the man who'd brought them food. He was pushed to the floor, head banging against concrete and bouncing off. Still, he thrashed and shrieked like a man possessed. "Don't you know who I am?!" He shouted, and Xia Fei couldn't help but think:No,probablynot. Jackass came, a knife in hand. Eyes utterly empty. He crouched by Daniel's head. "And who may you be?" He asked coldly. Daniel floundered. "I- how dare- I am Daniel Jones! I'm famous! I even dated Bridon's most dangerous-" There was a sickening noise as the knife sliced through his throat. Then the thud of a body hitting the ground. Daniel Jones was dead. Out of eight, only six of them were left. ~ The next day was a blur. Chaos, gunshots. Violence. He remembered little, aside from fighting tooth and nail to prevent anyone but the other models and himself from touching Ava. He wasn't sure if she'd gotten unlucky or if it was the injury, but she'd gotten sick. They weren't given any medicine to try and help her. With how out of it she seemed, he couldn't help but think that he was going to lose her for sure. The thought was painful- was he just fated to lose every single friend he had? As it was, they'd been kidnapped anew. Brought to a whole different place via a truck. None of them understood the language spoken by the men around them- they seemed deliberate not to speak in one they might knew. Their stubbornness got Joe killed. Xia Fei felt guilty and empty at the same time. They were all going to die, no matter what happened, weren't they? One after the other. Selfishly, he wished he'd been the first. Then he wouldn't have to witness people die. All of them were losing hope, little by little. On the tenth day, a man grasped his chin. Tilted it up, this way and that. He resisted the urge to spit in his face. The man said something. Xia Fei didn't understand. The man didn't try to repeat himself. It wasn't until he came closer, touches lingering and leaving his skin feeling like he got burnt in the worst way, that he was starting to realize what he may have meant. He shrank away, tried to dodge when the other attempted to kiss him. Let out a pained noise when his chin was grabbed in a bruising grip to keep him still. Before he could be kissed, Ava retched next to him. He'd never been more thankful for something like that. Xia Fei hid himself away in a corner, for the rest of the day. Tried to forget the lingering touches and disgust welling up in his chest. Sammy disappeared, that night. When she was brought back in the morning, she was stumbling and looked horrible. None of the hushed questions were answered. She looked dead inside, and Xia Fei could guess what had transpired to break her spirit for good. When he was taken, he struggled at first. A punch to the stomach left him winded enough to stop for a while. It wasn't until he was shoved and fell onto what must've been a makeshift bed that he snapped out of his stupor, only to freeze at the sound of a camera shutter. Like a deer in headlights, he glanced over. Found a second man standing there with a disgusting grin and an old camera in his hands. A hand grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him up, and he struggled with renewed panic when the first man who'd brought him here slung a leg over him. He hated it- being underneath the slimy pig-faced man. One of the buttons of his shirt gave away at a particularly harsh tug, and tried kneeing the other in the groin. For his efforts, his hair was grabbed. His head harshly tugged back. Xia Fei screamed- in a mixture of pain and outrage. The men laughed- chattering with each other almost casually. He didn't recognize the language- switching between pleading them to stop in Chinese and English. The camera kept going off, and tears streamed down his cheeks when a kiss was forced on him- desperately trying to push the taller man away. His skin crawled where he was touched- his face, his shoulder, his chest, his waist- when the hand reached his hip, the kiss turned from rough and disgusting to a sharp pain. The sting of his lip being bitten, combined with the panic of what was about to happen, left him in such a panic that he stopped trying to push the man away and instead swung his fist closer to his own head. The weight eased, and he threw another punch. Blood dripped down on him, but he couldn't tell if it was his own from the bleeding lip or from the man's nose he'd probably just broken. All he knew was that he wanted to cause enough of a problem to not end up like Sammy. The rest of them didn't know what had transpiring, just one stair case up above them, they just sat and waited. None of them had dared to speak while Xia Fei was gone. Archie had tried his best to be there for Sammy, Ava laid in her own corner, out cold. Jack had sat and paid more attention to the rest of the survivors than ever before. As Felix returned the same day, they were all on edge. But he seemed basically uninjured to them, aside from bruised knuckles and some around his neck. He wasn't limping, despite the blood on him. His shirt was a mess though and they could all see it- rumpled and with a torn button near the top, stained with some blood. Xia Fei, all in all, looked disgusted and shaken, tear tracks drying on his cheeks. Yet he was still in better shape than the young model who'd been dragged off before him, his eyes burning with defiance. Silently, the ones still capable of thinking wondered how long that fire would last. It was a different man who'd brought him in, but none of them dared to question it, despite there being no trace of the one who'd originally dragged him off. The man headed for Sammy, and everything went by far too fast the next moment. Sammy shrieked in fear. Archie leapt to his feet. A punch was thrown. A knife glinted. The model went down. Seeing Archie die sent shivers down all their spines, but it was Sammy who wailed in despair. She was silenced seconds later. They took Jack instead. Xia Fei, exhausted and shaken, slunk off to where Ava laid. Dropped down next to the unconscious girl and silently cried, despite telling himself that he'd avoided the worst. He wanted to go home. ~ Xia Fei didn't know it, but it was twenty-second of June that early morning. Jack was shoved back into their cell and Xia Fei was attempted to be dragged out. He knew what was going to happen. He knew that if he didn't fight now, he'd lose his hope for good, too. So he fought as violently as he could, kicking and biting and scratching. Jack, despite being exhausted and in pain, leapt and tried to help. A knife glinted, a body fell. It was Jack's, and despite never having gotten along, he felt sorry for him. A gun clicked, but it wasn't aimed at him. "Stand down, or I will put the girl out of her misery" the man warned. Xia Fei saw red. Literally and figuratively. Six of eight people had already died. He was done. He wouldn't, couldn't, let them take his only friend. Ava was all he had left now. The next thing he knew was standing over a disfigured corpse. Panting. There was so much blood, but he'd done that. He was done for. He'd snapped, and he'd killed someone. Guilt and satisfaction clashed in his soul. He felt dizzy. Exhaustion coming over him fast now that the adrenalin faded. He crashed to the floor, to his knees. Slowly shuffled over to Ava, put her head on his lap and prayed she'd get better soon. Prayed she'd live, despite having been out for days now. Despite her feeling cold to the touch, as if she were dead already, he didn't dare check her pulse. Couldn't bring himself to. He couldn't do this on his own. And then the doors slid open. Slow, leisurely steps approaching. They were too light to belong to the armed men who'd captured them. Two people stood there. One with red hair, clapping idly. One with pink, glaring at him before looking around with morbid glee. It must've been a hallucination. Or maybe he was dead. It couldn't be- "Oh my, you caused quite the mess~" But no, it was boss's voice. It was Vein's voice. His face. Him. Everything screamedVein, and wasn't that horrifying? Because Vein was dead. His mind was going a mile a minute, and he wasn't sure whether to yell at him in anger or to cry in relief or to ask him a million questions. Eventually, he croaked out: "You're alive?" and almost sobbed at the nod. He wanted to cry. But as it was, he had to break down over his dead best friend being alive later. "Please don't leave her here" he begged, even though he knew Vein was bound to recognize another one of his former employees. "Please. She doesn't... she doesn't deserve to be buried somewhere she doesn't belong-" Whether Vein would leave her there or not, however, he'd only find out later. Because the exhaustion finally won over, and Xia Fei's eyes rolled back as darkness decided to claim him. After the hell he'd been through recently, he deserved it.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75561286/chapters/197586156	{"authors": ["N0rthwind"], "language": "English", "title": "Like Lamb To The Slaughter"}
All Eyes on Me in the Center of the Ring Jean was regretting his life choices by 8pm on Friday. Cat had invited him out for drinks with her and her girlfriend. Innocently, he’d accepted. New to California, and new on the whole “friends” thing. Jean thought it would be a good opportunity to get to know his coworker better. He siddled up to the bar at 7:30 and immediately regretted accepting the invitation. It was a loud and flashy place. Unlike most bars that he had been to. He found Cat and her girlfriend in the large crowd gathered outside. He could barely hear her introduce her partner, Layla over the din. “Catalina, what have you invited me to?” he asked incredulously as he scanned the throngs of people. Cat replied, “Come on, I know I didn’t misread the vibes. I’ve seen the way you watch Kevin’s ass in the break room. I thought a gay bar would be your thing!” Jean paled at being called out so brazenly. Sure, he appreciated the male form, but he never was the bold type. Cat continued, patting him on the arm, “It’ll be good for you to loosen up! And maybe meet some new people!” “I doubt I will meet anyone worthwhile in this chaotic drunken place.” he glowered. “Don’t count it out too soon, plus Layla has a friend that is performing tonight and we told him we would come and support!” She wrapped her arms around her girlfriend and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Merde, maybe then I will be free from crashing your date. Let’s go then.” he sighed as he gave in. Cat squealed and grabbed his hand, practically dragging him towards the bar entrance. She babbled on about the upcoming performance, Jean only half listening as he tried to weave through the crowd. Eventually they found a quiet corner to sit. Layla went to order drinks and Jean took in the space. The bar was dimly lit, with shaded lamps providing pools of light above each table. There was a stage prominently set up in the front of the hall, and behind the bar, a pride flag hung illuminated, the brightest thing in the space. He spotted Layla making her way through the busy floor, precariously carrying three drinks. She sighed as she set them on the table top. “Jer told me that it gets crazy on Fridays, but it’s different to see it with my own eyes! He was so modest about it, but he’s one of the most popular performers here! Look at how packed it is!” Indeed, the bar was filled to capacity. People even lined the walls and the room was buzzing with anticipation. “What kind of performance is this?” Jean asked absentmindedly as he sipped his drink. Layla opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by mic feedback. People around them quieted down. “Welcome to Grind’s Friday Dragstravaganza!” cheers and whoops followed. “We have a great line-up for you tonight! LA’s finest queens at LA’s finest bar! I’m your humble MC, Cody! Without further ado let’s give it up for our first performer. She’s glitzy, she’s glamorous, she’s a ray of absolute sunshine! It’s Knoxon Wood!” The lights dimmed as Cody stepped off stage. For a moment the bar was quiet, then the lights flashed suddenly, illuminating the shadow of the first performer. Britney Spear’s Circus began. The opening notes of the song were staggered, and with each beat out of the speakers, the lights flashed showing just the outline of the queen. As the first notes of the verse sounded, the lights came up fully, and Jean’s breath caught. He has never seen such a captivating performer before. She stood proud and tall, in a golden leotard with jewels that sparkled under the spotlights. A long flowing cape wrapped around her. Her legs were long, tan, and freckled. She sauntered in strappy heels that wrapped around her calves and highlighted her bulging muscles. Jean tracked his eyes up her curves to her face. She was radiant as she mouthed along to the seductive song. Blond bouncing curls framed her heart shaped face. Plump pink lips, big brown doe eyes that shimmered with shadow and caught the light when she blinked. Light freckles dusted her cheekbones. And her smile… it was radiant, lighting up the room more than any lights could. He was immediately taken by her. His drink forgotten and arms hanging limply at his sides, Jean watched entranced. Knoxon Wood flipped and dipped across the platform, dancing, showing off her plentiful curves, and Jean was tempted to look away when she dipped low into a splits, accentuating her round ass. She was a sight to behold up on stage, always in motion, just a flurry of shimmering flowing fabric, long blond ringlets, and lithe limbs. Never, did Jean think, was there a more natural performer. She was in her element, winking at the crowd as she wove through, plucking ones out of outstretched hands. Jean felt his chest constrict as she wove her way closer. They had sat in the back, at Jean’s request. He had been hoping to avoid this very moment. Yet, as the enchantress sauntered closer, he felt butterflies in his stomach. He felt a nudge and looked down to see Cat holding out a	All Eyes on Me in the Center of the Ring Jean was regretting his life choices by 8pm on Friday. Cat had invited him out for drinks with her and her girlfriend. Innocently, he’d accepted. New to California, and new on the whole “friends” thing. Jean thought it would be a good opportunity to get to know his coworker better. He siddled up to the bar at 7:30 and immediately regretted accepting the invitation. It was a loud and flashy place. Unlike most bars that he had been to. He found Cat and her girlfriend in the large crowd gathered outside. He could barely hear her introduce her partner, Layla over the din. “Catalina, what have you invited me to?” he asked incredulously as he scanned the throngs of people. Cat replied, “Come on, I know I didn’t misread the vibes. I’ve seen the way you watch Kevin’s ass in the break room. I thought a gay bar would be your thing!” Jean paled at being called out so brazenly. Sure, he appreciated the male form, but he never was the bold type. Cat continued, patting him on the arm, “It’ll be good for you to loosen up! And maybe meet some new people!” “I doubt I will meet anyone worthwhile in this chaotic drunken place.” he glowered. “Don’t count it out too soon, plus Layla has a friend that is performing tonight and we told him we would come and support!” She wrapped her arms around her girlfriend and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Merde, maybe then I will be free from crashing your date. Let’s go then.” he sighed as he gave in. Cat squealed and grabbed his hand, practically dragging him towards the bar entrance. She babbled on about the upcoming performance, Jean only half listening as he tried to weave through the crowd. Eventually they found a quiet corner to sit. Layla went to order drinks and Jean took in the space. The bar was dimly lit, with shaded lamps providing pools of light above each table. There was a stage prominently set up in the front of the hall, and behind the bar, a pride flag hung illuminated, the brightest thing in the space. He spotted Layla making her way through the busy floor, precariously carrying three drinks. She sighed as she set them on the table top. “Jer told me that it gets crazy on Fridays, but it’s different to see it with my own eyes! He was so modest about it, but he’s one of the most popular performers here! Look at how packed it is!” Indeed, the bar was filled to capacity. People even lined the walls and the room was buzzing with anticipation. “What kind of performance is this?” Jean asked absentmindedly as he sipped his drink. Layla opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by mic feedback. People around them quieted down. “Welcome to Grind’s Friday Dragstravaganza!” cheers and whoops followed. “We have a great line-up for you tonight! LA’s finest queens at LA’s finest bar! I’m your humble MC, Cody! Without further ado let’s give it up for our first performer. She’s glitzy, she’s glamorous, she’s a ray of absolute sunshine! It’s Knoxon Wood!” The lights dimmed as Cody stepped off stage. For a moment the bar was quiet, then the lights flashed suddenly, illuminating the shadow of the first performer. Britney Spear’s Circus began. The opening notes of the song were staggered, and with each beat out of the speakers, the lights flashed showing just the outline of the queen. As the first notes of the verse sounded, the lights came up fully, and Jean’s breath caught. He has never seen such a captivating performer before. She stood proud and tall, in a golden leotard with jewels that sparkled under the spotlights. A long flowing cape wrapped around her. Her legs were long, tan, and freckled. She sauntered in strappy heels that wrapped around her calves and highlighted her bulging muscles. Jean tracked his eyes up her curves to her face. She was radiant as she mouthed along to the seductive song. Blond bouncing curls framed her heart shaped face. Plump pink lips, big brown doe eyes that shimmered with shadow and caught the light when she blinked. Light freckles dusted her cheekbones. And her smile… it was radiant, lighting up the room more than any lights could. He was immediately taken by her. His drink forgotten and arms hanging limply at his sides, Jean watched entranced. Knoxon Wood flipped and dipped across the platform, dancing, showing off her plentiful curves, and Jean was tempted to look away when she dipped low into a splits, accentuating her round ass. She was a sight to behold up on stage, always in motion, just a flurry of shimmering flowing fabric, long blond ringlets, and lithe limbs. Never, did Jean think, was there a more natural performer. She was in her element, winking at the crowd as she wove through, plucking ones out of outstretched hands. Jean felt his chest constrict as she wove her way closer. They had sat in the back, at Jean’s request. He had been hoping to avoid this very moment. Yet, as the enchantress sauntered closer, he felt butterflies in his stomach. He felt a nudge and looked down to see Cat holding out a crumpled bill for him, grinning slyly. He took it with a barely concealed shake. Looking up again put him in direct eyesight with the queen. She was swaying hypnotically to the beat and spun to a stop in front of their table. “Thanks sugar” she murmured just for him as their hands brushed and she took the bill. His eyes met big brown irises and she winked at him before spinning away. Jean was left blinking and staring after her, only breaking out of his stupor when he heard Cat clear her throat. She was smirking at him. He knew he must be flushing deeply, so he turned to his drink and grumbled something about the temperature of the crowded bar. Cat and Layla shared a knowing look but thankfully didn’t press further. The song meandered to a close, and the crowd erupted in cheers. The queen blew kisses as she exited stage left and the Cody’s voice could be heard over the speaker. “And that was Knoxon Wood everyone! LA’s local sweetheart!”	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75569591	{"authors": ["readerstheatre99"], "language": "English", "title": "All Eyes on Me in the Center of the Ring"}
interesting store customers p1 location: Hepora in NY It's another day working at Hephora for poor Emma, and she was having a normal day. nothing too bad, just the normal 10 year olds, and careless gen z influencers, you know the drill. She had just finished up with this nice man, who was getting a MARS concealer for his girlfriend, and he was now walking away. "Next!" She called. "Hello, how can I help you today?" She asks the woman at the counter. "Hi, is it... Emma? I would just like to return this item that I bought online please." Emma replies, "Yes of course, if you don't mind me asking why are you returning it?" The woman, Naomi, replies, "Oh, nothing was wrong, it's just the wrong color." Emma replies as she grabs the box from her and starts opening it, "Oh, that shouldn't be a prob- HOLY SHIT" Emma slams the box closed. "What?" Says Naomi. sigh. "Ma'am, you can't seriously be trying to return this." "You said even if I bought it online that it's fine..?" "Yes, but this itemspecificallycan't be returned.. anywhere. It's always final sale." "I mean.. I didn't use it..." Emma says, "Ma'am. Please. Go to any adult store, or any store in general and they don't let you return it. Anyway, we don't sell things like this, we're in Hephora. As in a makeup store. As in not an adult store." Naomi looks stunned and Emma is just exasperated. Emma continues, "Even if it's not used, which (she peeks in the box) it clearly is, it doesn't matter." "Oh... but I don't need it anyway, so what do I do?" Naomi asks. "Miss, I have no idea. Sell it some weirdo on Craigsline or something, I don't want it!" Emma replies. "Just buy a 𝕤𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕡𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥 moisturizer and leave. Please." The next day, Emma found out Naomi tried to sell it to one of her friends... on Caralibro Marketspot.	interesting store customers p1 location: Hepora in NY It's another day working at Hephora for poor Emma, and she was having a normal day. nothing too bad, just the normal 10 year olds, and careless gen z influencers, you know the drill. She had just finished up with this nice man, who was getting a MARS concealer for his girlfriend, and he was now walking away. "Next!" She called. "Hello, how can I help you today?" She asks the woman at the counter. "Hi, is it... Emma? I would just like to return this item that I bought online please." Emma replies, "Yes of course, if you don't mind me asking why are you returning it?" The woman, Naomi, replies, "Oh, nothing was wrong, it's just the wrong color." Emma replies as she grabs the box from her and starts opening it, "Oh, that shouldn't be a prob- HOLY SHIT" Emma slams the box closed. "What?" Says Naomi. sigh. "Ma'am, you can't seriously be trying to return this." "You said even if I bought it online that it's fine..?" "Yes, but this itemspecificallycan't be returned.. anywhere. It's always final sale." "I mean.. I didn't use it..." Emma says, "Ma'am. Please. Go to any adult store, or any store in general and they don't let you return it. Anyway, we don't sell things like this, we're in Hephora. As in a makeup store. As in not an adult store." Naomi looks stunned and Emma is just exasperated. Emma continues, "Even if it's not used, which (she peeks in the box) it clearly is, it doesn't matter." "Oh... but I don't need it anyway, so what do I do?" Naomi asks. "Miss, I have no idea. Sell it some weirdo on Craigsline or something, I don't want it!" Emma replies. "Just buy a 𝕤𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕡𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥 moisturizer and leave. Please." The next day, Emma found out Naomi tried to sell it to one of her friends... on Caralibro Marketspot.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75561341	{"authors": ["lolla_ma_1314"], "language": "English", "title": "interesting store customers p1"}
Trustfall The click of the lock was deafening in the silence. It was such a small sound, mechanical and unassuming, but it reverberated up the length of his arms like a gunshot. The cuffs tightened, metal pressed firm against the bones of his wrists, and with it came an unmistakable chill. Cold radiated outward, seeping into his veins, crawling up the length of his forearms until it bloomed in his chest. He drew in a sharp breath that caught in his throat, and for a moment it was as though he had been thrown head-first into the frozen waters of the North Blue. The sensation was immediate, merciless. His fingers spasmed against the weight of the shackles, instinct already telling him to fight, to struggle, to do something. But there was nothing – no invisible reach, no flex of will to shape the air around him. Any thought of conjuring a Room shattered before it could form, his strength slithering into nothing. The power that had defined him for thirteen years was gone, stripped away in an instant by that wretched metal. The panic bloomed quickly, like a wound reopening. His chest constricted, lungs burning though he was still breathing. Every beat of his heart was a frantic hammering, each pulse a reminder of how utterly powerless he was. It was wrong – he was wrong without it. Naked, vulnerable, diminished. His arms trembled and he could not still them, his hands convulsing against the seastone as though his body thought it could shake off the weight. Dressrosa came back in a rush. The chains. The mocking smile. His abuser’s voice cutting into him, cruel and gleeful, while the world blurred in a haze of blood and pain. Seastone biting into his wrists as Doflamingo wrenched away not just his strength, but his dignity, his control, his freedom. He had sworn he would never allow himself to feel that again. And yet, here he was. His breath hitched into something too sharp, too shallow, his ears buzzing with that thick hum of panic. The clink of the chain between his wrists echoed, louder than it should have been, rattling like a death knell. His head dipped, shoulders curling in against the weight pressing in from all sides, as if there was a physical hand pressing against his cervical spine. He hated this – hated how quickly it unravelled him, how easily the stone reduced him to something fragile. Then… warmth. Peace. Calm. A pair of hands closed over his own, broad palms enveloping his trembling fingers, grounding him with a steadiness he could not summon for himself. "Law." The voice was there, deep but soft, though it barely registered at first beneath the static roar in his ears. It was like a memory draped in a dreamscape. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold onto that sound, but the panic clawed higher, an insidious tide rising through his ribs. Nausea bubbled. His sinuses burned. His jaw trembled– "Law." Firmer this time. Closer. An anchor. He forced his eyes open and found himself staring into a pair of deep red irises. Cora. His lover’s gaze was heavy with worry, brows knit tight above them. For a moment he could not hear what Cora was saying – the words blurred and bled away into the haze – and his gaze fell downwards, away from the sharpness of emotion he was not ready to face. It caught on the sight of their joined hands. Cora’s large fingers wrapped around his own, clad in dark leather gloves. Protection against the cuffs. Because Cora was the one who put the cuffs on him. And Cora was holding him. Cora was in control. Cora was safety. The thought repeated, a mantra that echoed with more weight than his erratic breathing. Cora is in control and Cora is safety. Cora might have physically snapped these manacles on his wrists, but Law had asked for this. He had sought it out – sourced the damned cuffs himself and practically placed them in Cora’s hands, pushed and prodded until his lover accepted. They had spoken of it at length, circled the subject with care until there was no space left for doubt: safe words, check-ins, reassurances repeated until Law could probably recite them verbatim in his sleep. He had wanted this. Needed it. And still, the body remembered too well. But the mantra began to chip away at the panic and the warmth of Cora's presence soothed the cracks. The clench in his chest loosened, just slightly. His arms still shook, but the wild frantic edge dulled to a faint tremor. He focused on the weight of those hands, solid and firm around his own, the reality of them tethering him to the present and not the shadow of his past. Through the thinning haze, Cora’s voice broke in again, clearer now, baritone cutting through the static. "Law. You’re safe." The words fell deep, low and certain, and Law’s head tipped forward on a sharp exhale. His lungs burned still, but he dragged in a breath around the weight in his throat, the mantra and the voice twining together. The warmth of that single point of contact rooted him, fragile as it was. His hands were swallowed up in Cora’s, the	Trustfall The click of the lock was deafening in the silence. It was such a small sound, mechanical and unassuming, but it reverberated up the length of his arms like a gunshot. The cuffs tightened, metal pressed firm against the bones of his wrists, and with it came an unmistakable chill. Cold radiated outward, seeping into his veins, crawling up the length of his forearms until it bloomed in his chest. He drew in a sharp breath that caught in his throat, and for a moment it was as though he had been thrown head-first into the frozen waters of the North Blue. The sensation was immediate, merciless. His fingers spasmed against the weight of the shackles, instinct already telling him to fight, to struggle, to do something. But there was nothing – no invisible reach, no flex of will to shape the air around him. Any thought of conjuring a Room shattered before it could form, his strength slithering into nothing. The power that had defined him for thirteen years was gone, stripped away in an instant by that wretched metal. The panic bloomed quickly, like a wound reopening. His chest constricted, lungs burning though he was still breathing. Every beat of his heart was a frantic hammering, each pulse a reminder of how utterly powerless he was. It was wrong – he was wrong without it. Naked, vulnerable, diminished. His arms trembled and he could not still them, his hands convulsing against the seastone as though his body thought it could shake off the weight. Dressrosa came back in a rush. The chains. The mocking smile. His abuser’s voice cutting into him, cruel and gleeful, while the world blurred in a haze of blood and pain. Seastone biting into his wrists as Doflamingo wrenched away not just his strength, but his dignity, his control, his freedom. He had sworn he would never allow himself to feel that again. And yet, here he was. His breath hitched into something too sharp, too shallow, his ears buzzing with that thick hum of panic. The clink of the chain between his wrists echoed, louder than it should have been, rattling like a death knell. His head dipped, shoulders curling in against the weight pressing in from all sides, as if there was a physical hand pressing against his cervical spine. He hated this – hated how quickly it unravelled him, how easily the stone reduced him to something fragile. Then… warmth. Peace. Calm. A pair of hands closed over his own, broad palms enveloping his trembling fingers, grounding him with a steadiness he could not summon for himself. "Law." The voice was there, deep but soft, though it barely registered at first beneath the static roar in his ears. It was like a memory draped in a dreamscape. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold onto that sound, but the panic clawed higher, an insidious tide rising through his ribs. Nausea bubbled. His sinuses burned. His jaw trembled– "Law." Firmer this time. Closer. An anchor. He forced his eyes open and found himself staring into a pair of deep red irises. Cora. His lover’s gaze was heavy with worry, brows knit tight above them. For a moment he could not hear what Cora was saying – the words blurred and bled away into the haze – and his gaze fell downwards, away from the sharpness of emotion he was not ready to face. It caught on the sight of their joined hands. Cora’s large fingers wrapped around his own, clad in dark leather gloves. Protection against the cuffs. Because Cora was the one who put the cuffs on him. And Cora was holding him. Cora was in control. Cora was safety. The thought repeated, a mantra that echoed with more weight than his erratic breathing. Cora is in control and Cora is safety. Cora might have physically snapped these manacles on his wrists, but Law had asked for this. He had sought it out – sourced the damned cuffs himself and practically placed them in Cora’s hands, pushed and prodded until his lover accepted. They had spoken of it at length, circled the subject with care until there was no space left for doubt: safe words, check-ins, reassurances repeated until Law could probably recite them verbatim in his sleep. He had wanted this. Needed it. And still, the body remembered too well. But the mantra began to chip away at the panic and the warmth of Cora's presence soothed the cracks. The clench in his chest loosened, just slightly. His arms still shook, but the wild frantic edge dulled to a faint tremor. He focused on the weight of those hands, solid and firm around his own, the reality of them tethering him to the present and not the shadow of his past. Through the thinning haze, Cora’s voice broke in again, clearer now, baritone cutting through the static. "Law. You’re safe." The words fell deep, low and certain, and Law’s head tipped forward on a sharp exhale. His lungs burned still, but he dragged in a breath around the weight in his throat, the mantra and the voice twining together. The warmth of that single point of contact rooted him, fragile as it was. His hands were swallowed up in Cora’s, the broad palms enveloping his shaking fingers with a heat that radiated through the supple leather of the gloves – gloves that should have made the touch impersonal, but they didn’t. If anything, they added to the strange intimacy of it. The heat bled through in a steady seep, enough to remind Law that he was still anchored here, still held, still tethered to something beyond the cold stone gnawing at his very core. "There's no danger." Before him, Cora sat on the edge of the chair, back to the messy desk, shoulders curved forward in that way that made him seem smaller than he was; however, there was no disguising the breadth of his frame, nor the way Law still had to tilt his head back a little to meet his eye. Long legs were braced apart, posture grounded, and Law stood between them, clad only in dark boxer shorts, knees trembling despite himself. They threatened to give way under the combined weight of memory and sensation. It was humiliating, that his body betrayed him like this, that the tremor was beyond his command. He was trying to steady his breathing when Cora’s voice rumbled low, the vibration sinking into the quiet air between them. "I’m taking them off." A pause, heavy and deliberate, the next words softening even as they morphed into something close to a warning. "Unless you tell me not to. What's the safeword, Law?" The sound was enough to drag Law’s eyes open again. His gaze lifted, sluggish and reluctant, and he found the red irises fixed on him – sharp with worry, the kind that demanded honesty. That look was a command in its own right. Awareness seeped slowly back into the fog of his mind, pulling him from the frantic haze. He needed to answer. He needed to check in. That had been part of the agreement, after all – that he would say when it became too much, that he would not force Cora to guess. "Amber." He shook his head, throat dry, voice rasping as though scraped raw from disuse. "Don’t… remove them." The words cracked on his tongue, croaky, trembling, frayed along the edges like a worn thread. His lips pressed together in frustration, but he forced himself to continue, however quietly. "I’m… okay." Even he could hear the untruth lingering in his words – the truth of how shaken he was – but the words were not false, not really. He was okay, even if it left him feeling tender, raw and exposed in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. The cold lingered in his chest, but it was bearable. It was bearable because it was Cora. He drew in a deep breath, dragging it down into his lungs until the trembling steadied just a fraction more, then let it out in a long, deliberate exhale. A small shuffling step closer carried him into the steady orbit of his lover. Another had his knees nearly brushing the inner vee of Cora's thighs, and then he leaned in, surrendering that final inch, pressing his face into the crook of Cora’s neck. The scent of faded tobacco and waning cologne lingered there, faint but grounding, chased by the quiet reassurance of warmth. He didn’t dare move his shackled hands; he kept them pressed firmly against his own chest, numb fingers tangling the chains away from Cora’s body, unwilling to risk the seastone grazing him. It was a pointless precaution, he knew, considering the high-necked sweater his lover wore, but the thought of the power-draining stone touching anyone but him was intolerable. Cora’s arms came up slowly, one large hand settling at the base of his spine, the other spanning the breadth of his back. The motion was careful, never rushing, never forcing, until the slow rhythm of a stroke began. Back and forth, the soft leather smooth against the bare skin of his back. The motion matched the steady rise and fall of Cora’s own breathing. His forearm soon nestled against the small of Law's back, as Cora tugged their bodies flush. Then, came the rocking. Barely perceptible at first; just the faintest sway, subtle enough to be mistaken for accident. But it grew into a rhythm, patient and even, an anchor disguised as tenderness. It pulled at something deep within Law, loosening the final knots of panic that clung stubbornly to his ribs. Silence stretched around them, thick and absolute, though not the oppressive kind. It was the hush of Cora’s ability. The bubble wrapped around them both, cutting off the distant creaks of the ship, the low hum of the sea outside, the ever-present background noise of the crew moving about. It was gone, severed cleanly away, and in its place, there was only this: the muffled sound of his racing heartbeat slowing, the creak of fabric in their movements, the heat of Cora steady beneath his cheek. It was pressure, yes – Silence always carried its own peculiar weight – but it was familiar, and more than that, it was reassuring. It pressed in around them like a protective barrier, thick and impenetrable. It reminded him of his own Room, that odd constriction of space and energy; except, this was softer, less demanding. Here, there was no expectation, no command to act out. There was only the hush of quiet, the comfort of being cut away from the world. Until it was just the two of them. Law let his eyes drift shut again in reluctant surrender, breathing deeply against the hollow of Cora’s neck. That musky scent wrapped around him, heavy with the faint tang of tobacco, softened with something sweeter beneath. Always that faint trace of vanilla – something he could never quite place, never entirely explain, but it was Cora. That mix was him, and him alone. He pressed his lips to the thudding pulse there, lingering for a long, chaste kiss. It wasn’t for passion – not yet – but for grounding, something tangible to hold onto. The steady beat beneath his mouth anchored him in a way nothing else could. He breathed deeply again, lungs filling with Cora’s scent, and with it came a further loosening in his chest, a sense of calm that slowly began to reshape his fear into acceptance. Not yet release, not yet full surrender, but something close. Something safe. Cora sighed softly at the touch, the sound carrying low in his throat. When he spoke, the words vibrated gently against Law’s lips. "I know… seastone’s a horrid feeling at first," he murmured. The cadence was slow, deliberate, threaded with the kind of patience that came so easily to him. "I was worried, but I know you’re strong. Just don't push yourself, okay? We can pause." Law hummed faintly in reply, unwilling to lift his head just yet. It was easier here, hidden in warmth, muffled in silence. But Cora was persistent in his gentleness, nudging him carefully, guiding him back until Law had no choice but to straighten. Large palms framed his jaw and cheeks, gloved thumbs brushing the sharp line of his cheekbones, tilting his face upward until their gazes locked once more. "Are you sure you’re okay?" The question was heavier this time, more pointed. Those red eyes searched his own as though the truth could be read there. "We can stop. We don’t have to carry on. I can take them off. We don't have to continue." Law’s lips twitched faintly, the stubbornness rising as naturally as breath. Of course Cora would offer him a way out, even now. That was precisely why he could do this. He swallowed, throat rough but words firm. "I’m okay." The insistence was quiet, but steady. "Take me to bed. Do all the things we talked about… the things we agreed on." His voice wavered into something low, almost mischievous, and his mouth tugged into a faint, fleeting smile. "I want to feel you against me and inside me. I want to… I want you in control of my body. Please, Cora." He didn’t miss it – the way his lover’s face flushed immediately, a rush of colour blooming high across the bridge of his nose, spilling into his cheeks, even staining the skin that disappeared beneath the collar of his sweater. It was a beautiful sight, ridiculous and endearing all at once. Law’s laugh crackled out of him before he could help it, short but genuine, easing the last of the tension from his shoulders. "You’re blushing," he teased, softer than he intended, fondness edging the words. Cora gave no reply beyond a rumbling chuckle in his chest, but his actions spoke louder. His arms shifted, strong hands slipping beneath Law’s thighs and remaining at his back, lifting him with a strength so unthinking, so effortless, that Law’s breath caught sharply in his throat. He usually hated this – hated being carried, despised the implication of fragility it brought with it. However, with Cora, it was different. With Cora, it was perfect. There was no pity in the action, no condescension – only certainty, steadiness, the easy proof of strength held without malice. Law let himself go slack in those arms, allowed himself to be borne with weightless ease. His head tilted to rest against Cora’s shoulder as he was carried the short distance to the bed, resisting the urge to close his eyes and give over to the fatigue that washed over him. The soft give of the mattress meeting his back didn’t help, nor the plush pillows cradling his head. Still, he settled into them without resistance, his body already attuned to the ardency and safety surrounding him. His shackled hands lay limply across his chest, the cold still seeping into his sternum, though it felt different now – less like drowning, more like a faint ache, one he could endure. He knew warmth would come soon enough. Soon, it did. Above him, kneeling between his thighs,Cora stared down, flushed still but softened, handsome in the low light of the nearby lamps. Law’s breath slowed as he gazed up at him, the edge of panic replaced by something that felt dangerously like peace. Cora’s hands found his waist, broad palms spanning the curve of him with ease, and Law shivered instantly at the contact. The tremor raced up his spine, sharp and insistent, dragging a hiss of breath between his teeth. He let his head fall back into the pillow, eyelids fluttering, lungs straining to pull in steady air as he tried to breathe through it. It was strange – like his nerves had been stripped bare, made new again, fresh and raw. Pleasant, perhaps. Too much, maybe. He wasn’t entirely sure where the line blurred. "...take them off," he whispered, words nearly lost to the hush of the Silent bubble. His voice cracked, but he knew Cora heard him. "The– not the shackles. The gloves. I'll– keep the seastone away, but I need… I need–" The touch disappeared at once, those gloved hands lifting away from his skin. Law followed the loss with a faint arch of his back, arms lifting almost instinctively. The chain rattled as he stretched them above his head, the cuffs biting faintly into his wrists, but he ignored the cold sting in favour of digging his fingers into his own hair. The action gave him something to hold, something solid, a new tether to ground himself in. His spine curved with the stretch, chest rising, expanding against the press of breath. And then he heard it – the sharp choke in Cora’s throat, the creak of leather halting mid-motion. The hush of the room cracked, not with sound, but with urgency. Quick snaps followed, the harsh tug of leather being torn away, tossed aside without care, urgency outweighing precision. And then– Skin. Skin on skin. Law gasped, the sound breaking free as a ragged moan before he could stop it, raw and startling in its honesty. His teeth caught his lower lip, biting down hard, but it was useless; the sound had already escaped. Heat flared instantly through his body, flooding his veins, an onslaught of sensation that struck so deep it felt like he was being touched for the very first time. Every nerve screamed awake. The weight of Cora’s bare palms against his waist was almost unbearable, the warmth searing, sinking into him with a force that robbed him of rational thought. His skin tingled, alive in a way he hadn’t thought possible, every inch of him buzzing, humming, overwhelmed. It was too much and yet not enough, the duality sending sparks of pleasure racing down into the pit of his stomach until heat throbbed there, deep and unrelenting. Cora said his name again, rougher this time, the deep timbre of his voice husky with strain, heavy with awe. It vibrated through Law’s bones, thickened the air between them until it was almost difficult to draw breath. "...You good?" Law’s answer was a low hum, spilling from his throat without thought, caught between approval and need. His back arched again, more deliberate this time, silently urging, demanding, pleading for more. His body moved without direction, without decision, aching for those hands to shift – to go higher, to map the path of his ribs, his chest; or lower, to trace the lines of muscle and bone that led to places darker, hotter, needier. He didn’t know which. He only knew he wanted. All of it. Everywhere. Now. "Amazing," he hissed, lips trembling. He openly moaned at the twitch of Cora's fingers, tightening at the arch of his hipbone and ribs alike. "Don't stop." Cora’s hands finally began to move, slow and deliberate, and heat followed in their wake like a trail of sparks. Law let out a shaky breath – something between a sigh and a moan – as those hands travelled upwards, mapping every inch of exposed skin and taut muscle with reverence. His nerves lit up beneath the touch, each new point of contact erupting like fireworks behind his ribs. Cora’s thumbs swiped across his nipples, brushing with just enough pressure to make Law’s breath catch. The sensation was sharp, electric, and it rushed straight down his spine. And when a carefully manicured nail scraped across a tightening bud – Oh. His back arched instinctively, body offering itself up without hesitation, and the barest groan escaped him. He couldn’t help it; the feeling was too much, too arresting, too exquisite. Then, those same fingertips – soft, calloused, unbearably tender – began to trace the familiar ink decorating his chest. Cora followed the lines of his tattoos as though reading their story from his skin, thumb skimming the curve of each mark, fingers gliding along the spans of muscle and bone beneath. They drifted higher, over the lines of his collarbones, across the ridges of tendon at his throat, before they dipped back down and across to ghost through the neatly trimmed hair of his underarms. The sensation was ticklish and prickling in equal measures. Still, Cora paused. One hand slid up to his upper right arm, wrapping around his bicep with care that bordered on worship. Law felt the breath leave him in a soft exhale as Cora’s thumb found the thick scar that cleaved across the muscle. The pad of his thumb followed the line of it, gentle, slow, as if he could smooth the violence out of it; wipe away the memory carved there and replace it with something softer, something his. A soft sound slipped from Law – half hum, half sigh – his entire body melting into the touch. He practically dissolved into the mattress beneath him. What remained, thrumming in his blood, was something deeper than calm, deeper than satisfaction. It was a fullness, a serenity that swelled in his chest until it almost ached. He scrunched his fingers tighter into his hair, knuckles against his scalp, determined to ground himself. He was intensely aware of how hard he was; aching, pulsing, leaking messily into his underwear, but somehow that wasn’t the centre of his world. Not in this moment. His arousal simmered at the edge of his consciousness, but he didn’t chase it. He didn’t need to. What he wanted… what he needed… was this: the warmth of Cora’s hands, the tenderness in every sweep of palm and drag of fingers, the contrast between soft skin and roughened callouses, between strength and gentleness. All of it chasing the chill of the seastone, sparking his body to life against the draining pull of its power. Cora had obviously touched him like this before – with reverence and wonder. He had massaged away tension and pain and exhaustion after long surgeries or brutal battles. However, with the seastone draining him, stripping him down to something softer, it felt new. Like his body had never learned this language until now. Every stroke stole his breath and forced it back in as a stutter, a shiver, a moan that vibrated low in his throat. Not the stutter of fear or remembered trauma this time – but anticipation. Want. Safety. Cora’s hands eventually drifted back to his waist, settling there with a claiming pressure. Law felt his lips curl into a broad, smug grin. Those hands dwarfed him, fingers spanning the narrowness of his body completely. He loved that. Loved the way Cora could hold him so firmly, so completely, and still treat him like something delicate. Then, Cora spoke. His voice was a rumbling bass, deep and steady, carrying authority without sharpness. "Law. What’s your word?" For a heartbeat, Law only blinked up at him; mind foggy, body blissed out. It took a moment for him to understand. Safeword. "Amber," Law whispered, voice thick, blurry around the edges. It came out more like a breath than a word, but Cora heard him just fine. "Good." The tender praise spilled from Cora’s lips immediately, breathed against Law’s skin like something sacred as he bent down to trace indulgent kisses along his throat. The tone alone sent heat rushing through Law’s stomach, coiling low and tight. He nearly writhed – nearly curled forward, nearly wrapped his legs tight around Cora’s hips and dragged him close – but before he could move, a steadying hand pressed against his knee. Not harsh. Not restraining. Just… guiding. Keeping him open. Keeping him there. "Stay," Cora murmured, voice gentled by affection but firm with intention. Law’s thigh trembled where Cora held it, muscles quivering with want, but he didn’t fight it. He didn’t even think to. He had no energy to argue, and no desire to, either. The seastone sapped any pretence of resistance, but more than that – it was trust. Bone-deep, steady trust. So, he let his body fall back against the pillows, knees bent and parted under Cora’s touch, breath coming slow through parted lips. His breath trembled as he forced his thighs to stay open, the cool bite of seastone at his wrists a distant, almost irrelevant ache compared to the molten need pooling in his belly. Swallowing, his voice caught in his throat as he whispered, "Cora… touch me. Please…" His plea was soft, cracked at the edges, desperate in a way he might deny later but couldn’t hide now. Cora’s response was maddeningly calm, uttered against his neck. "I am touching you." The words rumbled through his chest like a taunt wrapped in affection. Law let out a sound that was half laugh, half whine; something embarrassingly unguarded that escaped before he could catch it. Heat flushed across his face, and he muttered a curse at his lover for good measure. "Bastard," he breathed: breathless, needy, fond. Cora huffed a warm laugh against his skin, and then teeth found his neck in a caress. The bite was soft, more pressure than pain, but it sent a lightning shock down Law’s spine. Lips followed immediately after, soothing the nip with slow, languid kisses. The contrast made Law gasp, chest tightening with a pleasure so sharp it almost hurt. His body thrummed beneath Cora, every nerve alive, humming like a livewire stretched too tight. For one fleeting, delirious moment, Law wondered if Cora might truly leave him like this – strung out, trembling, aching, suspended on the precipice of want with no relief. But, the thought flickered and died as quickly as it came. Of course Cora wouldn’t. Cora would always look after him. Cora always had. "…kiss me," Law whispered, breath brushing Cora’s ear. His voice was softer than he intended, shy in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. He even parted his lips slightly, jutting them forward in a tiny, almost childish pout of invitation. The reaction was immediate. Cora’s hand slid up to cradle the back of his head, and their mouths met in a kiss that stole the air from Law’s lungs. Deep – so deep it felt like being pulled under a slow, sweeping tide. Cora kissed him as though nothing else existed, as though the Silent bubble wrapped them in a universe of two. Lips moulded to his, insistent but reverent, tongue sliding into his mouth with a slow, claiming stroke that made Law’s back arch clean off the mattress. The kiss devoured him, heating him up from the inside out. He couldn't help but suckle on the large muscle, as it swept into his mouth, his own tongue meeting and undulating against it. When Cora finally pulled back, it was only because his hands were already tugging at the hem of Law’s underwear. "Lift," Cora encouraged, and Law obeyed, thighs trembling as he raised his hips. The fabric dragged over overheated skin, down his thighs, down his calves, Cora’s motions careful but unhesitating. Law lifted his legs automatically, letting Cora straighten and guide them so the clothing could slide free. It felt strange, vulnerable even, to have anything removed by hand. Usually by this point, Law would simply flick his fingers and vanish their clothing in a burst of power. But now, stripped of his abilities, stripped of everything but breath and sensation, the removal felt intimate in a way he hadn’t expected. Raw. New. Wonderful. The moment the fabric left his ankle, Cora sat back on his heels. His dark gaze swept over Law’s naked body with a slowness that made heat surge beneath Law’s skin. Law’s breath stuttered. He lay bare before Cora: skin flushed, chest rising too fast, shackled wrists resting above his head, cock lying hard and heavy against his stomach. He could feel the sticky warmth of precum pooling in the dip of his navel, a humiliatingly intimate reminder of how badly he wanted this. Cora saw it. Cora saw everything. And instead of pulling away, instead of smirking or teasing, his expression shifted into something that made Law’s stomach flip. Cora’s gaze locked onto the mess against his abdomen – just for a moment – before sweeping slowly back up to meet his eyes. The hunger there was unmistakable and so was the adoration. "Fuck, you're so beautiful," came Cora's rasping curse. He looked utterly undone – blond hair tousled, strands falling over his forehead and brushing the tops of his soft red eyes. The flush across his cheeks was dazzling, a bright, vivid pink that spread from cheekbones to the bridge of his strong nose, sliding down to colour the strong column of his throat. It was half arousal and half overheating; he was still fully clothed, sweat beading at his temples, broad shoulders tense beneath his sweater, breath coming heavier with every passing second. A bead of sweat broke away from his brow and trickled down the sharp line of his nose, and his lips – always soft, always warm – were swollen from kissing him. He was the most beautiful thing Law had ever seen. He was utterly, hopelessly, deeply in love. Law’s breath caught as Cora continued to drink in the sight of him – hungry, reverent, overwhelmed. The sight of that flushed face and blazing gaze made something molten unfurl low in Law’s stomach, a heat that pulsed through every nerve the seastone hadn’t numbed. It wasn’t enough. For all the intensity in Cora’s stare, Law wanted more. He needed to see him, needed him bared in the same way he was. His voice came out small, breathy, a whisper pulled straight from the centre of his longing. "Cora… take off your clothes. I want–" He didn’t finish. Cora’s lips curled into a slow, infuriating, utterly devastating smirk. The kind that dragged a new rush of excitement down Law’s spine. "Now hold on," Cora murmured, tilting his head with deliberate play. "Weren’t you the one who said you wanted me in control?" Law blinked, taken off guard, his body tensing minutely against the mattress. Cora’s eyes glinted, amused and playful all at once. "Weren’t we clear about that?" he continued in that deep, teasing baritone. "You said you wanted to submit. So why," he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower, "are you giving me orders, Captain?" The title was heavy with irony; softly mocking, carefully aimed. And it landed perfectly. Bastard. Law’s lips parted, dry and aching, and he swallowed hard as he licked across them. "So what… I’m your prisoner?" he asked, tone caught between curiosity and want. It was something they had talked about before, a possibility that lingered at the edge of fantasy, but Cora shook his head before the thought could take root. "No." His voice was quiet but firm, the finality of it brushed with affection. "You just need to lie back…" His hands slid up Law’s thighs as he spoke, steady and grounding. "…relax…" A slow rub of his thumbs into Law’s hipbones, mere inches away from his cock. "…and enjoy whatever I do to you." He paused then, gaze honing in, sharpening with something that made Law’s breath hitch. "Can you do that?" The question vibrated in the air like a plucked string. Law exhaled shakily. "Yes." And Cora’s response– "Good boy." –hit him like a physical blow. A violent shiver ripped through Law’s entire body, as though the words had hooked directly into his spine and tugged. Heat washed over him, molten and immediate, and he couldn’t stop the way his thighs tried to close once again, even as Cora kept them parted. The praise clung to him, warm and heavy, a brand of affection and ownership he hadn’t known he craved until it was given. With the faintest smile tugging at his lips, Cora finally reached for his own clothing. He gripped the back of his sweater’s collar and peeled it off in one smooth pull, muscles flexing beautifully beneath the movement. His stomach tightened, abs rippling like a tide, and his pectorals shifted with a soft bounce. Law bit down on his lower lip hard enough to sting, breath stuttering as he watched the display helplessly. He wanted to reach out so badly – wanted to run his fingers over those muscles, trace the lines that dipped toward Cora’s hips, pull him close and feel the sweltering press of skin-on-skin. Wanted to kiss every inch of quivering muscle, press his nose to the wiry hair that trailed from naval to prick, wanted to pull Cora deep into his throat. But – how could he forget? – his wrists were shackled, fingers clenched above his head, and the seastone ensured that any attempt at power was a pathetic spark instead of lightning. He was helpless to do anything but look. And looking was torture. (But also bliss.) Shuffling back off the bed, Cora stood. He reached for his belt, never breaking eye contact – not even for a heartbeat. His fingers worked the buckle, slow but sure, the metallic jingle of it loud in the otherwise perfect silence. He slid the leather free and thumbed the button, pushing his jeans and underwear down, hips rolling almost lazily as he stepped out of them. There was a momentary stumble – just a slight catch when a cuff leg snagged around his ankle – but he caught himself with a hand braced on the mattress, the movement steady and controlled. Law felt pride bloom in his chest, silly and tender; even now, even stripping for him, Cora carried himself with his characteristic 'grace' that felt uniquely his. And, beyond that, he was aroused. Visibly. Heavily. Thick and hard and flushed, jutting out from the pronounced cut of his adonis belt. Thudding veins bulged, making the flesh twitch, and a droplet of precum beaded on the head. The sight dragged a whimper from Law’s throat, high and involuntary, his body squirming faintly as though magnetised. He wanted Cora back on him – wanted his heat, his weight, his everything. Without the presence of his lover pressing into him, the cold began to creep back into Law’s skin. The prickle of seastone intensified, a reminder of his fragility, his vulnerability. Cora was so far away. His heart thudded unevenly, breaths shortening with the sharp edge of chill licking at his bones. He hadn’t meant to beg, but the sound that came out of him – a thin, needy, wordless plea – said everything. Of course Cora heard it; he always heard him. And he returned immediately, climbing back onto the bed with firm, confident movements until he knelt once more between Law’s legs. His thick thighs slid beneath Law’s own, caging him, holding him open. Both hands found Law’s waist, settling there with that same quiet claim, fervid and immense and perfect. The instant Cora touched him again, heat rushed through Law’s body like a burning tide. His eyes fluttered shut, a sigh of pure relief escaping him as satisfaction flared hot and bright across every reawakened nerve. The cold melted away, eaten by safety, by love, by want. Law swallowed hard, throat tight, pulse fluttering wildly beneath his skin. The question rose before he could stop it, pulled straight from the heat coiling low in his belly. "Are you going to fuck me?" The question slipped out before Law even realised he’d spoken. It came out thin, breathy, nothing like the commanding tone he used as captain – or the surgeon’s clinical precision. It was almost shy. Almost small, fraying at the edges, thick with want. Cora hummed, as though genuinely contemplating it. The sound rumbled through his chest, soft as distant thunder, burning as the hearth of a home Law had always yearned for, before him. "Do you want me to?" Law’s lips parted, but no words came. He managed a breathless nod, slow and unsteady. His tongue felt useless in his mouth, heavy and clumsy from pleasure. Cora hummed again; softer this time. The kind that made Law’s toes curl and heat pool low in his belly with anticipation. He could hear the mischief tucked beneath the sound. The promise. The tease. And the bastard let the moment stretch, suspense settling over the room like a warm blanket. And then– "No," Cora said. Law blinked sharply, the shock snapping through him like a misfiring neuron. He barely had a heartbeat to be scandalised – to part his lips, to draw breath for a plea or a curse or frustrated whine – because Cora moved. Their hips met, Cora grinding down in a slow, perfectly controlled roll of his pelvis. Pleasure detonated in Law’s gut, sparking up his spine, tumbling his breath out in a shocked cry. A soft puff of air against Law's cheek as a mouth brushed his ear, that baritone voice dropping to something molten. "I’m going to make love to you instead." Law’s entire world stuttered. Sight blurred, breath hitched, ribs tightened. Tears burned instantly at the backs of his eyes. His sinuses prickled, a familiar sting he hated. It always happened like this; every time Cora cut through his defences with gentleness instead of force, every time he was shown tenderness he wasn’t sure he deserved. Am I good enough? Do I deserve this? The doubts rose automatically, cruel, reflexive. And tears… hot, traitorous tears welled at the back of his eyes. Not sobbing grief or pain, but the kind that always slipped out when something inside him swelled too big. Overwhelmed. Raw. Bare. But Cora kissed him before the doubt could take root – a deep, smothering kiss that consumed the tremble on Law’s lips – and pressed more weight onto him; not all of it, never all (though Law ached for that), but enough to feel held, covered, anchored. A hot-blooded, living weighted blanket of a man, shielding him from the cold, weary chill of the world. The alignment of their bodies was simultaneously imperfect and perfect. Because of their height difference, Law’s cock ground against the taut plane of Cora’s lower abs and the friction was devastating. Lightning-hot pleasure shot through him, followed by another wave of reverence, far too big for his chest. Affection. Adoration. Appreciation. Awe. A dozen other words he couldn’t hope to fathom because his brain was melting under Cora’s mouth and the slide of skin-on-skin. But also, beneath it all, something else. Something sharp. Wrong. Not the cuffs. Not the cold. Certainly not Cora. But– Law’s lungs hitched. He pulled away from the kiss with a whine, turning his head for breath. The ache blooming beneath his pleasure crystallised into awareness. His arms – shoulders, to be precise. They were numb – heavier than deadweight – and screaming beneath the tension of being pinned above his head for so long. Tendons pulled tight as bowstrings. Muscles spasming in a dull, nauseating pulse. He tried to speak, but his throat only managed a strained grunt, thin and desperate; a sound edged with pain he hadn’t intended. And Cora – attentive, beautiful, wonderful Cora – recognised it instantly, sitting up and putting distance between them, as if he were the problem. "What’s wrong?" he asked, voice sharp with concern, hands already reaching for the discarded gloves on the bed. He fumbled with them, but didn't put them on. "You're in pain. What hurts?" Law tilted his head back, trying futilely to tug his arms down, but they wouldn’t move; wouldn’t respond. The effort only sent a frisson of pain stabbing through his shoulders, stealing his breath and tightening his chest. And the frustration only made the words harder – he liked to rest in this position, with his arms back and hands tucked behind his head. So why was his body betraying him at this moment in time? "Arms," he managed to stutter, the word small and shaky. Cora was reacting as soon as he spoke. His hands – those large, careful hands – slid around Law’s biceps. "Okay. Okay, I’ve got you," the blond murmured, grounding him with sound and touch. Slowly, so slowly Law thought he might sob, Cora guided his arms down, taking care to avoid the seastone chain. Each inch was a tug of pins and needles that bloomed sharp and hot down Law’s arms. He grit his teeth, jaw flexing as sensation returned in an almost electric surge. Dead nerves. Blood rushing back. Pain unwinding into prickling heat. He cursed under his breath, embarrassed, angry at his body for failing him; for spoiling this moment, this perfect, fragile thing he’d wanted so desperately. But Cora… Cora didn’t falter. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t look disappointed. If anything, he looked fond, eyebrows pitched up with worry and reassurance. He eased Law's arms down, inch by inch, until his hands rested on his chest, chain clinking. Already, he felt better. Cora's fingers massaged life back into him; slow strokes from biceps to forearms, kneading muscle, coaxing feeling back beneath the surface. He worked in circles, pressing just firmly enough to ease the ache but never enough to hurt. Law exhaled shakily, letting his body sag into the pillows, eyes half-lidded. Watching through the haze as Cora tended to him with quiet, unwavering devotion. He bit his lip, tasting the faint sting of pressure as the aftershocks of pain pulsed quietly through his arms and shoulders, dulling the sharp edge of his desire. He could feel the shift in the room; subtle, but there. His own arousal had waned a little, mood dampened by the distraction and discomfort, and as he glanced down the line of Cora’s body he could see his lover wasn’t quite as achingly hard as before either, though he still remained thick and flushed between his thighs. The passionate momentum they’d been swept up in had faltered, broken by that unwelcome interruption, and guilt began to swell low and heavy in Law’s chest like a stone dragged through water. He mumbled a soft apology, cheeks heating with a frustration he didn’t want to voice, but Cora shook his head immediately, fingers still smoothing down the lines of Law’s arm with gentle insistence. "It’s okay," he soothed, voice steady, the sincerity in it cutting through Law’s self-recrimination with disarming ease. "These things happen. It's refreshing – usually it's me dealing with some kind of body issue." He grinned, sending Law a wink, before his smile softened again. "Nothing’s ruined." His gaze flicked briefly toward the cuffs still encircling Law’s wrists, and he asked, "Do you have your arms back, or do I need to take these off?" Law shook his head this time, swallowing down the frustration that still clung to his tongue. "I’m fine," he whispered, feeling his voice catch on something tender. "I still… want to. If you do." He hesitated, eyes darting away. "It’s just not going how we planned." Cora snorted, an amused, heartfelt sound. He released Law’s arms, bracing his own hands on either side of Law’s head and leaning over him until his shadow engulfed Law’s flushed form. "You," he said with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "are the master of dealing with situations where plans fall apart." Law shot him a pointed, unimpressed look, brows furrowing with full grumpy intention. "Do not mention Straw Hat in our bed, I swear–" Cora’s grin widened into something nearly wicked. "I didn’t mention him. You did." Law groaned and rolled his eyes, the faintest smile threatening the edge of his lips despite his best efforts to look truly annoyed. "Just kiss me," he grumbled, the complaint melting into something softer, breathier. And Cora answered him without hesitation. Their mouths collided in a kiss that was slow at first; tender, deliberate, a rebuilding of the heat that had nearly consumed them earlier. Warm breaths puffed against each other’s cheeks, the mingling air humid and intimate. Law breathed sharply through his nose when Cora’s hand slipped along his ribs, and a faint noise rumbled in Cora’s throat in response, low and appreciative. Their bodies began to rock gently together, a subtle rhythm that pressed Cora’s firm stomach against Law’s hips with each shift, the friction coaxing sparks of pleasure back into Law’s blood as Cora’s hips frotted into the mattress beneath him. The tension eased gradually, replaced with that swelling warmth, that aching wanting, that sensation of being wrapped up in something fiercely alive again. But as they kissed, Law’s eyes cracked open, and a sliver of awareness sliced through the haze of pleasure. His hands were clasped together on his chest, and Cora’s own chest hovered dangerously close to brushing against the cursed metal. They could not afford to have Cora accidentally touch them and fall slack upon him. He'd wanted Cora's weight atop him before, but not in a way where Cora would be rendered powerless and unable to move. He pulled back just enough to whisper a warning – quiet, urgent. "Cora… careful. The cuffs." Cora froze for a second, then propped himself higher, glancing down at Law’s restrained arms with a frown, brow furrowed in thought. It was clear he wanted nothing more than to press his entire body down over Law’s, to lay against him fully and envelop him, but the manacles was making it complicated. Law could see the conflict in the slight crease between his brows, see the effort he put into problem-solving even in the throes of lust. "I could roll ov–" Law began, only to cut himself off, biting his tongue when the realisation struck. He wasn’t supposed to be giving instructions. Cora blinked at him, head tilting in a way that was so endearingly puppy-like that Law almost laughed despite the heat between his thighs. Then, the blond's eyes widened with a short 'Oh', followed by raised brows and a longer 'ohhhh', and cleared his throat. Law barely had time to brace before Cora shot him a brand-new grin – bright, cheeky, full of teeth. "Keep your hands right there," Cora told him. Law frowned. How… would that help? It wouldn't. The whole point was that Law's hands, being clutched to his chest, was getting in the way of Cora pressing close to him, pressing him down into the mattress. He wondered what the hell Cora was thinking, planning, up to– He didn't have to wait long to realise. With a small shuffle down the bed, Cora dipped down to press sweet kisses to Law's belly. Soft and feathery drags of lips alternated with suckling caresses, teeth nipping small red patches around his naval; a little ticklish, but Law had learnt to stamp down on the urge to squirm and laugh when Cora did this – the man really liked his stomach and his waist. (…The man really liked all of Law, but held a strange fixation to the dips and divots between his hips and ribs. Always cradling it, staring at how his hands would wrap around them so perfectly, how it would bulge when he fucked his way inside–) A nuzzle through neatly trimmed hair had Law inhaling a short gasp, lower lip clenched between his own teeth in utter anticipation. Eyes half-lidded, he tried to raise his head to look down at Cora – wanted to see his cock disappear between those pretty lips – but without his arms to brace behind him and with the overwhelming jelly-like nature of his muscles, he had no hope. Numb fingers twitching, he stared up at the bulkhead ceiling, before closing his eyes and feeling. A single puff of breath against his aching prick was the only warning Law had before Cora pressed a kiss to the base of his dick, one broad hand splayed across the entirety of his stomach as the palm of his other pressed against his balls, heel grinding in sweet, little circles. "Cora…" Law breathed. His thighs parted even more, knees pulling up to give Cora more room, more space, more, more, more– "Mmph– yesss…" His lover didn't respond in words, only with a rumbling moan that vibrated up his flesh in an addictive shiver. Hands on the backs of his thighs, Cora dipped his head to mouth at Law's balls, hand wrapping so perfectly around his cock and squeezing with enough pressure to make him writhe for more. A calloused thumb circled the head of his dick and he knew beads of precum would be streaming across Cora's hand. Law twitched, whining under an exhale. "That's it," he heard Cora whisper. That long tongue licked a continuous, broad swipe up the underside of his cock, lips pausing to suckle at his frenulum. "Let me hear you." He couldn't stop his hips from jolting forward, Cora's deep voice filling his ears, his touch zinging pleasure from his very core. The action caused his cock to slide over Cora's cheek, and oh, he knew how that would look: a trail of pearlescence in the exact place as how he wore his damned lipstick, teasing and taunting him. He wished Cora was wearing that deep red now, so that – once Law was lucid again – he could see all the places Cora's lips had been across his body; a constellation of pretty stars across his flesh. Firm hands held him steady, holding his hips down, and then Cora's mouth was finally sliding down, fully, over his prick. Wet and tight and warm – fuck, perfect. He must have made another noise, he wasn't sure, because Cora slid all the way down to the base without further preamble, nose nudging into the hair at the root. He held there for a heartbeat or three, suckling and undulating his tongue, before he pulled back, dragging the flat of it under his cock and flicking the tip into his sensitive slit. Law let out what he thought was a loud moan, but the sound was almost lost beneath the obscene noises of Cora sucking so eagerly on his cock, humming and moaning as he slid up and down. Law wasn't small in size – not necessarily big either – but with their differences in physical size, he fit so perfectly in Cora's mouth; his lover never gagged or struggled. Not like Law did when their roles were reversed. But… shit, it seemed they both liked when Law struggled to fit the heavy crown of Cora's dick in his mouth, working his hands around the thick shaft because he couldn't take too much in without time and patience – which Law rarely had any of, when it came to his lover. That wasn't to say he couldn't take Cora down to the root, it just needed… discipline; perhaps a little assist from his abilities. But he had grown addicted to the way that magnificent cock would stretch his throat, so it was all worth it. (…Barking orders, later on, was always an arduous feat – and the mischievous looks his crew sent him did not help.) Law's eyes fluttered open when he realised the tight heat had left him, and Cora was, instead, pressing soft kisses to the juts of his hips and belly. He stared up at the ceiling, breathing steadily. "You didn't fall asleep," Cora rumbled, amusement clear in his tone, "but where did you go, Law?" "I…" Law rasped, faltering. His body felt heavier than it had before – had he come? "–was thinking." "About what?" "What it's like. To suck your cock." A snicker of laugher. Cora butted his forehead against Law's hip, where the seam of his thigh was sensitive and ticklish. "I should be offended that my hard work isn't being appreciated." There was a sudden kiss to the head of Law's dick, sloppy and wet and hot. Sharp pleasure zipped through him, and Law hissed, spine arching. Ah. He hadn't come, it seemed. "But looking at you now–" He felt Cora sit up, hands once again finding their rightful place at his waist. There was a wistful sigh. "…Were you really thinking about my cock when I was sucking yours?" "Mn. Want it." He did. Wanted to remain as he was, languid and lounging, but he wanted the bursts of thick salt across his own tongue. Maybe Cora could straddle his shoulders? Fuck his thick cock into his mouth at his own pace and rhythm? Rub that leaking glans over Law's lips and cheeks and everywhere. Tilt his head back and– "Law." He whined. "Cora, it's…" He knew he was pouting. "I'm here. I want your cock. Please." It wasn't often he begged. Penguin had once referred to Cora as 'whipped' (although never again, for several reasons) because Law never needed to plead or truly ask for anything when it came to Cora. The man was infuriatingly attentive and loving and willing to do anything for Law. On the odd occasion, he was hesitant – such as the very situation they were in now, with the seastone – Law didn't need to do much coercion. There was unbreakable trust between them. So, therefore, he knew that begging, pleading, whining for what he wanted would definitely work. "On your knees," Cora told him in a suddenly firm voice, even though he clearly wasn’t waiting for compliance; his large hands were already sliding down to Law’s hips, nudging him encouragingly towards one side. Law let himself be guided, boneless body twisting and shuffling until he was on his front. His cock brushed the mattress, sending a shock of sensation through him, and when he finally settled, the soft duvet cradled him so deliciously that he let out an involuntary, muffled sigh into the pillow, hips rolling. The friction was intoxicating – far too good – and he had a split second to enjoy it before a sharp swat landed squarely across his ass. Law jolted upright onto his knees so fast it was instinctive, the sting blooming across his skin, heat pooling deep in his gut. He shot a glare over his shoulder, fully intending to look unimpressed, but the moment he caught sight of Cora’s expression, the intention crumbled. Cora knelt behind him, every inch of him smouldering. His eyes were simultaneously dark and molten, bright and hungry. The flush down his chest glowed beneath the dim light, scars illuminated, ribs heaving with heavy breaths. The sight stole the breath from Law’s lungs so abruptly that he spun his head forward again, burying his face in the pillow as if hiding from a force too powerful to withstand head-on. Shoulders low, his shackled hands slid beneath the pillow for comfort or surrender – he didn’t know which – and his body trembled in anticipation, heat flooding back through him in a rush so overwhelming it bordered on dizzying. His heart was racing again, but this time not from panic. This time, it was pure want and Cora was right behind him, ready to take control exactly the way Law craved. Cora’s hands made first contact with the backs of Law’s thighs, and the shiver that rolled through him was so immediate, so powerful, it nearly caused his knees to fall completely apart; to bare himself like an animal in heat. His muscles twitched beneath the touch, taut and eager, and he had to summon every scrap of willpower he possessed not to push back, not to press himself into that warmth. Cora’s thumbs dug into the thick bands of muscle running up his legs, slow and deliberate strokes that kneaded away the lingering ache and coaxed new heat to the surface of his skin. The touch slid higher, creeping toward the fullest curve of Law’s ass. Each upward drag was a tease, a promise, a deliberate push and pull. When Cora’s thumbs finally swept over the swell of him and dug into the grooves just above – those small dimples at the base of his spine – Law’s breath stuttered into the pillow. That tender, sensitive spot had always undone him, always made him feel far too seen. Cora adored those dimples; he kissed them, worshipped them, pressed his thumbs there when he fucked him as though they were made for him alone. Perfect indentations for his thumbs. This time, he didn’t kiss them – not yet, anyway. Instead, Cora simply breathed a soft sound of appreciation and slid his hands further along Law's body, wrapping a firm grip around Law’s waist. The squeeze was firm, grounding, followed by his long fingertips idly brushing the small patch of hair low on Law’s stomach. Law tensed beautifully, biting his lip into the pillow to keep the sound inside him from spilling out, but one hand drifted away; travelling up, broad and warm, gliding along the line of Law’s spine. The slow sweep of palm against vertebrae was enough to unravel him. But when that hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades, the pressure was exquisite. It knocked the breath out of him in one swift rush, pleasure zinging like lightning across the base of his spine. And then – click, click, click. Three perfect, toe-curling cracks shivered up his vertebrae as his back adjusted beneath the force of Cora’s hand; not that his lover was pressing hard. Law grinned into the bedding, teeth scraping the pillowcase, and he arched his lower back even further, lifting his hips higher in silent encouragement. Cora rewarded him instantly. The other hand, which had never left him, tightened around one cheek of his ass, squeezing with unabashed appreciation and stroking oh-so-close to where he needed him most. Law could feel the heat of his own blush scorch across his cheekbones, but even with the pillow blocking his face, he felt like he couldn’t hide – not when his lover was so clearly drinking in every inch of him, every breath, every sound. "I want you to stay exactly where you are," Cora murmured, his voice dropping into that low, tender gravity that made Law’s knees weak even when he wasn’t kneeling. His breath skimmed across Law’s lower back, and then words rumbled against his skin as Cora leaned closer. "Don’t move for me, sweetheart." Law swallowed hard, the command settling deep and sure in his body like a stone in a quiet lake. "You’re beautiful," Cora continued, voice slipping into something softer, almost reverent. The hand travelled back down to stroke the curve of Law’s waist while the other continued to knead his ass with slow, deliberate affection. Law let out a croaky moan when his thumb tugged on the taut skin of his hole. "So perfect. I love you." The words struck hard; so hard, Law shut his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek to steady himself. "And I promise," Cora whispered, lowering himself enough that his lips brushed the dimples at the base of Law’s spine, "I'll give you my cock. I’m going to make you feel so good." He kissed those dimples – slow, warm, lingering – and Law’s breath shattered into a trembling exhale. Then, Cora’s voice softened further, the quiet gratitude in it enough to unravel Law in an instant. "Thank you for trusting me like this. For giving this to me." Law’s throat tightened. The rawness of it, the sincerity, slid beneath his ribs and pressed against the softest parts of him, the parts he usually caged away so tightly. He didn’t fight the words that rose instinctively, didn’t hide them or shape them into something clever. He let them spill in a whisper soaked in truth. "It’s all for you," he said, voice raspy and earnest as he pressed his forehead deeper into the pillow. "Only ever for you." Cora’s hands left him only long enough to reach for the small jar tucked beside the pillows – a presence they’d placed there with quiet intention earlier. Law heard the soft pop of the bottle opening, followed by the faint, wet sound as Cora slicked his fingers; even that made his breath falter, made anticipation coil deep and molten in his gut. He buried his face further in the pillow, fingers curling beneath it, every muscle poised, trembling, waiting. The first press of Cora’s fingers was so gentle it made Law shiver more violently than if he’d been grabbed. A slow, careful slide inside, a single finger, warm and slick, easing past resistance with practised patience. Law’s breath broke in a needy whine before he could stop it, hips rocking forward instinctively, but Cora steadied him with a firm hand on his lower back. The intrusion wasn’t painful – not even close – but startling, bright, intense in a way that sent a tremor arching through his spine. Cora worked slowly, tenderly, easing just the tip of his finger inside before retreating, circling, and pressing forward again. Law whined. Actually whined. It came out of him unbidden, pathetic and desperate, a plea pulled from somewhere low in his gut. His thighs trembled, knees shifting against the mattress, hips threatening to tilt back into the touch, but Cora’s hand at his waist tightened just enough to hold him still. "There you go… good… good…" Cora rumbled, his voice flowing over Law’s skin like molten honey. Another finger, a slick push; deeper this time, and Law’s body relaxed around the stretch with a helpless moan. Cora was relentless in his gentleness – he always was – every movement deliberate, every glide of his fingers meant to coax rather than rush. There was not a moment of too much or just bear it, it'll be worth it; his entire body was liquid, slack like a tumbling river over soft sand. Idly, Law wondered if this was a more positive side-effect of seastone on a Fruit user. By the time Cora had worked him open, three fingers stuffed in his hole, Law was trembling like a leaf in the wind. His face was flushed, his skin slick with sweat, his voice reduced to breathy mutters and pleading moans that he could no longer control. Every part of him felt loose and warm and stretched, body singing with need, chest pressed to the mattress and hips twitching in tiny, involuntary arcs; jolting when his prostate was nudged with firm strokes. "Please…" he managed, though he wasn’t sure what he was begging for: More. Everything. Cora. Always. Cora withdrew his fingers carefully, and Law shuddered at the loss of fullness. He bit his lip as he felt Cora shift behind him, the heavy heat of that thick cock nudging against his hole. Usually, he would have tensed up – just a little, pure reflex – but there was no such urge this time. Just boneless lethargy, limbs too loose, too hot, too needy. A soft curse broke free of Cora, the sound thick with barely-contained desire, and his palms slid firmly to Law’s hips, anchoring him in place. "Breathe for me," Cora whispered, voice barely audible but vibrating straight through Law’s bones. Law inhaled shakily, exhaled through trembling lips, and then Cora pushed inside – not with any measure of force, he simple let Law’s body soften around him, welcoming him in. The world – Law's world – went silent. Not Cora’s Silence bubble; this was something else entirely. Law’s mind emptied as though someone had pulled a plug. No thoughts, no words, nothing but raw sensation flooding every inch of him. The stretch was overwhelming, consuming, a perfect blend of pressure and heat that shot straight to his spine and down into his toes. Usually, there was pain; regardless of how much preparation, there was always that pinch of a body at its limit. His eyes rolled back so hard it felt like they stuck there, breath punching out of him in a broken gasp. He was vaguely aware he might be drooling into the pillow but couldn’t muster a single care – not when Cora was sinking into him, filling every inch of him with slow, devastating certainty. "Good. Good boy… there you go…" Cora mumbled, and Law’s entire body clenched around him in response, drawing another groan from deep in Cora’s chest. "Fuck– you're taking me so well–" Once fully seated inside him, Cora didn’t move, not at first. He stayed pressed close, hips flush against Law’s own with hands clamped tight on the curve of his waist. Law whimpered as he felt Cora pulsing within him, heartbeat thudding within his own body. Such an immense pressure, and yet so addictive, so perfect. "Breathe, sweetheart." Slowly, gradually, his lover began to rock. The pace began as a gentle roll; long, deep strokes that filled Law's senses. Law moaned into the bedding, fingers tight in scrunched fists beneath the pillow as Cora moved inside him, thighs wanting to spread as wide as possible to let the man in deeper. Cora built the rhythm with exquisite patience; each thrust was a deliberate, controlled push, hips sliding forward with a heat that bordered on unbearable, yet held back with restraint. Still, patience had its limits – especially when desire was coiled so tightly, so hungrily, between them. Quickly, Cora’s movements became faster, sharper. Usually so composed and careful, Cora's hips snapped forward, the slap of skin against skin loud in the Silence enclosing them. The bed creaked viciously beneath them, rocking with every thrust, thumping against the bulkhead wall. All Law could hear was the rush of breath in his ears, the ragged panting that mingled between them, and the helpless moans he kept spilling with each powerful surge of Cora’s hips. He was lost entirely to the sweet agony. The pace was punishing, heavenly, too much and not enough all at once. Law clung to the pillow and allowed himself be moved, letting Cora drive him forward and yank him back, letting pleasure swallow him whole. Law’s own noises came freely now – pleaded whimpers, breathless gasps, choked curses murmured into the pillow. Cora answered each one with deeper thrusts, with a steady stream of praise and hushed encouragement pressed to whatever skin he could reach. Their pace built and built, pleasure scorching through Law’s veins until he felt like he was dissolving, coming undone at every seam. The world narrowed to pure sensation: to Cora moving inside him, to the stretch of his ass around that girth, to the heat of skin slapping against skin, to the desperate clutch of pleasure winding tighter and tighter. His own prick was slapping obscenely against his stomach with their movements, oil and precum streaming down his thighs. Oh, if he could stay in this moment forever, hung in ecstasy like a constellation in the sky. Yet, release came for him. Swiftly. It happened fast – faster than he expected. A lightning-hot coil snapped deep in Law’s belly, and stars flared behind his eyelids as he came suddenly, spilling untouched across the sheets and his stomach. His body clenched so tightly around Cora that the older man swore softly above him, hips stuttering to hard, jolting thrusts as he, too, fell into climax. It was too much – far too much – and Law was certain he blacked out. One moment he was shuddering, muscles clenching, pleasure ripping him apart– And the next… Stillness. Quiet. The first thing that broke through the soft, heavy dark of post-release oblivion was the click. Sharp, definitive, metallic. It sliced through the quiet like a pin dropped on glass. Law jolted – not fully, not consciously, but enough that his breath caught and his eyes fluttered open on instinct. The pillow beneath him was a blurred wash of fabric, half-damp where his cheek was pressed. His mind still was fogged and floating somewhere between sleep and the aftershocks of bliss, but what truly wrenched him toward waking was the sudden rush – energy snapping back into his veins with a crackling jolt; sparks catching dry tinder. His powers surged back into him in a hot, dizzying wave, enough to make his fingers twitch uselessly and his spine tingle. He breathed out a soft, broken noise, barely aware he’d made it. "Shhh, Law… you’re okay," Cora soothed gently behind him, voice low and quiet in the dimness. The sound was warm and steady, laced with the familiar cadence of reassurance. "It’s just the cuffs. I’m taking them off." Another click, another soft clank of chain, then a subtle shift of weight around Law’s wrists as the seastone finally fell away. The absence of its cold bite was immediate – his arms felt lighter, his chest less tight without that sick emptiness the cuffs created. Something cool and leather-clad brushed low across his back, and Law recognised the careful drag of Cora’s gloved hand. The touch soothed the static rippling through his body, grounding the flood of power that had rushed back too quickly. He would liken the feeling to standing up to fast, blood rushing to the feet as the brain faltered: dizzying, with an air of nausea. He let his eyes fall shut again. He breathed through the wave of wooziness. The world softened beautifully. Cora stayed like that for a moment longer – one warm hand smoothing in long, slow strokes along Law’s spine, a gentle rhythm that stroked him back toward calmer breathing. Law could feel the bed shift as Cora moved backwards, could sense the mattress dip and rock as he stood. (There was a soft jolt of the bed frame, followed by a small, muffled curse that indicated a stubbed toe.) And then, the faint clinking of metal became muted, before falling still. Cora must have been tucking the seastone cuffs safely away into the thick canvas bag they had arrived in. Law drifted. He wasn’t sure when he slipped under again, consciousness blurring in and out like a tide pulling at him. At some point he became vaguely aware of running water – soft, steady, distant. A basin or a cloth being prepared. Then, padding footsteps. The weight on the bed returning. "Alright… easy," Cora whispered as he gently rolled Law onto his back. A wet cloth pressed to his stomach, wiping gently at the mess smeared there. Once his front was cleaned, Cora’s hands moved him again – slowly rolling him onto his side, drawing one knee up toward his chest with tender precision. Law allowed it, boneless, trusting, face pressed into the pillow as strong fingers spread him with easy familiarity. The cloth brushed over his entrance, warm and soft, and Law exhaled a slow, contented breath. He couldn’t muster embarrassment, couldn’t muster anything but the soft ache of afterglow and the absolute trust that let him drift limp in Cora’s hands. He would appreciate this later; as much as he loved being worked open and filled up with Cora's cum, he never liked to fall asleep with the mess leaking between his cheeks – and Cora knew this. So attentive. Now, he simply let himself be held and tended to. When Cora finished, Law heard the quiet, wet thump of the cloth being tossed aside – hopefully toward the laundry basket, although he reckoned it had fallen on the floor with a splat. The mattress dipped again, warmth returning in a wider, encompassing presence. Cora crawled into bed beside him, not even hesitating as he settled directly into the wet patch Law had left earlier. Law felt himself being gathered up, scooped into the circle of Cora’s arms. His head was guided to rest atop Cora’s shoulder, the thick muscle there the perfect pillow. Cora’s long arm curled securely around Law’s waist, drawing him flush to his side until their legs tangled. With tiny satisfying clicks, Law flexed the fingers of his hand that rested on Cora's chest, rolling the joint of his wrist in slow circles, sighing as circulation hummed comfortably back through him. Melting into Cora’s body completely, he let the gentle rhythm of his hand trailing along his spine lull him into a state of utter, blissful surrender. His breath evened out against the steady rhythm of Cora’s chest, soaking into him so thoroughly that for a moment he couldn’t quite tell where his own body ended and Cora’s began. Boneless, sated, and still drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, he shifted his cheek just enough to murmur, voice thick and drowsy, "Think I actually fell asleep that time." There was a faint edge of mischief in it, a lazy nod back to that old accusation of not quite asleep, where did you go? "I don't think I've ever come that hard before. When I asked you to fuck me stupid, I didn't think you'd actually manage it." A nervous chuckle rumbled through Law's cheek. "You're okay, though, right?" "Yeah, Cora. More than okay." "Do you need anything?" Law answered with a quiet hum and a slight shake of his head, choosing instead to remain a dead weight against him, limbs slack and trusting beneath Cora’s hands. He had no intention of moving unless absolutely required. "Do you want some clothes on? A blanket? I was worried you might overheat." Law’s response came in a breathy whisper, eyes sliding shut again. "No… I’m fine like this." Cora hesitated. "What about food?" This time Law declined a little more firmly, a faint furrow creasing his brow as he shifted his cheek against Cora’s skin. "No." "Well, at least drink something," Cora insisted quietly. "You’ll need–" Law lifted his head just enough to prop his chin against Cora’s chest and glare up at him with narrowed, unimpressed eyes. "You’re fussing," he accused lightly. "Stop it." Cora’s lips pursed into the most shamelessly exaggerated pout, wide eyes fixed on Law with sincere atonement and unmistakable affection. "I just want to look after you," he mumbled, although his tone was entirely unapologetic. Law sighed through his nose, then smirked faintly. "I’ll happily drink something," he drawled, tone deliberately loaded, "but I’m pretty sure you need a little longer with your refractory period." The effect was immediate and deeply satisfying. Cora flushed a vivid, creeping red that swept from the tops of his cheeks down his neck and across his chest, his voice stuttering into a flustered, "M-maybe next time…?" Law snorted softly at the sound, laughter muffled as he nuzzled his face back into the warm plushness of Cora’s chest, content to hide the smile that pulled at his lips. The room fell quiet again after that, filled only with the rhythm of two heartbeats slowly syncing back into one another. After a few unbroken moments of stillness, Law spoke again, his voice quieter now, stripped of teasing. "I still can't believe I blacked out." Cora’s hand stilled briefly before resuming its gentle path along Law’s back. "It was the… good kind of blacking out, though, wasn't it? Truthfully?" he asked carefully. Law huffed a soft laugh. "Yeah. Definitely. We can absolutely do that again." Then, after a beat, with the faintest hint of dangerous thoughtfulness, he added, "And if you don’t believe me, maybe next time… you can give the cuffs a try instead." Cora’s breath hitched sharply beneath him, just a soft, helpless sound – but it told Law everything he needed to hear.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75557331	{"authors": ["Alilman_writes"], "language": "English", "title": "Trustfall"}
when we're all alone, holding more than hands Will believes this is how he's going to die --- not from being stuck in the Upside Down when he was 12, not when he was being possessed, not even when he had somehow awakened powers (because that was just something he could do now, apparently). Instead, his death would come from waking up beside Mike every morning after all the Upside Down bullshit is finally solved, because of course, that's another thing he does now. For some reason. Well. He supposes he does know the reason. It had, of course, been Mike, with the quiet plea in his eyes and the tremble in the line of his shoulders. And of all things, Will had never been particularly good at saying no to his best friend. He's downright terrible at it, in fact. Something that is proven by the fact that ever since then, he’s shared a bed with Mike, waking up beside him in the imitation of his wildest, most secretive dreams. But really, his dreams kind of pale in comparison to what he now knows is reality. They share a tiny bed --- one that isn’t even big enough for one of them, let alone the two of them together. Mike has only grown taller and lankier, and Will has gained bulk. They’re no longer the scrawny kids who could squeeze into any given crevice with space to spare. This fact is both Will’s making and his undoing. Mainly because it means that he’s practically guaranteed to wake up glued to Mike every morning, unfailingly. And, well. It’s not like they haven’t slept together (beside each other, Will clarifies to himself, blankly shoving the implications far, far away neatly into the locked parts of his mind) before. But that had been when they were children and therefore, Will had been utterly oblivious to his own feelings. And now? Not so much. Mostly because each morning, the first thing Will lays eyes on is Mike and he is also the last thing he sees before drifting off to sleep. It’s incredibly terrible for his heart, but also he can physically feel a smile pull on his face each time he catches a glimpse of him. On the other hand, Mike seems to have taken it all in stride. He’d always been extraordinarily clingy with Will, though he might have denied it if anyone ever pointed it out. Even if they might have been simply laying next to each other when they’d fallen asleep, Will would wake up to them being tangled together as if it were no deal. And of course, being the ever-so-compliant and also in-love-with-his-best-friend-for-an-embarrasingly-long-time Will Byers, he had decided to not address this. Like, ever. Even if it killed him. And so, every morning, Will would shut his brain off and just --- admire Mike as he slept. Which probably sounded creepy to any outside observer. Except Mike had woken up to him doing this on multiple occasions and his only reaction had been a heartachingly tender smile, crinkling the corners of his sleep-soft eyes and carving a dimple into his left cheek. Oh, well. Considering Mike hadn’t protested, Will had continued with his morning ritual. And really, somehow, it had become a ritual for Will to sweep his eyes over his sleeping best friend, carving him into the back of his eyelids as if he hadn’t already spent the last however many years of their friendship doing exactly that. Memorising the lines and shapes of one Mike Wheeler, that is. Not watching him sleep (though these two things had become synonymous somewhere along the way). Sighing and putting a rest to his never-ending thoughts, he finally blinked open his eyes. LIke clockwork, his gaze fell on the warmth stirring beside him. It sounded pathetic even in his mind, but looking at Mike, he could feel the tension in his body seep away, leaving him loose-limbed and relaxed. Turning over gently (and almost falling out of that tiny bed, which, really, would have been a shame because then Mike would have definitely woken up), he let himself stare. Some mornings, they would be tangled up in each other, but today, they were simply laying beside each other, joined from shoulder to hip, the same blanket stretched thin to cover both of them. Although the curtains were drawn, some light managed to escape through them, illuminating the room just enough for Will to truly take in his fill of the sleeping boy beside him. The light outlined Mike, just enough to smoothen his edges, making him look younger, softer, more relaxed. His hair, usually so dark it almost had a midnight hue, now shone a warmer shade, highlighting the individual curls that had flopped astray. His thick brows, furrowed in thought when awake, were at rest, at peace. The freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose looked almost invisible had it not been for the near nonexistent space between the two, letting Will be witness to the vulnerability of sleep. Exhaling a shaky breath, Will let his gaze drift downwards to instead rest at Mike’s mouth, plush and pink. His lips were parted, offering the slightest glimpse of pearly white teeth. During the day, his	when we're all alone, holding more than hands Will believes this is how he's going to die --- not from being stuck in the Upside Down when he was 12, not when he was being possessed, not even when he had somehow awakened powers (because that was just something he could do now, apparently). Instead, his death would come from waking up beside Mike every morning after all the Upside Down bullshit is finally solved, because of course, that's another thing he does now. For some reason. Well. He supposes he does know the reason. It had, of course, been Mike, with the quiet plea in his eyes and the tremble in the line of his shoulders. And of all things, Will had never been particularly good at saying no to his best friend. He's downright terrible at it, in fact. Something that is proven by the fact that ever since then, he’s shared a bed with Mike, waking up beside him in the imitation of his wildest, most secretive dreams. But really, his dreams kind of pale in comparison to what he now knows is reality. They share a tiny bed --- one that isn’t even big enough for one of them, let alone the two of them together. Mike has only grown taller and lankier, and Will has gained bulk. They’re no longer the scrawny kids who could squeeze into any given crevice with space to spare. This fact is both Will’s making and his undoing. Mainly because it means that he’s practically guaranteed to wake up glued to Mike every morning, unfailingly. And, well. It’s not like they haven’t slept together (beside each other, Will clarifies to himself, blankly shoving the implications far, far away neatly into the locked parts of his mind) before. But that had been when they were children and therefore, Will had been utterly oblivious to his own feelings. And now? Not so much. Mostly because each morning, the first thing Will lays eyes on is Mike and he is also the last thing he sees before drifting off to sleep. It’s incredibly terrible for his heart, but also he can physically feel a smile pull on his face each time he catches a glimpse of him. On the other hand, Mike seems to have taken it all in stride. He’d always been extraordinarily clingy with Will, though he might have denied it if anyone ever pointed it out. Even if they might have been simply laying next to each other when they’d fallen asleep, Will would wake up to them being tangled together as if it were no deal. And of course, being the ever-so-compliant and also in-love-with-his-best-friend-for-an-embarrasingly-long-time Will Byers, he had decided to not address this. Like, ever. Even if it killed him. And so, every morning, Will would shut his brain off and just --- admire Mike as he slept. Which probably sounded creepy to any outside observer. Except Mike had woken up to him doing this on multiple occasions and his only reaction had been a heartachingly tender smile, crinkling the corners of his sleep-soft eyes and carving a dimple into his left cheek. Oh, well. Considering Mike hadn’t protested, Will had continued with his morning ritual. And really, somehow, it had become a ritual for Will to sweep his eyes over his sleeping best friend, carving him into the back of his eyelids as if he hadn’t already spent the last however many years of their friendship doing exactly that. Memorising the lines and shapes of one Mike Wheeler, that is. Not watching him sleep (though these two things had become synonymous somewhere along the way). Sighing and putting a rest to his never-ending thoughts, he finally blinked open his eyes. LIke clockwork, his gaze fell on the warmth stirring beside him. It sounded pathetic even in his mind, but looking at Mike, he could feel the tension in his body seep away, leaving him loose-limbed and relaxed. Turning over gently (and almost falling out of that tiny bed, which, really, would have been a shame because then Mike would have definitely woken up), he let himself stare. Some mornings, they would be tangled up in each other, but today, they were simply laying beside each other, joined from shoulder to hip, the same blanket stretched thin to cover both of them. Although the curtains were drawn, some light managed to escape through them, illuminating the room just enough for Will to truly take in his fill of the sleeping boy beside him. The light outlined Mike, just enough to smoothen his edges, making him look younger, softer, more relaxed. His hair, usually so dark it almost had a midnight hue, now shone a warmer shade, highlighting the individual curls that had flopped astray. His thick brows, furrowed in thought when awake, were at rest, at peace. The freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose looked almost invisible had it not been for the near nonexistent space between the two, letting Will be witness to the vulnerability of sleep. Exhaling a shaky breath, Will let his gaze drift downwards to instead rest at Mike’s mouth, plush and pink. His lips were parted, offering the slightest glimpse of pearly white teeth. During the day, his mouth would usually be pursed tight (jokingly, mostly, though he knew their friends took a great pleasure in pissing Mike off), in displeasure at Lucas and Dustin’s well-intentioned mocking, at Max’s pointed snark and the consequent giggles that El would let out. When they were alone, however, Will almost always succeeded in pulling out grins and laughs with a few well-chosen words. It was exhilarating, watching Mike’s entire face light up, the frown melting away to instead form a pleased little smile – and, in fact, it was a damn shame that Will couldn’t catch that sight now, at least not when Mike still happened to be asleep. His smile was one thing that Will sorely missed in moments like these where it felt like they reigned the world, without anything else pulling their focus away from each other. The only thing he could miss more would be Mike’s eyes - bottomless, swirling depths of emotion, no matter how hard Mike tried to lock them away. When he would be angry, frustrated, pissed — they would be narrowed into slits, the lines of his face forming an accusation with the shape of his mouth making a displeased line. When he would be relaxed, calm — his eyes would be droopy, framed with lax brows and a content upturn to the corner of his lips. His next thought almost caused Will to cringe, but he couldn't help but warm at the image his mind offers either — Mike with tears pooling at his waterline, causing the inky colour of his eyes to ripple and flicker, the quiver of his pink mouth forming a pout. Well. Will has never claimed to be very innocent despite what his friends might think about him. In the same vein continues his thoughts about the rest of Mike. Although his body is covered by the blanket they’re sharing, Will doesn’t need to look to know what he’ll find. Years of observing and yearning has made him into somewhat of an expert on Mike, whether you take it in the emotional or in the physical sense. Slender and pale everywhere, Mike really has grown into his features in the last few years. It drives Will a little crazy actually, just how much more beautiful his best friend has grown. His insanity is clearly proven by the fact that he’s grown bolder in turn, always reaching out, always orbiting Mike in some way, shape or form. What drives him crazier is that Mike just… allows it to happen. If Will had thought Mike to be clingy when they were children, he seems to have taken that thought as a direct challenge to his capabilities to be even clingier. Not that Will is complaining. He would never. But he really would have liked a warning before Mike decided to plop into his lap in the middle of a hangout in front of all of their friends, because he had almost combusted right on the spot. El’s pleased, knowing smirk had been the only thing that kept him rooted in spot, too stunned to say anything. Point is, they’ve grown much, much closer. And Will makes full use of it to just stare at Mike endlessly. The long stretch of his pale neck, the downwards slope of his shoulders, sinewy arms ending in thin wrists and spidery, long fingers with soft pink nailbeds. His falling and expanding ribcage where Will can fit his hand easily, letting his fingers clutch onto the dips between the bones. His alabaster back, marked with freckled constellations and punctuated with the ridges of his spine, tapering into his slender waist and prominent hip bones, smoothening out into the ample flesh of his thighs and mile-long legs and further down into his narrow ankles and feet. Apart from his staring, he knows for a fact that his hands have fully memorised the shape of Mike’s body. It might have been the endless sketches that he’s been rendering of his best friend, but maybe he’s been overdoing it --- because now he feels as though he could draw Mike with his eyes closed. The angle of his neck, the line of his lips, his tilted stance - it’s as if he’s burnt it into the deepest crevices of his mind to pull forth at any given notice. It’s almost embarrassing, except he knows for a fact that Mike enjoys this ‘ability’ of his (though he has absolutely no idea why). When he’d finally caved and let Mike look through one of his more secretive sketchbooks, he’d almost been unable to look him in the eyes. Except, Mike had whispered his name with the utmost admiration and something that Will had almost named love — he’d said, “Will,” and he had looked at Will with his dark eyes shimmering with the barest of tears. Will had found himself crouched beside Mike on their — Mike’s — bed, cupping the other’s face with both hands, tender in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “Why’re you upset?” Will had asked, too distracted by the tears and the warm, flushed skin underneath his fingertips to notice how bold he was being. He’d watched as a soft red spread across Mike’s cheeks, swallowing up his freckles. “Not upset,” he’d corrected, leaning in so close Will could tell apart the hues in his dark eyes, “I — Will, this is amazing.” Will had blinked back, his gaze catching on the blush, thumb brushing along the heated skin. Mike's breathing had faltered, for the tiniest bit, something Will had tried hard not to notice yet catalogued anyway. “Is it?” He’d murmured, eyelids dipping to the other's mouth instead. “Amazing,” Mike had repeated, Will watching the words form. “You're amazing.” Present day, Will lifted up onto his side to look at Mike better. This way, he wouldn't be able to pretend to be asleep if the boy awoke, but well. Will figured he deserved to be a little selfish sometimes. He had the funniest feeling Mike wouldn't care even if he woke up to the sight of Will looming over him, staring at him. His heart picking up pace, Will lifted a hand, extending it forward to gently tug a curl around his finger, testing his palm against the other's neck. Mike snuffled in his sleep, and with the tiniest movement, crept closer to the warmth exuding off of Will. Score, Will thought fondly, stroking his hand through Mike’s hair. He paused, hesitating, before continuing the descent. Smoothing his hand over Mike's back, coming to a rest at his lower back, right where a little divot formed. His thumb fell into place at the dip, the rest of his fingers curling over one side of Mike's waist. Throwing caution to the wind, Will tugged Mike closer, so that he was up against his chest. Finally, the other stirred, blinking open his eyes to provide Will with an expression not unlike that of a sleep-rumpled puppy. Cute, Will thought but aloud, he only said, “Did I wake you? Sorry.” Mike hummed, cuddling closer and closing an arm around Will's waist. “You're not sorry. You just want to cuddle me.” “And so what if I do?” To his own shock, Will found that his voice was steady even as his heart gave an alarming kick at the renewed proximity. Mike shot him a soft grin, didn't seem to catch wind of Will's sudden heart problems. “Then, I’d say you can cuddle me whenever without needing to wake me up for permission.” “Is that so?” Will teased. “I'll make full use of that, you know that right? Don't complain if you wake up and I'm all over you.” Closing his eyes, the other seemed to give it some thought — and then, he leaned in even closer, his eyes sparking with mischief and something completely soft, “Actually, I think I’d enjoy that very much.” Yeah, Will was absolutely certain that Mike Wheeler would be the cause of his untimely death.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75557341	{"authors": ["twobitwhore"], "language": "English", "title": "when we're all alone, holding more than hands"}
Komala-ty Time With Your Husband Your husband was a wonderful man. He was hard working and understanding to a degree that felt almost concerning. As a Komala hybrid, he had been trapped his whole life with people assuming he was lazy and unmotivated. He worked his ass off to make sure these accusations did not follow him around, and you knew it. That is what made the current situation he was placed into all the more unfair. Slowly overtime, he found himself unable to move. The job with the League and the Paldean Gym Association that he had worked so hard for became nearly impossible to maintain. The reason why? As embarrassing as it was to say to the doctors that were overseeing his condition, it was because of his log. It felt horrible having to write that out for medical documentation and work leave requests. While Geeta and the rest of his coworkers were getting their kicks out of this unfortunate news, Larry watched as his entire life became joyless once more. His boss was benevolent enough to allow him to work from home, he was actually the only worker who was allowed to do that, but that only meant he left the house less and less. Both of you had met when you were attending Naranja Academy. Larry had been a substitute art professor for Hassel who was swamped with matches that day. Most of the class just laughed at him for his big ears, but you found them cute and endearing. More concerningly, you were taken with the bulge in his slacks. Chiding yourself for ogling a man just doing his job, you tried to pay attention. He was a man of few words, so he had an enigmatic air of mystery about him. Having never taken on the gym challenge, you never had the chance to meet him. As a matter of fact, the only reason why you bothered to embark on the challenge was because you had accidentally blurted out to him the dumbest question at the end of class. “C-Can I see you again?” Larry’s yawn was cut off as his eyebrows raised slightly at this. “If you are asking me whether or not I will be proctoring tomorrow, I don’t know. If you meant you wanted to battle, then I am the fifth gym leader, a lot of your classmates have probably already met me.” His answer was professional, much to your relief, fearing that your wild blunder would have gotten you sent to Clavell’s office. You laughed nervously stating that you would take up that challenge, not taking yourself seriously at that moment, but the more you thought about it, the more that joke came to fruition. You met him again, and you battled him, almost losing again because you were distracted, but after you won and he took you for a meal, you decided to make a move. This memory never failed to make you feel at least a bit mortified, as you were not aware that he asked everyone to have a meal. Regardless, somehow you managed to catch his interest, and from that day forwards your relationship blossomed. These were the days that his problem did not plague him, when he was younger… As Larry grew older and taller, his penis did as well. At first, the only road bump was the lack of sexual intimacy, but that did not mean that you were not doing your best to please him. Then, the problem gradually got worse. He could not walk for too long so he had to sit down and catch his breath frequently. He could no longer wear the slacks he used to, choosing to wear sweatpants as they allowed him more mobility. He became fatigued more easily from having to carry it around. Using the bathroom became a hassle. Sometimes you would accompany him to company dinners with his coworkers, and as his condition worsened he found himself at the end of all the jokes. His boss Geeta, who was a Pokémon hybrid herself, was less than sympathetic. Even though she was still half human, the Toxic Spikes from her Glimmora half shined through. It took a great effort on behalf of Rika to convince Geeta to relieve him of his post without actually letting go of him from the company ron the condition that you were the one who carried out Larry’s gym and Elite Four matches for him. Thankfully, having seen your husband’s battles quite often, and being an experienced battler yourself, this was a cakewalk, leaving Larry to do any paperwork that was assigned. Amputation and surgical removal was definitely an option, but it was not one that he wanted to take. Human Pokémon hybrids tended to get worse healthcare unless they had a high standing in society or were vastly wealthy. He was neither. Instead, you both decided to just continue forwards and live life together to the fullest. From that point forwards, you promised him and yourself that you would be everything he wanted and more, you were just happy to be by his side. The little bit of happiness he had found, within having you by his side, was the only thing keeping him going. As his wife, you did your best to accommodate. “Larryyy! Yesss!~” You were crying out pathetically for your lover as he held you close to his fluffy body, rutting his length slotted	Komala-ty Time With Your Husband Your husband was a wonderful man. He was hard working and understanding to a degree that felt almost concerning. As a Komala hybrid, he had been trapped his whole life with people assuming he was lazy and unmotivated. He worked his ass off to make sure these accusations did not follow him around, and you knew it. That is what made the current situation he was placed into all the more unfair. Slowly overtime, he found himself unable to move. The job with the League and the Paldean Gym Association that he had worked so hard for became nearly impossible to maintain. The reason why? As embarrassing as it was to say to the doctors that were overseeing his condition, it was because of his log. It felt horrible having to write that out for medical documentation and work leave requests. While Geeta and the rest of his coworkers were getting their kicks out of this unfortunate news, Larry watched as his entire life became joyless once more. His boss was benevolent enough to allow him to work from home, he was actually the only worker who was allowed to do that, but that only meant he left the house less and less. Both of you had met when you were attending Naranja Academy. Larry had been a substitute art professor for Hassel who was swamped with matches that day. Most of the class just laughed at him for his big ears, but you found them cute and endearing. More concerningly, you were taken with the bulge in his slacks. Chiding yourself for ogling a man just doing his job, you tried to pay attention. He was a man of few words, so he had an enigmatic air of mystery about him. Having never taken on the gym challenge, you never had the chance to meet him. As a matter of fact, the only reason why you bothered to embark on the challenge was because you had accidentally blurted out to him the dumbest question at the end of class. “C-Can I see you again?” Larry’s yawn was cut off as his eyebrows raised slightly at this. “If you are asking me whether or not I will be proctoring tomorrow, I don’t know. If you meant you wanted to battle, then I am the fifth gym leader, a lot of your classmates have probably already met me.” His answer was professional, much to your relief, fearing that your wild blunder would have gotten you sent to Clavell’s office. You laughed nervously stating that you would take up that challenge, not taking yourself seriously at that moment, but the more you thought about it, the more that joke came to fruition. You met him again, and you battled him, almost losing again because you were distracted, but after you won and he took you for a meal, you decided to make a move. This memory never failed to make you feel at least a bit mortified, as you were not aware that he asked everyone to have a meal. Regardless, somehow you managed to catch his interest, and from that day forwards your relationship blossomed. These were the days that his problem did not plague him, when he was younger… As Larry grew older and taller, his penis did as well. At first, the only road bump was the lack of sexual intimacy, but that did not mean that you were not doing your best to please him. Then, the problem gradually got worse. He could not walk for too long so he had to sit down and catch his breath frequently. He could no longer wear the slacks he used to, choosing to wear sweatpants as they allowed him more mobility. He became fatigued more easily from having to carry it around. Using the bathroom became a hassle. Sometimes you would accompany him to company dinners with his coworkers, and as his condition worsened he found himself at the end of all the jokes. His boss Geeta, who was a Pokémon hybrid herself, was less than sympathetic. Even though she was still half human, the Toxic Spikes from her Glimmora half shined through. It took a great effort on behalf of Rika to convince Geeta to relieve him of his post without actually letting go of him from the company ron the condition that you were the one who carried out Larry’s gym and Elite Four matches for him. Thankfully, having seen your husband’s battles quite often, and being an experienced battler yourself, this was a cakewalk, leaving Larry to do any paperwork that was assigned. Amputation and surgical removal was definitely an option, but it was not one that he wanted to take. Human Pokémon hybrids tended to get worse healthcare unless they had a high standing in society or were vastly wealthy. He was neither. Instead, you both decided to just continue forwards and live life together to the fullest. From that point forwards, you promised him and yourself that you would be everything he wanted and more, you were just happy to be by his side. The little bit of happiness he had found, within having you by his side, was the only thing keeping him going. As his wife, you did your best to accommodate. “Larryyy! Yesss!~” You were crying out pathetically for your lover as he held you close to his fluffy body, rutting his length slotted between your thighs. Your arms wrapped around his massive cock as it leaked precum while it was ground between your breasts and against your abdomen. His lackadaisical thrusts were not enough to fully pleasure either of you, but you knew he was doing his best. In an effort to assist him, you took the liberty of shaking your hips against his length. He wearily moaned as your juices were slicking up the base of his length, allowing him to slide against your cunt much easier. More beads of his want spilled from the tip into your arms, lubricating the middle as you jerked your body harder. His husky voice whispered in your ear. “I love you so much my dear… Thank you for making m- hhh- making me feel so wonderful…” Forming words was a Herculean task currently, “I loo~ oveee you darlingg!~” He gasped as the meat of your thighs wrapped him a bit tighter. “Holy- your thighs. They feel so good on me-” The sight of your entire body needing to be used to satisfy him pleased your husband so much. Sure, he missed the time when he could just bury himself inside you, but now he was allowed to experiment with claiming your entire body. He watched through drooping eyes as you hurriedly slid your body on him. He could tell you were eyeing his tip, this was his favorite part. Larry let out a slow and deep moan as you pushed your chest together a bit more to aim his cock towards your mouth. Then, you took his tip into the warmth of your lips. Your lover was shuddering in euphoria as your tongue swirled around the slit of his penis. You took a moment to appreciate the underside of his head where it was most sensitive and he threw his head back, getting swept away by the pleasure his gorgeous wife gave him. He was such a nobody, a nothing of a person, and yet when he was with you, he felt like the only man in the world. You made him feel like he was something, and it was a feeling he never wanted to let go of. “Mmmph!~” You removed your mouth momentarily, “ Larry? C-Can you please… touch my chest?” “O-Of course.” Carefully, he shifted his hands that were initially clutching your hips, and moved them to your tits. You had to release his cock momentarily as a pleading noise came from him. It made him grasp your chest harder than you had anticipated as you jerked forwards abruptly, both of you hissing at the friction. Having fully situated yourself, you continued your ministrations on his cock. You licked and teased the tip as his fingers skillfully played with your sensitive nipples. He had shifted the angle of his pelvis to hold you more securely, but something about the angle rubbed your clit in just the right way. Now you were furiously grinding against him, trying to match the same sensation that his movements gave you. His jaw went slack, his ears perked up and twitching as you felt his cock twitch between your thighs. Reaching a hand behind yourself, you started to slightly tug at his ear and caress the space behind it. Frantically he bucked forwards, no longer playing with your buds, but massaging your tits. “M-My love… I’m so close.” he announced loudly in your ear. You were squealing and whimpering now, only able to respond with a nod. Your husband knew how to drive you insane in all the best ways. He massaged your breasts, finishing off each squeeze with a pinch of your nipples as he released them and started it over again. Your legs shook as you bit into the patchy fur of his arms. You were cumming, and Larry quickly shoved your mouth down onto the tip of his dick. He cried out a guttural moan as he shot load after load of cum into your welcoming throat. Every time you had taken on this endeavor, you choked on the inordinate amount of, but you still did your best to take it all. Unable to breath you let go, eyes quickly fluttering shut as the rest of the spurts landed on your tits and face. “Heh… sooo much~” You panted out, as your body relaxed in the afterglow. “Sorry ‘bout that. Guess an average Joe like me has to break the norm every now and then.” “Sto-” You were doing your best to catch your breath so you could have a serious conversation. “Stop calling yourself that!” “I mean ‘s the truth. Anyways, lemme get you a towel.” Larry gently pushed your body off him, grunting in pain as he tried to sit up. “Larry, please I can do it…” “I can barely take care of myself… please don’t take away my ability to take care of the love of my life as well…” Through the one eye you could keep open without cum dripping into it, you saw his shoulders hang and his ears droop. No matter how hard you tried, you would have to accept that you could not take all of his pain away. He slowly got up getting a towel for you. You heard his footsteps pad onto the bathroom tiles and the water running as he moistened the towel for you. Once he got back to you, you hastily wiped yourself down. “I’m sorry… I can sense you are taking what I said personally…” You sputtered at this, “You’re too perceptive for your own good you know…” “Eh, being in the workforce trains you to be able to read all sorts of feelings and intentions off people.” He took the towel from you once you were done, discarding it to the floor, allowing himself to ease back into it besides you. “That’s not what we are discussing right now though… I don’t want you to think you are doing anything wrong… If anything, you give me reason to worry…” “Wait, what? Please, I wasn’t aware I was worrying you.” “Heh, it’s nothing you can fix. It’s all in my mind.” “Tell me, please Larry…” He sighed and rubbed his temple, rolling to look at you. You took him into your arms as you looked at him. “Well… You have given me everything I could ask for. Your love, your time… You even gave me your youthful adult years to grow old with me…” He chuckled at that, “Not to say you don’t look young and beautiful…” Your eyes softened as you smiled at his sweet words. “The thing is… I don’t have much left to give you at all. Your husband is a cripple of his own decision when people tell me to just go get it fixed and live my life. Or they say I’m just making you miserable. You deserve to go out and find someone who will be able to return your love in all the ways you show yours.” As you heard this, you felt your face slowly frown more and more. “Larry!” He flinched slightly. You took your tone down a bit upon observing that. “Larry… You are my husband, you are my husband because I want you to be. A day, a week, a month, a year, hell a millennium could pass, and that won’t ever change. I want to be by your side. I will always be there, just call my name and I will come running… I love you.” He blinked a few times. It was moments like this that made him fall in love with you. You never failed to ease his worries with your honest straightforwardness. Larry simply pulled you into his furry chest, and you stayed there together. “Honey?” “Yes beautiful?” “As much as I want to stay in your arms, I can’t breathe against you.” “Oh- apologies.” “It’s okay. Also, I have a challenger that’s supposed to be at the Treasure Eatery in two hours.” “Tell ‘em that you are busy spending time with your husband.” You simply smiled at this, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75557346	{"authors": ["FMAMF"], "language": "English", "title": "Komala-ty Time With Your Husband"}
Bird Cage Birds belonged in cages, everybody knew that. A bird was allowed barely a breath of air out in the open, then it was back behind the same bars… And if it flew away…? Mathason had no one. He lost everything, again. Once again, he packed everything up and returned to the foster home. Too loud, too disobedient, too difficult. Not to mention those horns atop his head, and he was contaminated. His eye was… “I’m not keeping that wretched valetudinarian in my home - he’ll mar us all!” Mathason flinched as the voice rang in his head once more. He was a good boy, why did no one like him…? “Hi!” A voice snapped him out of it, and he turned to find a little boy - probably close to his age, who was swinging with a huge grin. “I’m Madden, what’s your name?” “...Mathason.” His voice cracked just a little, and he glanced down at the ground, moving his feet around, picking at the dirt. “I’m… Mathason.” Madden kicked against the ground, swinging up high. “Why are you sad, Mathason?” “Hey! I’m not!” Mathason argued, puffing his cheeks. He didn’t want to talk, did he have to? “O-Oh…Okay.” Madden answered quietly, then immediately changed the subject. “Wanna swing with me?” “...Okay…” Birds don’t deserve freedom, not unless they fight for it. Not unless they fly to freedom. And Mathason…his wings were broken. Every family kicked him out, discarded him like rubbish. He was hated. Everywhere. By everyone. Except for Madden. At least there was no more foster home. They were older now, and the Followers of Our Lord took care of their needs. The Lord took care of their needs. Mathason lost everything, except his best friend. Until… Suddenly, Madden was too busy for him. Prophet duties, or something. He wasn’t mad, just…Why did it have to happen? If it was him, he would’ve still cleared time for Madden! Why was his friend being so… Stuck-up? He never should’ve trusted a soul. Everyone left. Everyone cared only for their own benefits. No one wanted to free a polluted little bird like himself. He didn’t have a damn choice. He simply had to sit there and watch - watch as Madden had everyone wrapped around his finger. Watch as Madden spoke to everyone but him. Was it his horns…? His ailment…? Was he too loud? Too disobedient? Too difficult!? “Why, Lord…?” Mathason’s voice was quiet. He was alone in his chamber, staring up at the ceiling. “What did I do wrong? Why do they all hate me?” … ”Why, Lord? Why do you hate me!?” He was a good man. Why did no one like him? Then came the prophecy. Nobody believed Madden when he relayed it, and truthfully? Mathason didn’t believe it either. It couldn’t be true. Things didn’t work that way, and Madden was an annoying, attention-seeking liar! “Why don’t they believe me…?” Madden asked quietly one night, and was met with silence. “Mathason, you believe me, right!? You know it’s true! You know The Lord is-” “Goodnight, Madden.” “I’m being serious, Mathason!” Madden retorted, then sighed, frowning. “Fine, goodnight. Sleep well.” … “Madden is a liar.” Everyone heard it, everyone said it, everyone thought it. The Lord is stronger than this. He’s far too powerful to-” “Madden is a liar. He’s trying to push you from your faith, he’s trying to hog all of our Lord’s affection.” “It can’t be true, the Lord is omniscient, he cannot simply lose all his-” “Madden is a LIAR!” “Mathason…What are you doing!?” Madden cried out, the chains hurt, a lot. He was tied up, for everyone to see. He was getting executed, and his best friend stood right in front of him, watching. “Mathason!” Birds never deserved freedom, those who tried to soar away must be maimed, and locked away. And yet now, Mathason wondered, was he really the bird, watching helplessly from the cage…? Or was he the one who locked it away in the first place…? “Goodnight, Madden.” He finally answered, tensing slightly as he turned on his heel.	Bird Cage Birds belonged in cages, everybody knew that. A bird was allowed barely a breath of air out in the open, then it was back behind the same bars… And if it flew away…? Mathason had no one. He lost everything, again. Once again, he packed everything up and returned to the foster home. Too loud, too disobedient, too difficult. Not to mention those horns atop his head, and he was contaminated. His eye was… “I’m not keeping that wretched valetudinarian in my home - he’ll mar us all!” Mathason flinched as the voice rang in his head once more. He was a good boy, why did no one like him…? “Hi!” A voice snapped him out of it, and he turned to find a little boy - probably close to his age, who was swinging with a huge grin. “I’m Madden, what’s your name?” “...Mathason.” His voice cracked just a little, and he glanced down at the ground, moving his feet around, picking at the dirt. “I’m… Mathason.” Madden kicked against the ground, swinging up high. “Why are you sad, Mathason?” “Hey! I’m not!” Mathason argued, puffing his cheeks. He didn’t want to talk, did he have to? “O-Oh…Okay.” Madden answered quietly, then immediately changed the subject. “Wanna swing with me?” “...Okay…” Birds don’t deserve freedom, not unless they fight for it. Not unless they fly to freedom. And Mathason…his wings were broken. Every family kicked him out, discarded him like rubbish. He was hated. Everywhere. By everyone. Except for Madden. At least there was no more foster home. They were older now, and the Followers of Our Lord took care of their needs. The Lord took care of their needs. Mathason lost everything, except his best friend. Until… Suddenly, Madden was too busy for him. Prophet duties, or something. He wasn’t mad, just…Why did it have to happen? If it was him, he would’ve still cleared time for Madden! Why was his friend being so… Stuck-up? He never should’ve trusted a soul. Everyone left. Everyone cared only for their own benefits. No one wanted to free a polluted little bird like himself. He didn’t have a damn choice. He simply had to sit there and watch - watch as Madden had everyone wrapped around his finger. Watch as Madden spoke to everyone but him. Was it his horns…? His ailment…? Was he too loud? Too disobedient? Too difficult!? “Why, Lord…?” Mathason’s voice was quiet. He was alone in his chamber, staring up at the ceiling. “What did I do wrong? Why do they all hate me?” … ”Why, Lord? Why do you hate me!?” He was a good man. Why did no one like him? Then came the prophecy. Nobody believed Madden when he relayed it, and truthfully? Mathason didn’t believe it either. It couldn’t be true. Things didn’t work that way, and Madden was an annoying, attention-seeking liar! “Why don’t they believe me…?” Madden asked quietly one night, and was met with silence. “Mathason, you believe me, right!? You know it’s true! You know The Lord is-” “Goodnight, Madden.” “I’m being serious, Mathason!” Madden retorted, then sighed, frowning. “Fine, goodnight. Sleep well.” … “Madden is a liar.” Everyone heard it, everyone said it, everyone thought it. The Lord is stronger than this. He’s far too powerful to-” “Madden is a liar. He’s trying to push you from your faith, he’s trying to hog all of our Lord’s affection.” “It can’t be true, the Lord is omniscient, he cannot simply lose all his-” “Madden is a LIAR!” “Mathason…What are you doing!?” Madden cried out, the chains hurt, a lot. He was tied up, for everyone to see. He was getting executed, and his best friend stood right in front of him, watching. “Mathason!” Birds never deserved freedom, those who tried to soar away must be maimed, and locked away. And yet now, Mathason wondered, was he really the bird, watching helplessly from the cage…? Or was he the one who locked it away in the first place…? “Goodnight, Madden.” He finally answered, tensing slightly as he turned on his heel.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75557356	{"authors": ["anyaskillon"], "language": "English", "title": "Bird Cage"}
Out There Earth had been abandoned by its inhabitants. The planet was no longer fit for habitations by humans, with nothing seemingly able to grow on the Earth, and rubbish overtaking the surface. So, the humans took off in their fancy spaceship, the Axiom, leaving behind a small army of androids and robots to try and clean up the earth while they were gone. The humans had left 700 years ago. No one had been left behind to fix the androids and robots, and so, one by one, they started to break down. Unable to fix themselves adequately, the 700 years that had passed had made the Earth a small robotic graveyard. If there had been anyone around, they would have noticed the irony, perhaps. That the robots and androids designed to clean up the Earth had made it more of a mess as they all broke down. Well, all but one android. Adam. One of the more advanced androids, designed to look like a human, and able to think and act freely, he was the size of a normal adult male, with brown hair and blue eyes. He was the only one left now, and in his loneliness he had become more human, it seemed. It was the end of his work day, because for all intents and purposes, he still did what he was programmed to do. He cleared away the rubbish, modifying one of the machines that had come before him as a trash compactor, placing the small squares of trash in neat pyramids. If the humans ever came back, he was sure they could get rid of them. But, he found at this point he almost didn’t want them to come back, not really. Adam climbed the steps to the apartment block, all the way to the top apartment. He had found that the walk did his mechanical joints some good, and he couldn’t fix the elevator anyway. The apartment was his small slice of home, something he had crafted for himself. It was decorated like any standard apartment, like he’d seen in the occasional photograph he found lying around. In the living room, he had fixed an old tv, hooked it up to a vhs player, and managed to play his small collection of vhs tapes he had rescued over the years. A small bookcase held several books, in various conditions. He had no use for a kitchen, so when Adam had claimed this place as his own, he had turned it into storage for spare parts. He needed them with increasing frequency, nowadays. Hardly a week went by when some part of him didn’t break down. The bedroom was sparsely decorated, with only a bed for Adam to lie on whenever he needed to wind down. Or needed somewhere to just think. His favourite part of the apartment, however, was the roof. He could lie out there in the morning to recharge his batteries, which was important, but it wasn’t the reason he liked it so much. He could watch the stars from there. Every night, he laid on a blanket on the roof, looking up at the stars, at the universe beyond Earth. He wanted to see the stars, badly. See what was out there in the wider universe that had made the humans want to stay there. Wanted to see something different, something other than his current existence. He liked his life, as much as it was possible to. But it was repetitive, and the books he had found on space made it sound so freeing, so beautiful. Adam wanted to see for himself. See something beyond the dust covered, brown mess that was Earth. But he couldn’t fly, and building a spaceship was beyond his capabilities. So he was stuck on Earth. Alone. Coming down from the roof, back into his apartment, Adam turned on the tv he had fixed, inserting the vhs tape for Hello, Dolly!, letting it play in the background whilst he worked. He had collected a few things today, and liked to keep his treasures carefully organised. There was a metal spork, a few lightbulbs, a diamond ring that glinted in the sunlight, and one thing that Adam couldn’t explain why he’d kept it - a boot with a plant in it. The boot wasn’t particularly interesting, neither was the plant, Adam had no need for a plant, but something in him said it should be saved. He’d seen in a few films that people used to keep plants in the olden days. Now Adam could do the same. After putting away his treasures, and placing the boot on the windowsill, Adam sat down to watch his favourite part of the movie. It featured 2 humans, dressed in fancy clothing, singing to each other and, at some points, holding hands. It made Adam sad, sometimes. In all of the films and shows he had watched, humans were often holding hands, or kissing, professing their love to each other with loving glances and physical contact. Adam had never had that. He was an android, there was no need for hand holding, and he wasn’t originally programmed to feel many complex emotions at all. But he’d been on his own so long he had evolved, now. He wanted to hold someone's hand, wanted to know what it felt like for someone to kiss him. For someone to love him. But he never would. *** The day started like any other, with Adam going through his routine as usual - wake up, charge, work, and then come home several hours	Out There Earth had been abandoned by its inhabitants. The planet was no longer fit for habitations by humans, with nothing seemingly able to grow on the Earth, and rubbish overtaking the surface. So, the humans took off in their fancy spaceship, the Axiom, leaving behind a small army of androids and robots to try and clean up the earth while they were gone. The humans had left 700 years ago. No one had been left behind to fix the androids and robots, and so, one by one, they started to break down. Unable to fix themselves adequately, the 700 years that had passed had made the Earth a small robotic graveyard. If there had been anyone around, they would have noticed the irony, perhaps. That the robots and androids designed to clean up the Earth had made it more of a mess as they all broke down. Well, all but one android. Adam. One of the more advanced androids, designed to look like a human, and able to think and act freely, he was the size of a normal adult male, with brown hair and blue eyes. He was the only one left now, and in his loneliness he had become more human, it seemed. It was the end of his work day, because for all intents and purposes, he still did what he was programmed to do. He cleared away the rubbish, modifying one of the machines that had come before him as a trash compactor, placing the small squares of trash in neat pyramids. If the humans ever came back, he was sure they could get rid of them. But, he found at this point he almost didn’t want them to come back, not really. Adam climbed the steps to the apartment block, all the way to the top apartment. He had found that the walk did his mechanical joints some good, and he couldn’t fix the elevator anyway. The apartment was his small slice of home, something he had crafted for himself. It was decorated like any standard apartment, like he’d seen in the occasional photograph he found lying around. In the living room, he had fixed an old tv, hooked it up to a vhs player, and managed to play his small collection of vhs tapes he had rescued over the years. A small bookcase held several books, in various conditions. He had no use for a kitchen, so when Adam had claimed this place as his own, he had turned it into storage for spare parts. He needed them with increasing frequency, nowadays. Hardly a week went by when some part of him didn’t break down. The bedroom was sparsely decorated, with only a bed for Adam to lie on whenever he needed to wind down. Or needed somewhere to just think. His favourite part of the apartment, however, was the roof. He could lie out there in the morning to recharge his batteries, which was important, but it wasn’t the reason he liked it so much. He could watch the stars from there. Every night, he laid on a blanket on the roof, looking up at the stars, at the universe beyond Earth. He wanted to see the stars, badly. See what was out there in the wider universe that had made the humans want to stay there. Wanted to see something different, something other than his current existence. He liked his life, as much as it was possible to. But it was repetitive, and the books he had found on space made it sound so freeing, so beautiful. Adam wanted to see for himself. See something beyond the dust covered, brown mess that was Earth. But he couldn’t fly, and building a spaceship was beyond his capabilities. So he was stuck on Earth. Alone. Coming down from the roof, back into his apartment, Adam turned on the tv he had fixed, inserting the vhs tape for Hello, Dolly!, letting it play in the background whilst he worked. He had collected a few things today, and liked to keep his treasures carefully organised. There was a metal spork, a few lightbulbs, a diamond ring that glinted in the sunlight, and one thing that Adam couldn’t explain why he’d kept it - a boot with a plant in it. The boot wasn’t particularly interesting, neither was the plant, Adam had no need for a plant, but something in him said it should be saved. He’d seen in a few films that people used to keep plants in the olden days. Now Adam could do the same. After putting away his treasures, and placing the boot on the windowsill, Adam sat down to watch his favourite part of the movie. It featured 2 humans, dressed in fancy clothing, singing to each other and, at some points, holding hands. It made Adam sad, sometimes. In all of the films and shows he had watched, humans were often holding hands, or kissing, professing their love to each other with loving glances and physical contact. Adam had never had that. He was an android, there was no need for hand holding, and he wasn’t originally programmed to feel many complex emotions at all. But he’d been on his own so long he had evolved, now. He wanted to hold someone's hand, wanted to know what it felt like for someone to kiss him. For someone to love him. But he never would. *** The day started like any other, with Adam going through his routine as usual - wake up, charge, work, and then come home several hours later. It was when he was laying on the roof of his apartment building, watching the stars, when everything changed. Because one of the stars was moving. Not just moving, it was getting closer. By the time Adam realised, his brain had caught up to what his eyes were processing, and he sat up, keeping his eyes on the thing in the sky. It was a ship, a spaceship that was about to land on Earth, a few miles away from Adam. Adam stood up, running to the edge of the rooftop to track the ship, now that it was close enough to see properly. It was white, shaped like an egg, almost. An actual ship! Adam had never seen a spaceship land before, because the humans’ ship was still out there, in space. They’d never returned. And Earth wasn’t exactly a hub of activity for visitors. The last spaceship he’d seen was the one carrying the humans, taking them off to their new life in another galaxy. Adam had watched that spaceship leave, a small part of him wishing he could go with them. Adam watched as the spaceship settled down to land, not too far away from where his apartment was. But this spaceship wasn’t the humans - he knew that much. It was a different ship altogether, and not large enough to hold the rest of humanity on it. Which meant this was something new. Something different. Adam needed to know. He raced down the stairs, out the door to his apartment and down even more stairs, going as fast as his mechanical legs could take him until he was in sight of the new spaceship. He was excited - he imagined that if he’d had a heart, it would be beating faster than standard right now. But instead his mind was racing, wondering what the new spaceship meant. He approached it, noting that it was bigger than he had thought it was from afar. The technology looked advanced, far more advanced than Adam himself, who by this point in his life was falling apart in places. Adam stayed a small distance away, aware that he had no clue what the ship was doing here or what was inside. He’d seen a few episodes of Classic Doctor Who - anything could be in there, hopefully not a dalek, though. A door opened, and Adam watched as someone stepped out, dressed in plain black trousers and a white shirt. He had shoulder length hair, a small scar on his forehead, and he looked tall. Adam knew immediately that it was another android, like him. It was obvious. His steps were too precise, and it was instinct on Adam’s part, mostly. Androids were designed to recognise each other. Adam couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had been alone so long, devoid of any kind of interaction, that he didn’t know what to do. Was it polite to introduce himself? Was this other android like him, with independent thought? Or was it a mindless drone, like Adam had read about before? What was his purpose here? Adam watched as the android pointed his finger, scanning the immediate area in front of it, obviously programmed to search for something. He was very single minded and focussed, Adam noted. He wasn’t sure what he had been hoping for, really. Someone to talk to, perhaps, but that didn’t seem like it would be possible. Suddenly, the ship's engines started back up again, propelling the ship up in the air, going back the way it came, back towards the stars. Adam watched as the android who had been left behind turned to watch the ship leave, then, as soon as the ship was out of orbit, he was flying in the sky. The android soared through the air, landing back down after a quick look around, with the biggest smile on its face. Adam was jealous, he had to admit. Technology had obviously moved on, and now the androids could fly! The one thing Adam wanted to be able to do, to fly and see the universe. Instead he was stuck on Earth, alone. Well, he wasn’t alone anymore. The other android continued with its mission, scanning various areas of the ground. Adam thought he could help, and slowly walked closer, careful not to be too loud. He kept a careful distance, not entirely sure how to approach the other android, watching as he continued to scan the ground for something. Adam tripped over a rock, making a noise, and suddenly the other android spun around, firing a blast out of his hand in Adam’s direction. Adam shrieked and ran, ducking behind an old fridge for cover. Another blast hit the fridge, causing Adam to stumble backwards and duck for cover. “Who are you?” Adam looked up, through the dust that had been disturbed, to see the android staring at him. He was…handsome. The android was pleasing to look at. Long ashy hair, brown eyes and a strange marking on his neck. “Who are you?” He repeated. Adam couldn’t speak. He hadn’t spoken in so long, it felt weird. He wasn’t even sure his vocal function would still work, it wasn’t like there was anyone else around for him to talk to. Still, he tried. “Adam.” His voice came out as a whisper, almost. Quiet from disuse, almost like he needed his vocal chords oiling up. The android held out a hand, pulling Adam to his feet. Adam didn’t want to let go of the hand, as fleeting as the contact was. He’d never been touched like that before. He tried to speak again. “Adam.” It came out clearer. “Who are you?” The android smiled, briefly, letting go of Adam’s hands. “Nigel. Do you have a purpose?” Adam blinked, a reflex that had been intended to make him seem more human, since he had no actual need to blink. He wasn’t used to being asked questions, to talking to someone. “My directive is to clean the planet of waste, ready for the humans to return.” Nigel smiled, laughing gently. “I’m here to see if the Earth is habitable. Looking for signs of life.” “Nothing has lived here in a few hundred years. There aren’t even any androids left, only me.” Adam looked in Nigel's eyes, then looked away again. It was weird, and awkward. Nigel glanced around, as if confirming what Adam was saying. The planet was barren, the landscape just piles of rubbish among murky air, no movement for miles. They were alone. Suddenly, Adam beeped, a light flashing on his collarbone. Adam startled, knowing what the beep meant - a storm was coming. “We should go, there’s a storm coming, and it will mess up our systems if we’re caught in it.” He knew from experience. “You have somewhere to shelter?” Nigel asked, seeing the storm in the distance. It looked intimidating. Adam nodded. “I have an apartment, but we won’t make it in time even if we run.” There were plenty of other buildings to shelter in, though. Most of the abandoned buildings were still standing. Nigel smirked. “I have a better idea. Where’s your apartment?” He placed his arms around Adam, pulling him close. If Adam had a heart, it would be beating really fast, he thought, at feeling Nigel’s arms around him. He pointed, in the opposite direction of the storm. “Over there. The tallest building.” “Hold on tight.” Nigel winked, and suddenly they were both in the air, flying above all the debris of Earth, just ahead of the storm. Adam was terrified. He couldn’t fly, he had no need to fly, and suddenly he was in the air, in someone else’s arms, soaring through the air like a shooting star. It felt amazing. Now he knew what those shooting stars felt like, hurtling through the air without a care in the world. Adam didn’t want it to end. The world looked different up in the sky, Adam could truly see just how vast the Earth was, how small his little section of it was. There was so much out there, so much land and rubbish. As suddenly as they had taken off, Adam and Nigel had landed on the rooftop of Adam’s apartment building, the storm hot on their heels. Grabbing Nigel by the arm, Adam raced to the door, pulling them both inside and closing the door just as the storm hit. “Follow me.” Adam said, guiding Nigel down the stairs, through a hallway and into his apartment. Adam had never had anyone over before. There was no one else on Earth to have over, really. But now Nigel was here, Adam had someone to talk to. “What kind of android are you?” Nigel asked, looking around the apartment in a strange sort of wonder, inspecting each and every single thing. “Waste disposal. I was designed to help clean up the Earth, once the humans left. Although I do have the ability to think freely, and have emotions.” Adam said, watching Nigel. He hadn’t been fully sure of his emotional capacity, but meeting Nigel made it obvious. Nigel seemed surprised. “You must be a late model, then. Most Earth based androids were designed to be simple robots.” He picked up a book off the shelf, flicking through it. “I don’t know of many androids who would have an apartment.” “I believe I’m an outlier. In order to survive and continue my work here alone I had to adapt.” In Adam’s case, adapting meant achieving independence. Nigel turned to look at Adam, curious. “You’ve adapted very well.” If Adam had had the mechanisms to blush, then he would have. Instead, he ducked his head, avoiding eye contact. He wasn’t used to hearing people praise him. “What is your directive?” “I’m a vegetation evaluator. I survey planets to evaluate if they’re habitable for humans. The humans in charge thought Earth might be habitable by now.” Nigel came to stand in front of Adam, done with looking at almost everything in the apartment. Except Adam. Adam watched him, as he looked Adam up and down, smiling slightly at what he saw, for whatever reason. Adam liked the attention, strangely. He wasn’t used to sharing his space with other people, well, androids, but he found Nigel pleasant. “The humans wish to come back?” Nigel nodded. “It was always the goal. Leave Earth, leave the androids to clean up the planet, and one day the humans would be able to come back.” Adam felt a little bit angry at that. “They could have cleaned it up themselves.” That wasn’t natural, for Adam. He wasn’t supposed to get angry at humans, at his creators, at his job. “We weren’t designed for long term solitude.” Nigel furrowed his eyebrows, confused. “What do you mean?” Adam moved to sit down on the old, worn couch, Nigel following to do the same. “My class of androids were not designed for long term solitude. We aren’t designed to continue working for centuries, not without humans around to fix us. I am the only one left, and that is by luck. I can fix myself because the others of my class are broken, I can salvage their parts.” Nigel looked at Adam closely again. He could see it clearer now - the occasional line on Adam’s finger where a section had had to be replaced, the slight difference in the brightness of his eyes. As if on cue, one of his eyes began to flicker. “Adam, your eye is flickering.” Nigel said, concerned but also fascinated. Adam blinked, looking around to test the eye, before realising that it was indeed failing. “I can fix it.” He stood up, bumping into the corner of the couch before walking to his kitchen, opening the cupboard where he spared his spare eyes. Nigel followed, curious at this process, and watched as Adam disconnected his left eye, placed it on the counter, and connected a new eye, in a matching colour, blinking a few times to get it working. “How long have you been on your own?” Adam put the eye in a drawer, wanting to see if he could fix it later, otherwise it would be a waste of hard to find parts. “80 years, by human calculations.” Nigel had come to stand in front of Adam now, inspecting the newly installed eye. It was interesting how real they looked. “It’s a long time to be on your own.” Adam nodded, agreeing. “I have no other choice.” Talking to Nigel felt like the most natural thing in the world, it was so easy. A small beep interrupted their moment. “Oh. I need to wind down. My systems can’t stay active all day.” Clearing his throat, Nigel looked away. “I should get back to my directive.” He wanted to ask something else, something he didn’t have the right to. “Can I see you in the morning? I like talking with you.” Adam was slightly stunned for a moment, caught off guard by Nigel wanting to spend more time together. Wouldn’t that interfere with his directive? “Are you supposed to be spending time with me? I believed your directive took precedence over any other actions.” Shaking his head, Nigel leaned back against the kitchen counter. “I can do both. There aren’t many androids like us on the ship. I like talking with you.” Adam couldn’t help it - he smiled. And then he beeped again, a warning that he needed to power down. He was slightly sad that Nigel didn’t need to do the same - the newer models had longer lifespans, Adam figured. “I should power down.” He said quietly. Nigel took that as his cue to leave. “I will see you in the morning, Adam.” With a brief flash of his smile, he turned and left, exiting the apartment though the front door. Adam watched him leave, feeling oddly sad at Nigel leaving. He beeped again, and this time he finally acted on it, turning off the lights in the apartment before walking through to the bedroom, laying down on the bed. To power down, Adam didn't need to do anything. All he needed was a place to lie down, in the dark. Once he closed his eyes for more than 10 seconds he automatically powered down. It was his version of sleep. He was looking forward to tomorrow, a break from his endless solitude. He had Nigel to talk to, now. Adam wound down with a smile on his face, thinking of Nigel.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75557321/chapters/197573696	{"authors": ["NotGonnaGetUs"], "language": "English", "title": "Out There"}
Angel In The Sky Dearest Reader, Yesterday was finally the night that the sweet Benedict Bridgerton unveils another one of his artworks. Bridgerton-thrown events are continuously the talk of the ton and this author is expecting to see some very large families in attendance. As for if any drama was present it is up to this author to report back to you, my gentle readers. Hopefully, the main topic of conversation of the ton for this evening was the artwork itself, but that is unlikely. Benedict had spent the better part of the day pacing back and forth in the drawing room at the Bridgerton home. This wasn't the first time he'd unveiled some of his art but this one seemed to have the deepest connection to him. Almost as if a string was connecting his heart to the painting. He hadn't looked at it in a few days as his mama had it taken to their gallery where the ball was going to be held. His heart called out to the painting but more so to the inspiration behind it, whom he'd not laid eyes on since the moment he captured in the painting. "You know if you pace anymore brother you might leave a mark on the flooring," Eloise muttered from the chair taking her nose out of her book for the first time in 2 hours. Benedict missed the silence the minute she spoke. Eloise got the message the minute her brother swung to face her with anxious fury spread across his face. She simply raised her hands in defense putting the book down momentarily. "Eloise is brash but correct my darling you have nothing to worry about for this evening, everybody loves your work," Violet says walking into the drawing room and placing her hands on her son's shoulders to stop his incessant bouncing in place. Benedict let his body relax underneath his mother's touch. She did have a wonderful way of never making anything seem difficult, unless you bring up the topic of marriage then she's just like all the other eager mamas of the ton. "Some people like my work others like the name attached to it, who only knows what their true opinion is," Benedict said as he sunk into the chair next to Eloise like a sulking child. He hated the idea that people pretended to enjoy his work or to even understand it just because he was a Bridgerton but he knew the opinions came with the name so it was something he had to accept in order to keep doing the thing he loved. Not much had been revealed in the cases of the artwork which is something this author loves, mystery. It being the last painting revealed on the evening gave people plenty of time to try and get some secrets out of the creator but Benedict Bridgerton was very tight-lipped on what he created and even kept silent on what inspired the creation. Many people came up to Benedict in swarms - 'admirers' of his work trying to pry information out of him before the unveil. These admirers were just marriage-hungry mamas trying to prove how much their daughters loved the art hoping that would somehow sway Benedict in their direction, unknowing that Benedict had his eyes focused on someone that only existed in a painting. Until tonight. He was halfway through a droning conversation with his mama and Miss Featherington when the doors opened catching his attention, he was sure the entire ton was there except Lady Danbury who informed the family that she would be late due to currently being hostess to a new family. Sure enough, it was indeed Lady Danbury making it just mere moments before Benedict was about to unveil the painting. Too many moments close that Benedict didn't have time to welcome Lady Danbury so he left that up to his mother that loved these parties more than most. This, however, meant that Benedict had no idea who had arrived with Lady Danbury, and by the time he had noticed he was already standing near the very painting that this person inspired. He reached the top of the stairs just out of the eye of onlookers but that still gave him the perfect sight to look down below at his mama, Lady Danbury, and her. The very person who in mere moments would see their own image solidified in paint. Benedict thought of this situation as the highest irony considering that the last time he caught a glimpse of this woman she was once again unaware of his presence. Just looking down at the mystery woman the entire day came back to him as if he was reliving it at that very moment. It was a little over a month ago just before the season had begun and families had begun to travel and arrive in London for the season when Benedict decided to take a stroll to escape his mama and her new lists of ladies debuting this year, eager to get her sons dancing and courting a young miss. The warm air helped to ease any stress he was dealing with when Benedict decided to stop in the middle of the path and raise his head to the sun letting the rays wash over his face with comforting heat, it was when he was lowering his head that he noticed her. She was sat on a seat staring intently at the book in her hand looking up towards the sun	Angel In The Sky Dearest Reader, Yesterday was finally the night that the sweet Benedict Bridgerton unveils another one of his artworks. Bridgerton-thrown events are continuously the talk of the ton and this author is expecting to see some very large families in attendance. As for if any drama was present it is up to this author to report back to you, my gentle readers. Hopefully, the main topic of conversation of the ton for this evening was the artwork itself, but that is unlikely. Benedict had spent the better part of the day pacing back and forth in the drawing room at the Bridgerton home. This wasn't the first time he'd unveiled some of his art but this one seemed to have the deepest connection to him. Almost as if a string was connecting his heart to the painting. He hadn't looked at it in a few days as his mama had it taken to their gallery where the ball was going to be held. His heart called out to the painting but more so to the inspiration behind it, whom he'd not laid eyes on since the moment he captured in the painting. "You know if you pace anymore brother you might leave a mark on the flooring," Eloise muttered from the chair taking her nose out of her book for the first time in 2 hours. Benedict missed the silence the minute she spoke. Eloise got the message the minute her brother swung to face her with anxious fury spread across his face. She simply raised her hands in defense putting the book down momentarily. "Eloise is brash but correct my darling you have nothing to worry about for this evening, everybody loves your work," Violet says walking into the drawing room and placing her hands on her son's shoulders to stop his incessant bouncing in place. Benedict let his body relax underneath his mother's touch. She did have a wonderful way of never making anything seem difficult, unless you bring up the topic of marriage then she's just like all the other eager mamas of the ton. "Some people like my work others like the name attached to it, who only knows what their true opinion is," Benedict said as he sunk into the chair next to Eloise like a sulking child. He hated the idea that people pretended to enjoy his work or to even understand it just because he was a Bridgerton but he knew the opinions came with the name so it was something he had to accept in order to keep doing the thing he loved. Not much had been revealed in the cases of the artwork which is something this author loves, mystery. It being the last painting revealed on the evening gave people plenty of time to try and get some secrets out of the creator but Benedict Bridgerton was very tight-lipped on what he created and even kept silent on what inspired the creation. Many people came up to Benedict in swarms - 'admirers' of his work trying to pry information out of him before the unveil. These admirers were just marriage-hungry mamas trying to prove how much their daughters loved the art hoping that would somehow sway Benedict in their direction, unknowing that Benedict had his eyes focused on someone that only existed in a painting. Until tonight. He was halfway through a droning conversation with his mama and Miss Featherington when the doors opened catching his attention, he was sure the entire ton was there except Lady Danbury who informed the family that she would be late due to currently being hostess to a new family. Sure enough, it was indeed Lady Danbury making it just mere moments before Benedict was about to unveil the painting. Too many moments close that Benedict didn't have time to welcome Lady Danbury so he left that up to his mother that loved these parties more than most. This, however, meant that Benedict had no idea who had arrived with Lady Danbury, and by the time he had noticed he was already standing near the very painting that this person inspired. He reached the top of the stairs just out of the eye of onlookers but that still gave him the perfect sight to look down below at his mama, Lady Danbury, and her. The very person who in mere moments would see their own image solidified in paint. Benedict thought of this situation as the highest irony considering that the last time he caught a glimpse of this woman she was once again unaware of his presence. Just looking down at the mystery woman the entire day came back to him as if he was reliving it at that very moment. It was a little over a month ago just before the season had begun and families had begun to travel and arrive in London for the season when Benedict decided to take a stroll to escape his mama and her new lists of ladies debuting this year, eager to get her sons dancing and courting a young miss. The warm air helped to ease any stress he was dealing with when Benedict decided to stop in the middle of the path and raise his head to the sun letting the rays wash over his face with comforting heat, it was when he was lowering his head that he noticed her. She was sat on a seat staring intently at the book in her hand looking up towards the sun in small intervals as if it gave her energy to continue. That was when Benedict saw it, his next art piece. From where he was standing on the street the window had the perfect reflection of the sky and clouds almost making it look like she was an angel floating in the sky looking down on the earth. The feature of the blue painting on the exterior and the white windowsill lead into the almost heavenly-looking scene. Benedict knew at that moment he had to capture the image in paint so that it never left his mind. He spent hours in his study working on every feature of her hoping to get everything perfect, even the way her hair shone against the color of the white and blue background. It was important to Benedict that art be nothing but the truth of a person's soul as there was nothing beautiful about deceit. He was committed to conveying the soul behind the beauty. As with Bridgerton events, everything seemed to be planned out to the last second, Violet Bridgerton was an excellent planner in this regard it never left the party feeling boring. However this author, unlike some others in attendance noticed something peculiar that hadn't happened at any other of Benedict Bridgertons unveils - he stopped. Now you, my gentle readers of the ton won't have noticed in the midst of your conversations but trust me as Lady Whistledown herself I see all, otherwise, what would this collum suffice off? Benedict stopped himself from just escaping by realizing that his mama had started to look around the room for him and that could only mean he was taking his time getting to the top of the stairs for the speech she so suggestively made him write. Now he regrets it all as he has to keep composure when he was convinced at that moment that some mysterious feeling had taken all of the wind out of his lungs, nevertheless, he was a Bridgerton so the mask of confidence must be fixed. "If I could have everyone's attention please," Benedict says tapping the end of a spoon on his champagne flute, "My family has gathered you all here today for another art unveiled by yours truly. Now before I revealed the piece I thought an explanation to all of you of what it entails. Art is something so close to the soul, like the eyes an art piece can give someone such a look into another soul. I know I am one of the lucky few who get to follow my passions and for that, I am eternally grateful to my family, and my mama who believes in me so. Now before I ramble the night away, I named this piece 'Angel In The Sky' and I should hope that one even not familiar with the art will resonate with why." Benedict placed his champagne flute on the table next to him and on a deep in-breath took hold of the curtain covering the painting and pulled it down on an out-breath. Now, this author knows a thing or two about spilling the truth of the soul, and to hear someone who is a very staple of the ton say the same is truly refreshing. Now I have decided to withhold the very details of the painting themselves as how could one such as I, another person of the arts, take away from viewers of the ton. Simply put Benedict Bridgertons newest painting 'Angel In The Sky' is an art piece that must be viewed with one's own eyes and not through the string of some other words, even this author. It had taken mere moments for her to realize that it was indeed her image in the art. At first, the building looked similar, then her dress, and even her nose. It was an odd moment to see oneself in an art piece of which they had no prior knowledge. Y/N was not aware of what her reaction should've been, it felt other-worldly like something that would only happen in a novel. Yet here she was, at a ball in the city of London hours away from her home and away from everything she knows. It felt as though at this moment here everything in the air had shifted and this is where her life began to change, and she could always look at the moment captured in time. It had taken Benedict almost half an hour to compose himself and finally rejoin the party, thankfully he was in his own home and could simply slip out one door and into another room. But now here he was, back in that same ballroom and once again watching her from afar. He was delighted at the sight of her, at least she was not so disgusted that she ran away. It felt ironic that almost, 3 different times now has he been locked in his place looking at the image of her too afraid to take another step as if it was tainting destiny. Until he heard the click of the cane and his mind came back. "You know I should let you paint all my townhouses if they'd turn out like this." The recognizable voice of Lady Danbury boomed next to him. Benedict whipped his head around to flash a classic Bridgerton smile. "Lady Danbury as I live and breath, I must extend my thanks for attending this exhibit." Benedict smiles, he did always have a soft spot for Lady Danbury. "Now this will be the third time running that someone living in my home has caught the eye of one of you Bridgertons, maybe I should start betting on horses with my luck. I would tell you her name but that seems like something to work out on your own." Lady Danbury says while hitting the bottom of her cane onto Benedict's calf. He took that as the only push he would ever need and off he went toward her. The steps towards her were almost second nature as if there were a magnet pulling him towards her. It wasn't until he took his final step to be next to her that he felt the air around him shift. "I have to say my lord I have seen many paintings of myself throughout my family line but nobody ever seemed to understand the the tone in my skin, the amount of artists that have made me strikingly yellow is jarring, to say the least," Y/N announced finally breaking the silence. Her voice flowed softer than he ever imagined but there was a layer he couldn't quite grasp, a sharpness almost. Then he caught it, caught the words she spoke, of undertones? "Are you yourself an artist, you have a vocabulary one could only have with knowing the arts," Benedict spoke, his smile seeming to grow wider each moment. His eyes sparkling in the reflection of all the candlelight. "I am indeed in fact, Lady Danbury has been kinda enough to lend me an entire room for my art. I will have her extend an invite for you to view it one day, it is spectacular. As is your art, although it's strange to see oneself in paint like a moment captured in time." Y/N spoke with an ease that calmed you to the core almost like nothing could go wrong. So there they stood, conversing mere meters away from the painting. Every now and again either one would catch themself looking up at the painting then back down. As Y/N looked up towards the painting and back down she caught herself wondering about the time and effort it took. All that stuck out in her mind is that it takes a man of great patience and a deep understand of life to compose something of such deep beauty. As for Benedict, he looked back and forth almost like a child surrounded by a thousand pretty lights because as much as he never imagined it, here he was standing in front of the very woman who inspired a painting that required him to tap into such a delicate part of his soul. He only hoped that his future would see many more paintings, but only one muse.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75557376	{"authors": ["inkedobsidian"], "language": "English", "title": "Angel In The Sky"}
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year It's the most wonderful time of the year? Yeah, right. Frisk snorted as she watched the shoppers flurry around the store like flies over rotting fruit. She had no idea how anyone could be this energetic at 5:30 in the morning. Either they went to bed the night before at seven o'clock to have this type of energy, or they never went to bed and ran on the burst of energy that always resulted right before the crash. Regardless, Frisk couldn't understand it. Why anyone would want to be up shopping this early – morning person or no – dumbfounded her. Even with her coffee hidden behind the counter, Frisk could barely process being awake. It still amazed her that she was able to apply her makeup this morning without smudging her mascara all over her brow line or applying her matte lipstick everywhere but her lips. With how cute she looked in her black dress with snowflakes all around the collar, waistline, the end of the flare sleeves, and the end of the skirt, her black tights, and her favorite pair of boots, nobody ever would have guessed she was holding it together by a shoestring. Hands folded in front of her, Frisk waited for the first shopper to come up. For reasons she didn't get, she was told to stand by the diamond earring table. Shoppers were receiving coupons as they entered the doors, and some lucky customers were going to win free diamond earrings. They would meet Frisk at the table and present the coupon. In response, Frisk would give them one of the many diamond earrings on the table. Thirty minutes into the store opening, and nobody showed up. Frisk thought she remembered reading the Black Friday catalogue saying this giveaway would happen at nine, but her manager insisted the coupons could be within the 5am stack of giveaways. If that were the case, somebody needed to be there to pass out the earrings. Why she was the one picked, she didn't know. Five more minutes later, and Frisk began to regret her decision in footwear. Her boots were not uncomfortable, but she started to realize that perhaps these were not ideal footwear for a twelve-hour shift. Still no shoppers with the coupon arrived to receive their free earrings, and Frisk started to feel a little like an idiot standing by the table, doing basically nothing. Sighing, Frisk looked around to pass the time. A lot of shoppers were here in their Christmas pajamas, and others wore T-shirts with various Black Friday references on them. Once and a while, she thought she saw someone who must have been a little normal. One such family caught her eye. The woman was a type of goat-esque monster, and she was dressed in a casual purple dress. She spoke with a beauty department associate about the newest perfume collection, from what Frisk could tell. With the woman were two young men. One was another monster who looked just like the woman – they must have been mother and son. The other was a human who looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else but here. Me, too, dude,Frisk humorlessly thought. While the woman kept talking to the associate, the guys talked between themselves. Frisk couldn't pick up anything they said. Even so, with nothing else to do, she kept her gaze directed towards them as she transitioned to the mindless, thousand-yard stare she did when she was sleep deprived. Such a wonderful society we live in where people flock to stores to buy lots of stuff merely hours after being grateful for what they already have. This culture is too materialistic, and Christmas does nothing but encourage adding to the clutter of our already cluttered lives. Not to mention the music is terrible! What is this, the fifth Santa Baby cover I heard since walking into this building to start my shift? "Want some company?" Blinking, Frisk was jerked back into reality. Remembering where she was and what she was supposed to be doing, she felt her face grow hot as she realized the human with the monsters had moved closer. Her grasp on reality not quite back, she uttered out "What?" and then mentally kicked herself for not being more professional. The human, however, didn't seem phased. "You, erm, kind of were staring at us." "Oh, was I?" Frisk didn't think it was possible for her face to burn even more. "Sorry! I wasn't staring at you. I was staring into the void. It's too early in the morning for this. Clearly my coffee hasn't kicked in yet." Reaching behind the counter, Frisk grabbed her thermos and took a big sip of coffee. It was still hot and burned her throat on the way down. Trying not to appear too flustered, Frisk set it back down and hoped she wasn't succeeding in making a bigger fool of herself. To her relief, the man chuckled. It wasn't forced, either. His laugh sounded like a form of agreement. "I cannot imagine. I consider myself a morning lark, yet even this is too early for me. However, Mom loves Black Friday shopping, and she makes a point to bring my brother and me every year. It makes her happy, so being	It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year It's the most wonderful time of the year? Yeah, right. Frisk snorted as she watched the shoppers flurry around the store like flies over rotting fruit. She had no idea how anyone could be this energetic at 5:30 in the morning. Either they went to bed the night before at seven o'clock to have this type of energy, or they never went to bed and ran on the burst of energy that always resulted right before the crash. Regardless, Frisk couldn't understand it. Why anyone would want to be up shopping this early – morning person or no – dumbfounded her. Even with her coffee hidden behind the counter, Frisk could barely process being awake. It still amazed her that she was able to apply her makeup this morning without smudging her mascara all over her brow line or applying her matte lipstick everywhere but her lips. With how cute she looked in her black dress with snowflakes all around the collar, waistline, the end of the flare sleeves, and the end of the skirt, her black tights, and her favorite pair of boots, nobody ever would have guessed she was holding it together by a shoestring. Hands folded in front of her, Frisk waited for the first shopper to come up. For reasons she didn't get, she was told to stand by the diamond earring table. Shoppers were receiving coupons as they entered the doors, and some lucky customers were going to win free diamond earrings. They would meet Frisk at the table and present the coupon. In response, Frisk would give them one of the many diamond earrings on the table. Thirty minutes into the store opening, and nobody showed up. Frisk thought she remembered reading the Black Friday catalogue saying this giveaway would happen at nine, but her manager insisted the coupons could be within the 5am stack of giveaways. If that were the case, somebody needed to be there to pass out the earrings. Why she was the one picked, she didn't know. Five more minutes later, and Frisk began to regret her decision in footwear. Her boots were not uncomfortable, but she started to realize that perhaps these were not ideal footwear for a twelve-hour shift. Still no shoppers with the coupon arrived to receive their free earrings, and Frisk started to feel a little like an idiot standing by the table, doing basically nothing. Sighing, Frisk looked around to pass the time. A lot of shoppers were here in their Christmas pajamas, and others wore T-shirts with various Black Friday references on them. Once and a while, she thought she saw someone who must have been a little normal. One such family caught her eye. The woman was a type of goat-esque monster, and she was dressed in a casual purple dress. She spoke with a beauty department associate about the newest perfume collection, from what Frisk could tell. With the woman were two young men. One was another monster who looked just like the woman – they must have been mother and son. The other was a human who looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else but here. Me, too, dude,Frisk humorlessly thought. While the woman kept talking to the associate, the guys talked between themselves. Frisk couldn't pick up anything they said. Even so, with nothing else to do, she kept her gaze directed towards them as she transitioned to the mindless, thousand-yard stare she did when she was sleep deprived. Such a wonderful society we live in where people flock to stores to buy lots of stuff merely hours after being grateful for what they already have. This culture is too materialistic, and Christmas does nothing but encourage adding to the clutter of our already cluttered lives. Not to mention the music is terrible! What is this, the fifth Santa Baby cover I heard since walking into this building to start my shift? "Want some company?" Blinking, Frisk was jerked back into reality. Remembering where she was and what she was supposed to be doing, she felt her face grow hot as she realized the human with the monsters had moved closer. Her grasp on reality not quite back, she uttered out "What?" and then mentally kicked herself for not being more professional. The human, however, didn't seem phased. "You, erm, kind of were staring at us." "Oh, was I?" Frisk didn't think it was possible for her face to burn even more. "Sorry! I wasn't staring at you. I was staring into the void. It's too early in the morning for this. Clearly my coffee hasn't kicked in yet." Reaching behind the counter, Frisk grabbed her thermos and took a big sip of coffee. It was still hot and burned her throat on the way down. Trying not to appear too flustered, Frisk set it back down and hoped she wasn't succeeding in making a bigger fool of herself. To her relief, the man chuckled. It wasn't forced, either. His laugh sounded like a form of agreement. "I cannot imagine. I consider myself a morning lark, yet even this is too early for me. However, Mom loves Black Friday shopping, and she makes a point to bring my brother and me every year. It makes her happy, so being forced out in public this early is a small sacrifice for me to make." "So those monsters are . . ." Frisk wasn't sure how to finish. "My family, yes. What, you could not tell based on the family resemblance?" Giggling, Frisk looked at the man, at the monsters – the mom was still looking at perfume – then back at the man. He had pale skin but a rosy complexion, hazel eyes, and chestnut hair that was grown down to his shoulders. Although he wasn't what most people would consider handsome, Frisk thought he wasn't hard on the eyes, either. "You know what," Frisk replied, "now that I'm really looking, I can see the similarities. I must have missed it before." "I don't blame you." The man shrugged. "Asriel looks exactly like our mom. People say I tend to take after Dad." In spite of herself, Frisk giggled. Then, another song started on the store's playlist. Frisk groaned before she caught herself doing it. "What's wrong?" the man asked, raising a brow and frowning. Deciding honesty was the best policy, Frisk answered, "This song." "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?" "Yeah. We play, like, every cover ever? This is the sixth time I heard it in the past hour, and somehow each cover is worse than the last. I don't even hate Rudolph. I'm just sick of hearing his song over and over." "Well, the story of Rudolph is a great reminder that people will make fun of you for being different until they want something from you." He said it with such conviction, Frisk wondered if this man had his own experiences in which he felt like the reindeer with the red nose. "I'm Frisk, by the way," she said, feeling as if they had engaged in enough conversation to warrant the introduction. "I know." When Frisk furrowed her brows, the man pointed at her chest and explained, "Your nametag." "Oh, right." Just as Frisk's face was beginning to cool off, it got hot again. "I always forget I'm wearing it. Always freaks me out a little bit when customers address me by name. There's always that moment of panic where I wonder if I'm supposed to know them or something." When the man laughed in response, Frisk cocked her head and asked, "Well, what's your name? You don't have a nametag to give yours away like I do." "Wait," the man held his smile despite pinching his brows together, "you don't know who I am?" "No." Frisk shook her head. "Should I? Are you a famous TikToker?" The man laughed again before answering, "My name is Chara, and no, I'm not a TikToker." Frisk pressed her lips together as she studied the man – Chara – standing before her. "I'm sorry, should I know who you are?" "If you don't, then I suppose I'm not a regular enough customer." "As long as you're the regular customer we're happy to see, not those customers we see and think,Oh, great, what are they going to want to speak with the manager to complain about this time?" "I take it customer service sucks." "Depends on the customer." "And what kind of customer am I?" Smiling, Frisk reached up to tuck some loose strands of hair behind her ear. This didn't feel like the typical customer interaction – their dialogue was too natural for that, not to mention she couldn't seem to stop giggling like an idiot. Yet at the same time, she was still in the position to maintain professionalism, which she had not done since the store opened. She needed to get back to focusing on her job. As much as she enjoyed talking to Chara, she forced herself to remember that after today, she was never going to see him again. "Can you really be a customer if you're not buying anything?" she challenged, raising a brow. "I guess you got me there." Looking to where his family was, Chara said, "I'm afraid I have to go. It appears Mother is ready to go upstairs to shop the pots and pans sale. She's going to need Asriel and me to help carry everything she decides to purchase." "Good luck. I hear we have a fantastic sale on crockpots this year." "Heh." Bowing as if she were a princess, Chara said, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Frisk." Frisk mocked curtsied in response. "The pleasure is all my mine, Mr. Chara. Let me know if you ever need anything." After Chara smiled and walked away, Frisk realized what she said.Where did the "ever" come from? I normally just say "Let me know if you need anything." Oh well, the message is still the same. Since it turned out that the diamond earring giveaway was at nine o'clock after all, Frisk was tasked with folding and rearranging the shirts on the tables nearby until the giveaway. When the time came, she stationed herself back at the table and gave the jewelry to shoppers with the winning coupons. She didn't realize how much she hoped to see Chara again when it was his brother who walked up to claim the free earrings. Frisk smiled at Asriel, hoping he had forgotten her staring at him a few hours ago. Since he didn't say anything, not even after she congratulated him for being one of the winners of this giveaway, she concluded he indeed forgot. To that extent, Frisk was relieved. However, she couldn't fool herself into thinking she wasn't disappointed Chara wasn't the one to claim the prize. She knew she was never going to see him again after that day, but she had at least hoped for one more interaction. Two hours after she gave his brother the earrings, Frisk gave up hope that he and his family were still in the store at all. A few days later, Frisk sat in Muffet's Café as she studied for her final exam. Chewing on the end of her pen, she mentally solved the algebra problem in her head. She wanted to avoid making mistakes since she had forgotten a pencil and was forced to write out the equations with ink. By no means was she going to be that person with scribbles of black all over her worksheet. It didn't matter if it took her ten times longer to solve the problems mentally first as long as she could avoid that mess. "Want some company?" Startled, Frisk snapped her head towards the direction of the voice. She had to blink a few times to make sure she wasn't mistaken. The guy from Black Friday was standing beside her table. Realizing a second later he asked her a question, Frisk waved her hand in an inviting gesture and said, "Nobody else is sitting here, if you want to join me." "Thank you, Frisk." The man sat across from her, setting down a banana nut muffin and a cup of what smelled like peppermint hot chocolate. Frisk quickly racked her brain and guessed, "Chara, right?" "Good memory." Chara smiled. "I still haven't found your TikTok account yet," Frisk teased before taking a sip of her latte. Chara overdramatically rolled his eyes. "Search all you like, but you cannot find something that does not exist." It was at this moment Frisk realized what was going on. A customer from work was sitting with her, while she was not at work. While a part of her argued she didn't need to act professionally, another part of her reasoned she had to be careful what she said regardless because he could still associate her with the store's brand. This was not an easy situation in which to be. Looking over the table at her textbook and worksheet, Chara said, "I didn't realize you were a student." Although he didn't sound judgmental about it, Frisk still felt a little self-conscious. "I started my college education later than most." "There is nothing wrong with that." Chara blew on his hot chocolate before taking a sip. "It's only too late when you decide it is. Besides, you're what? In your mid-twenties? You're still young." "Most people at my age already have their degrees." "But you are not most people. You are you, and the race you are running is your own. Do not shame yourself for not being on track for somebody else's timeline." Frisk felt a little comforted, even if she still felt a bit self-conscious. "What about you?" "Me?" "I don't know. You kind of just sat down and asked about my being a student. Don't I get to hear a little about you?" "Well, I suppose it is only fair I participate equally in conversation. What do you most want to know – other than the name of my nonexistent TikTok account?" Smiling, Frisk said, "I remember you saying that you always go Black Friday shopping with your mom. I take you two are close?" "I am close with Mom, Dad, and my brother. They took me in and accepted me as one of their own. My gratitude fuels my love for them, which is great because sometimes, we get on each other's nerves and cannot stand each other." "Do you and your brother fight a lot?" "Only about stupid things – whose favorite superhero would win in a fight, which anime is better, if we could get away with any crime, which is the best crime to commit—" "Tax evasion." "What?" "If I'm getting away with any crime, it's going to be tax evasion. However, I think I would keep that in my back pocket until I get a decent job and make decent money. If I'm only getting one Get Out of Jail Free card, I don't want to waste it when I'm barely making above minimum wage." "Okay, but is that thebestcrime to commit?" "Well, what's yours? Murder?" "Possibly." Frisk snorted. Chara took another sip of his hot chocolate while he appeared to study her. When he set his cup back down, he said, "You're not like most humans I have met." Raising a brow, Frisk asked, "Is that an insult?" "A compliment," Chara answered. "My experience with humans is . . . Well, there is a reason I was adopted by a monster family." "Yeah, I get that." Frisk sighed. "I grew up in foster care. In my last home, I was kicked out on my eighteenth birthday. I had nowhere to go. I had to drop out of school and find work. After being homeless for a while, I was able to afford a crappy apartment. It's within the last couple years I was able to move somewhere nicer with some roommates. I got my GED, and now I'm slowly working on getting my college degree. What I plan to major in, I don't know yet. I have been in survival mode for so long, it's hard to not feel like I have just woken up to see how far behind I am to everyone else my age." Realizing how much she had talked, Frisk's face burned hotter than it did when she and Chara met. She looked away and tucked some loose hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry. There I go again rambling. I didn't need to say all that." "Don't be sorry," Chara replied. "You survived hard things. That's nothing to be ashamed about. If anything, it has made you stronger than some of those people you think are ahead of you in life." Despite herself, Frisk smiled. "I guess that was my long way of saying I agree with you in thinking that monsters are better than humans. My roommates are monsters, and I would have it no other way." Chara held up his cup and mock-toasted, "Here's to humanity, the only species that is capable of making one of its own lose faith in it." "Cheers." Frisk picked up her coffee and tapped it against Chara's. "Working customer service really does give you a new level of hatred for people. Monsters can be weird, but humans are outright miserable if they're having a bad day and decide you need to have a bad day, too." "I could never work customer service." Chara shook his head. "I would not make it a day before I was fired if I had to deal with what you are suggesting." "Sometimes, my alarm goes off in the morning and I think to myself, 'How bad do I need this job?'" Realizing she might have given her store a bad impression, Frisk stuttered, "But I do go in every day, because it truly is such a wonderful opportunity to—" "You do not need to defend your job," Chara interrupted. "Even if the job is great, having to be nice and smile to people whom you really would rather cuss out seems as if it is the standard for any customer service job." "More people really ought to work customer service, at least once in their life. Really gives you a new sense of empathy for others." Looking at his watch, Chara frowned and said, "I have been enjoying this conversation, but I did not realize how long it has been. I ought to go, and I am sure you need to get back to your coursework. Maybe I will see you again later?" "You know where I work," Frisk said. She stated it as a fact, but a small part of her did hope Chara took it for an invite. "That I do," Chara agreed, but nothing in his features gave away his interpretation of what she said. With his nearly gone hot chocolate and untouched muffin in hand, Chara wished her a farewell before walking out of the shop. Head once again bent over her worksheet, Frisk found it harder to concentrate than before. It felt so easy speaking with him, she found herself telling him her backstory. In so many ways, she was embarrassed for being so vulnerable with this man who was still as good as a stranger. Yet at the same time, Frisk did secretly wish they wouldn't have to always be strangers. No matter how many times I fold the same table, somebody immediately comes behind and disrupts the whole thing. Frisk tried not to think too many criminal thoughts about some of the . . . less than ideal customers. "Excuse me, miss?" Almost out of habit, Frisk was about to tell the customer where the restrooms were. Yet when she looked up, the sight of Chara had her voice catching in her throat. The shirt she held remained suspended in midair. "Yes?" she managed after finding her voice. Smiling, Chara began, "You said to let you know if I ever needed anything. Well, I need something." Frisk furrowed her brows, confused. Chara shifted from foot to foot. "Um, well, my parents host a party every Christmas Eve, and Mom is pressuring me to go with someone. The thing is, I really have no interest in pursuing a relationship. No matter how I try to explain that to her, she will not listen. So, I came here to request that you attend this under the guise of my date." For a moment, all Frisk could do was stand and stare. She had to make sure she heard everything correctly, but she also didn't want to repeat herself in case she heard wrong. Being asked out on a fake date was a new customer request – one of which she wasn't quite sure what to make. When too long passed without her responding, Chara added, "I know this must be strange for you to hear. I know we do not each other well enough for me to make such an ask, but ironically, I trust you enough to ask this of you." "It is an ask," Frisk agreed. "I will pay you," Chara offered. "Name your price, and it is yours." Now Frisk was convinced this man was messing with her. Thinking up the largest sum of money she could, Frisk said, "Five thousand dollars." It was to her shock Chara responded, "Deal." "Wait, what?" "I was willing to pay you ten thousand, but five thousand works." Shaking her head, Frisk said, "You're insane." To this, Chara shrugged and walked away. After he was gone, Frisk resumed folding the shirts the customers had dismantled. While she worked, her mind raced. There is no way he's serious! I thought he was nice, and I thought that time we happened to meet at the café was fate. Turns out he's just another one of those crazy people I sometimes get stuck helping. An hour later, Frisk returned from her fifteen-minute break to find the tables she had just fixed up were all messy again. Sighing, she started from the beginning. This whole work shift was going to be spent keeping these same four tables clean. She had just barely begun to refold a pile of shirts when a voice behind her said, "There you are. I thought you were hiding from me." Spinning around, Frisk found that Chara had returned. He presented an envelope to her. She hesitated a moment before accepting it. "This is the down payment," Chara explained. "I will pay you the rest at the party." When Frisk opened the envelope, her mouth went dry. Inside was a stack of hundred dollar bills. First, she counted how many were in there. Then she pulled one out and held it up to the light for a counterfeit test. It was real. This man really just handed her one thousand dollars cash like it was nothing. Her biweekly paychecks weren't even this much. Maybe she should have asked for more money. Realizing what was going on, Frisk put the bill back in its envelope and handed it back to Chara. "I can't accept this." "Please, I really need to have someone come with me to this party," Chara argued. "I am more than happy to pay you." "But you said the party was on Christmas Eve?" "Yes, it is." "Then I certainly can't help you. I have to work that day. We all do. We're going to have a lot of last-minute shoppers, so all hands are needed on deck." Narrowing his eyes, Chara asked, "Who's your supervisor?" Taken aback, Frisk almost didn't hear herself answer, "Mew Mew." "Is this person here today?" "It's Saturday. Everyone is here." When Frisk had finished speaking, Chara nodded and walked away. He did not take back the envelope. Mouth getting drier than she thought possible, Frisk folded the envelope and tucked it into her back pocket. If Chara did not return for it by the time her shift ended, she would turn it in to security. Technically, she wasn't supposed to accept tips of any kind. Besides, she didn't feel right taking such a large sum of money. Not even twenty minutes later, Frisk heard the overhead speakers announce, "Attention, associates: Frisk to the office. Frisk to the office." Never ceasing to feel as if she was being called to the principal's office, Frisk stopped what she was doing and hoped whatever trouble she was in this time, it wouldn't result in her being tempted to keep the money in her pocket. "Good news," Mew Mew said the moment Frisk sat on the other side of Mew Mew's desk, "I'm giving you Christmas Eve off!" Dumbstruck, all Frisk could say was, "Um, what?" "Look, when a Dreemurr comes in and requests you give an associate the day off so he could borrow their services, you do not argue." Mew Mew leaned in closer. "Truly, I'm jealous of you, catching the interest of someone like him." Frisk didn't think it was possible for her to be more confused. "But . . . I need the money." "Then take the man's offer, or else don't bother coming back here." Mew Mew was so stern in the way she said it, Frisk knew she wasn't joking. "I can get why you're hesitant, but it would do you well to not insult a Dreemurr." Not knowing what else to say so she could begin to comprehend what was happening, Frisk nodded in agreement. Mew Mew seemed relieved, as she smiled largely and promised Frisk that she would see her the day after Christmas. When she was dismissed, Frisk walked out of the office questioning everything that happened since she came into work. As she rode the bus home after her shift, her heart began to sink as she realized she never turned in the envelope to security. Hoping nobody would sense the money and try to mug her, Frisk acted nonchalant until she finally made it to her stop, walked to the apartment complex, and locked the door behind her upon arriving at her apartment. Neither of her roommates were home yet. Stepping into the kitchen, Frisk took out the envelope and counted the money. One thousand dollars. She then tested each bill for counterfeit. They were all real. Chara actually handed her such a large sum of money like it was pocket change. Of course, when Frisk considered the way Mew Mew talked about him, maybe he was rich enough that this sum of money really was nothing to him. Finding an index card in the envelope she did not notice at first, Frisk picked it up and inspected it. A phone number was written on one side. The other side had a note. Give me a call when you are able. I will give you the party information, time, and address. Thank you so much for your willingness to help me out – I promise to make it worthwhile. Your friend, Chara. Frisk wasn't really sure they were friends, but seeing that she was caught up in a situation it was probably better not to ignore, she hoped they were the kind of friends where she wouldn't come to regret any of this. When Alice and Mon got home later that day, Frisk informed them of what had happened with Chara's showing up at her work to ask her to this Christmas Eve party. She explained how Mew Mew, who was pretty stingy about giving anyone specific days off, almost threatened Frisk with termination if she didn't go to this party. Finally, she explained her feelings over it. "I'm not upset about being asked as a fake date," she admitted, "but the situation revolving it is a little weird." "If it makes you that uncomfortable, then don't go," Mon, a lizard-like monster with no arms and yellow scales, said. "We'll find you another job. One where he hopefully can't find you again." That seemed a little extreme, but Frisk didn't want to toss out the idea yet. "What do you think, Alice?" A white rabbit monster, Alice was covered in fur and had long ears standing upright. Her eyes were currently glued to the smartphone in her hand. Frisk frowned, as it was unusual for Alice to be this preoccupied with technology when she was engaging in conversations with them. "Alice?" "What? Oh, sorry. I was researching this Chara character. What did you say his last name was again?" "I don't know, but Mew Mew kept saying something about dreamers. Is that the name of a band or something?" "What, is this guy a celebrity or something?" Mon asked. "I don't know," Frisk answered. "At first I thought he was a Tik Toker. I never bothered to actually Google him." "Clearly." Alice put her phone down. "Frisk, describe Chara and his family again." Briefly, Frisk described Chara as a human with light skin and shoulder length auburn hair. Then she mentioned that he was adopted into a family of monsters. "I only saw his mom and brother. They were these monsters with snow white fur, long ears over their shoulders, and round snouts. I think you could compare them to fluffy goats? Both mom and son had little horns protruding from the tops of their heads." With each word Frisk said, Alice's eyes grew wider. By the time Frisk finished explaining, Alice's demeanor was more eyes than any other feature. The people Frisk described fit whatever Alice found online. Picking up her phone again, Alice searched for a good image to show Frisk as she told her, "No wonder Mew Mew threatened to fire you if you don't go to this dance with Chara. Any supervisor in their right mind wouldn't dare challenge someone like him." Frisk felt her blood run cold. "Alice, who is Chara?" "Yeah," Mon chimed in. "Clearly he's someone important the way you keep tapping at your phone like that." Alice shook her head. "We really have been living under a rock since it took us this long to figure it out. This man is only part of the most powerful family in the country." Even before Alice turned her phone around to show her a news article with Chara and his family pictured at the top, Frisk knew what Alice was about to say. "The man asking you to this Christmas party is none other than Prince Chara Dreemurr." Feeling almost a little like Cinderella, Frisk looked transformed when Alice helped apply her makeup and do her hair. Alice kept the look natural, using makeup to enhance Frisk's features instead of changing her looks entirely. Even so, Frisk felt her stomach knot up as she considered that even though she wore the most expensive dress she could afford, she would still be significantly underdressed for this royal Christmas party. "I still can't believe the freaking prince asked you to this," Mon said for the umpteenth time. She couldn't believe it any more than Frisk could. "He's being pressured to have a date to this party," Frisk explained just as often as Mon expressed her unbelief. "Since he's human, a lot of ambassadors want to work out an arranged marriage between him and their daughters or nieces. His mom told him that if he was capable of finding his own date to the party, she would spare him from these ambassadors for the night." Frisk still struggled to believe that phone call actually happened. At first, Chara was apologetic for not being more forward about telling Frisk what she would be getting herself into. It sounded as if there was more on his mind, but he didn't say it, nor did Frisk ask. Instead, he gave her all the information she needed for the night – which wasn't much because Chara insisted she simply be herself. Frisk did ask how she should dress, and Chara merely answered that she dress nicely but nottoonicely. So here she sat, hoping she was dressed the right amount of nice. She wore a silver, knee-length dress with off the shoulder sleeves. Paired with the dress was her nicest pair of black leggings and silver kitten heel shoes. Her hair was done up, and her makeup was natural. It was the nicest Frisk ever looked for any event, yet she was already certain she would feel underdressed the moment she arrived at the castle. At the castle. Frisk tried to control her breathing. Nothing about this situation made sense. She was a retail worker – literally the equivalent to modern day slavery in a society that supposedly opposed slavery. The prince of all people shouldn't want her as a fake date. Unless he picked her specifically since her status would be insulting to all the highly ranked women who sought Prince Chara's attention. As tempted as she was to chicken out, Frisk had to admit the money was a good motivator to go through with this. With supportive words from her friends along with the promise they would come get her if she called asking for them, Frisk stepped into the taxi for the ride there. When she gave the taxi driver the address, he did a double take. Upon entering it into his GPS and being confirmed he was not mistaken where Frisk desired to go, he asked if she was certain this was her destination. Responding the affirmative, Frisk knew she sounded pathetic. Nonetheless, her driver didn't ask her for further confirmation. He must have sensed her unease, because instead of trying to engage in conversation during the drive, he turned on the radio and kept the volume soft but audible. Of course, all that was playing on Christmas Eve was Christmas music. As they came close to the castle, Frisk contemplated texting Chara her upcoming arrival. However, she couldn't order her hands to retrieve her phone to even begin typing the text. Odd, considering she knew she would be desperate for one familiar face within seconds of arriving at the party. After the taxi dropped her off, Frisk steeled herself and began to walk up the palace steps. Her heart hammered in her chest. It felt less as if this happened to her and more as if she was watching someone else experience all this. More than a few monster guards and servants warmly greeted her as she entered the palace and was guided to the ballroom.The ballroom!She passed a few humans along the way, but they mostly ignored her. Even now, it ceased to amaze Frisk how friendly monsters were in comparison to humans. It was as if by simply being nice to them, monsters would accept anyone as their friend. This comforted Frisk when her guide brought her to the ballroom and she saw there were as many monsters as there were humans. Not that this should surprise her – King Asgore was a monster. It was a strange political setup where royalty was made up of monsters but Congress was predominantly human. The king was the head of their small country, but humans voted on the laws. It was no wonder marrying off Prince Chara, a human in a monster family, to an ambassador was a desired political move. It really made Frisk feel so small and insignificant that she was here instead. "Hey, it's you!" Heart leaping in her throat, Frisk spun around and found Prince Asriel of all people standing behind her. He dressed in a dark purple suit with a pink button shirt and a lavender bowtie. He seemed uncomfortable in the attire based on the way he pulled his collar away from his neck, but he managed to smile all the same. Not knowing what else to do, Frisk clumsily curtsied and offered a formal greeting. Prince Asriel snorted. "Please, don't do that again, even if you meet my parents. There's no need for human formalities. This is a Christmas Eve party, meant to celebrate family and friends." Raising a brow, Frisk asked, "I thought some people here would have political agendas?" "Oh, they do," Prince Asriel answered. "However, you are above that." "How can you say that so confidently when you don't even know me?" "Well, I know you work customer service. That alone should mean you will never become corrupt with power." In spite of herself, Frisk laughed. She was talking with the crown prince himself, yet she felt her anxieties melt away. Perhaps tonight wouldn't be too bad after all, even if she still felt unworthy of even stepping foot within the prince's home. "You're here for Chara, right?" Asriel – she didn't believe she had to keep thinking of him asPrinceAsriel – asked. "He told me all about you." Frisk rose a brow. "He did?" "Yes, actually. I'm quite surprised. Chara doesn't like, well, anyone." "I'm . . . flattered?" "I'd say you should be, but that might sound a bit aggressive. Anyway, I take it you haven't found him yet?" "No," she answered, shaking her head. "I just arrived." "Well, let me help you look around." Asriel offered his arm, and she hesitantly accepted. Walking across the room, Asriel said, "Y'know, I'm really excited to meet you. Chara's never had a human friend before." "Yeah, I figured as much based on a conversation we had," Frisk admitted. "Makes me think we have similar experiences with humanity." "He admitted as much to you?" "That's a surprise? I mean, he hasn't told me anything directly, but he did say there was a reason he was adopted by monsters." "Still, that's more than what he told me when we first met. Granted, we were eleven, and he was fresh from the thick of it. Actually, if he's healed enough to talk even a little about it with you, then I'm happy for him." Not wanting their entire conversation to be about whatever trauma Chara supposedly had, Frisk cleared her throat and changed the subject. "Why don't you tell me about yourself? What crime wouldyoucommit if you knew you could get away with it?" "Oh, getting straight to the point with the hard one. I can see why Chara likes you." Frisk hoped her blush wasn't too obvious as Asriel thought about his response. "My answer keeps changing. While I think it would be fun to rob a bank, I don't know if it'd be worth it since one of the guests at our dinner table is the tax man." It took all of Frisk's willpower to choke back a laugh. "Stealing a car for a joyride, though, that would be a blast! Then again, Chara pointed out that speeding and breaking traffic laws would be different crimes, so while I couldn't get arrested for stealing the car, I'm still on the hook for any driving violations I commit." "I agree with his points." "Maybe I could rob a gaming store. Get the latest and greatest games and all. Maybe a brand new console. Of course, going back to legitimately buy a new game I want afterwards is going to be incredibly awkward since all the employees are going to recognize me as the guy who once robbed them. I don't think I would ever be able to show my face there again." "Decisions, decisions." Frisk shook her head. "I can't blame you for being indecisive. Getting away with any crime once leaves room for so many possibilities." "Oh, Prince Asriel," a human woman interrupted, stepping in front of their path. "How are you doing this fine evening?" Asriel swiftly shifted from a typical young man to a sophisticated prince as he responded to the woman. Even though Frisk didn't participate in the conversation – the woman didn't look her way once – she was surprised to find she didn't feel too awkward. It was as if Asriel had eased her into this strange environment, making her feel comfortable before she realized it. After the woman walked away, Asriel was stopped twice more as they tried to reach their destination. The others, both monsters, asked about Frisk. Asriel answered before she could, saying she was Chara's date. Mouth going dry, Frisk tried to keep a smile plastered on her face. She felt like a sham, which she was, and had to remind herself that being the human prince's date was a paid job. Fortunately, there was no fourth interaction. Frisk didn't think she could tolerate the awkwardness of another. Then Asriel waved, and she saw he was getting Chara's attention. The anxiety returned. It just now occurred to her that as his fake date, they would have to do "couple things" to sell the story. She wasn't sure what "couple things" meant, but it was still weird to think about. "Frisk, it's so good to see you," Chara greeted, walking up to meet them halfway. "I'm so sorry I didn't see you come in. I hope this goofball hasn't been sharing any scary stories with you." "I only told her all the embarrassing things you did when you were thirteen," Asriel teased. When Chara looked at her and raised a brow, Frisk said, "Yes, he did. I don't know if I can look at you the same way again." Rolling his eyes, Chara replied, "Well, I'm glad you two seem to get along." "We do, so don't screw this up." Asriel gave Frisk's hand a gentle pat. "If she keeps being this cool, I might insist we keep her around." When Chara held out his hand, Asriel unwrapped her arm around his and passed her to his brother in a courtly manner. Then he was gone. Frisk was alone with Chara, or at least as much as they could be alone in a room full of people. Not knowing what to say, Frisk muttered, "He seems nice." "He is," Chara agreed. "He's the sweet one." The corner of her mouth turning upward, Frisk asked, "What does that make you?" He grinned and answered, "I will leave you to figure that out for yourself." Arm in arm, they walked along the edges of the ball. Unlike Asriel, Chara seemed to avoid anyone who even looked their way. Frisk was sure he was parading her around, but she was grateful to at least avoid further awkward interactions for the time being. "You look beautiful tonight," he then said so smoothly, it took her a moment to realize he was complimenting her. "Thank you." Swallowing, she admitted, "I feel underdressed." Looking around, she saw all the elegant dresses and suits other women, human or monster, wore. She felt like a little girl playing dress up in comparison. They were all so gorgeous, and she was so . . . herself. Then again, Chara did say he merely wanted her to be just that. This was reaffirmed when he said, "Don't worry. I think you're perfect." For the job,Frisk reminded her beating heart. While she enjoyed her arm in his, she was ready for the night to be over. She had never felt like such a fish out of water before. Eventually, Chara leaned over and whispered, "I do have to introduce you to my parents soon. Are you comfortable?" No."I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Let's go." Squeezing her arm, Chara guided her to where his parents were engaged in conversation with two other monsters. His mother Frisk recognized from her Black Friday shopping spree about a month ago, and this was the first time she saw King Asgore in person. The photos of him online did no justice to the king's grandeur. He wasmassive. Tall and broad shouldered, he didn't seem like the "King Fluffybuns" his close friends thought of him. The monsters with whom the royal couple spoke were as different as night from day. A taller one with blue skin and red hair wore a navy suit, and the shorter one had yellow scales and wore a red dress with white polka dots. More so, the first had an air of confidence about her, while the second seemed just as nervous as Frisk. "Undyne, Captain of the Royal Guard," Chara leaned over and whispered in Frisk's ear. "The other is Dr. Alphys, the Royal Scientist." "I think I recognize Dr. Alphys," Frisk whispered back. They stopped a few feet away from the conversing monsters. "Doesn't she teach a class or two at the University?" "Yes, she does. She was a professor even before becoming the Royal Scientist, and she had no desire to give up her job. Mom and Dan sensed she did not want to turn down the honor, so they worked an arrangement with her so she can continue teaching her classes as long as her research is under the kingdom and not the school. During the summer, she focuses on her Royal Scientist duties full-time. This way, she's getting a paycheck yearlong, and her research gets better funding than it ever did at the university." Frisk blinked, surprised at the generosity of the Dreemurrs. "And what does Dr. Alphys specialize in?" "Robotics, mostly, but she is willing to dab into anything we bring to her. Shoot, I think she would try to find the secrets to immortality if we ask her." "And Undyne?" "Like family." Chara smiled as if recalling a fond memory. "She is ten years older than Asriel and me, and she has always been like a cousin to us. Dad specifically trained her, and now she trains me." "Trains you?" Frisk was taken aback. She didn't think the princes had any need to know how to fight. "I might take her place as Captain one day." Chara shrugged. "Or I might become Asriel's advisor when he becomes king. My future is not as decided as his." "What do you want to do?" As if nobody ever asked him this before, he spends a moment thinking about it before answering, "I do not know, really. I like sparring, but I don't know if I could legitimately hurt anyone. I have a good mind for politics, but the subject doesn't interest me much beyond knowing what's necessary." "What do you like to do?" she prompted. Before he could reply, the others noticed them standing there and waved them over. Forcing a smile on her face, Frisk walked alongside Chara as he approached his parents, Captain Undyne, and Dr. Alphys. She feared they would look her up and down as if studying her, but instead they all smiled at her as if greeting an old friend. "So this is the lady, huh?" Undyne smirked, showing a teethy grin. Queen Toriel stepped forward, her paws reaching out to take Frisk's hands. "Greetings, child. I am Toriel, but I suppose you already know that. Welcome to our party! It is such a pleasure to finally meet a friend of Chara's." "The pleasure is all mind," Frisk managed to say after getting over her shock that she was talking tothe queen. "Frisk, right?" King Asgore stepped behind his wife. "Chara has told us so much about you." She hoped her cheeks didn't give away how flushed she felt. "All good things, I hope." Queen Toriel chuckled. "Only wonderful things." What Frisk thought was going to be a brief introduction turned into twenty minutes of conversation. Like with Asriel, her anxiety melted away with the friendliness and acceptance they offered. Even Undyne and Dr. Alphys acted as if she were on equal footing with them. For a moment or two, Frisk feared Chara invented a background for her to make her seem so impressive to those closest to him. Then Queen Toriel surprised her by saying, "I was so caught up in my shopping, I didn't even notice my son wandered off to talk to a girl!" "Mother," Chara spoke between gritted teeth, "must you bring this up?" Either unaware or basking in the moment to embarrass her child, Queen Toriel continued, "How can I not speak of it? When Asriel brought up your talking to an employee on the drive home, you got so quiet and secretive! I just knew right then and there you developed a little crush on this mysterious girl." Frisk wasn't sure who was more uncomfortable – Chara or herself. King Asgore came to the rescue. Putting a massive paw on Queen Toriel's shoulder, he said, "Tori, you're embarrassing them. Let the kids go and have some fun tonight." "Oh, but I want to get to know Frisk!" "There will be time for that later. Right now, I don't think they want to spend the entire night entertaining old people like us." Responding with an unqueenly snort, she turned back to Frisk and said, "If you have any need at all tonight, inform the servants. If they give you trouble, inform them Toriel has promised you all the comforts of the castle." Baffled by the display of kindness, Frisk let go of Chara so she could curtsy. "Thank you greatly, Your Highness." "None of that, child!" Queen Toriel laughed. "Please, just call me Toriel." "And you may call me Asgore." The king extended his hand, and Frisk hesitantly placed hers on top of his. Kissing the back of her hand, he dropped her hand and said, "You two go and have fun. It was a pleasure meeting you, Frisk." Undyne and Dr. Alphys offered their own farewells, and before Frisk knew it, Chara was whisking her away. She felt as if she could breathe again. The worst was over. "Your parents seem nice," she told him. What Toriel had said about Chara having a crush lingered in the back of her mind, but she chose to keep it to herself. "They are," he agreed, "but I apologize for how forward Mom is. I should have warned you." "She was lovely," Frisk said because it seemed safer than agreeing. Then, knowing she couldn't avoid it, "Is there anyone else you must introduce me to?" "Nobody I will approach, but it is a different situation if they approach me." Chara frowned. "I don't typically interact with anyone at these events, so it will not be unusual to keep to ourselves for the night. However, I cannot be rude if anyone wishes to open discussion with me." "Do they typically want to talk to you?" "Not really, except lately on potential marriage proposals." "That's why I'm here." To her own surprise, her spirits dropped at the reminder. "Between you and me," he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, "you are much better company than anyone else here." It was enough to raise Frisk's spirits. Before long, humans and monsters alike came to greet them. Like Asriel, Chara had a switch in which he went from just a normal young man to a prince. His posture was poise and his manners graceful. Whenever they asked about her, he answered that she was his date. Some showed excitement at the idea of Chara being happy with someone, but a few did show their disapproval. One human, Lord Something-or-Another, had the nerve to ask, "And whose child are you?" "I'm an orphan," she answered, hoping some shame would wash over him. She was shocked and disgusted by what he asked next. "And what assets did they leave you?" Generational trauma. Before Chara could interject, she calmly but sternly answered, "That is not an appropriate question for tonight's festivities." "Darling, this is just typical conversation," the man insisted. "When we have an eligible human prince, we're all looking at the assets of his potential bride." "You know I am currently uninterested in marriage," Chara cut in, his princely manners slipping. "Besides, I had other reasons for rejecting your daughter." "A mistake, I assure you." The man straightened himself, but he still stood shorter than Chara. Frisk couldn't believe the audacity of this guy. "My family has generations of well and proper breeding. As for this girl? I would hope you are not settling for a pauper?" "Breeding means nothing when character is lacking," Frisk stated, her anger swirling in her chest. "I may be poor and not from a dignified family, but I am hard working, kind, and persistent. I may not know your daughter, but if her greatest achievement is simply being born into your family, then I can see why Chara would turn her down." While Chara sounded like he choked something back, the man's face turned into a deep shade of red. Her heart skipped a beat as she wondered if she went too far. Swallowing, she decided to maintain her composure and worry about the consequences once he walked away. Which he did. Without so much as a farewell, he turned and left. Once he was no longer withing earshot, Frisk felt her knees go weak. "Should I have kept my mouth shut?" she whispered as they also walked away. "No, that was great," he replied as softly. "You are not afraid to say what's on your mind. I like that about you." If her face and neck burned before, they went into flames when he added, "Besides, I think what really got him was your not calling me 'Prince Chara.'" Her heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry. I didn't consider using your proper title." "Please, do not," he insisted. "I like your speaking of me as if I'm a friend." Not knowing how to respond, Frisk quietly let him guide her through the night. Sticking to Chara's side, she savored the food placed on a buffet table and enjoyed the punch. They stood with their plates in hand and talked while they ate. At first, their conversations were lighthearted. The topics bounced from the kinds of books they liked to read, their pastimes and hobbies, and their favorite Christmas memory. "When I was fourteen," Chara was telling her, "Mom and Dad surprised Azzy and me with a trip to an underground cavern. Inside was a river flowing as far as the eye could see, and there was even a waterfall! However, the best part was the echo flowers. Are you familiar with them?" Frisk pursed her lips. "Aren't they those pretty blue ones that repeat everything they hear?" "The exact ones." "I always wanted to see them in person. Every time I see a picture, they look too beautiful to be real." "Perhaps I can show you some day." Breath catching in her throat, she tried not to react.He's just saying that to be nice,she told herself.After tonight, we won't be seeing each other again. "What you about?" "I'm sorry?" "What's your favorite Christmas memory?" "Oh, um," she bit her lower lip, "it's a recent memory, so I don't think it counts." "A favorite memory doesn't have to be from your childhood to count," he told her. "It's a favorite memory for a reason." "Well then," she sighed, "last year, when I first started rooming with Alice and Mon, Alice's mom, Ms. Beatrix, came over with her sister Ms. Honey. Mon went home to spend the holiday with her parents and little sister, so it was just the four of us. I had planned to spend all day hiding in my room as to not interfere with their Christmas, but . . ." Frisk blinked back the tears building in her eyes. Even now, she was still touched by that day. "I don't want to get too emotional, but Ms. Beatrix was so kind to me that day. She encouraged me to spend time with them, baking cookies and watching sappy Christmas movies. When it came time to exchange gifts, she and Ms. Honey each gave me one! Ms. Honey gave me a plate of desserts, but Ms. Beatrix gave me a sweater. A hand knit sweater! She has asked Alice to figure out my size all the way back during the summer so she could custom make a sweater for me." Realizing she started crying, she wiped her eyes and apologized. "You have no reason to be sorry," Chara soothed. "It is a touching story. I can see why it would be a favorite." She wanted to change the subject, but she was at a loss. Eyes scanning the ballroom, she saw the party was far from over. While she didn't want her time with Chara to end, she dreaded how long the party seemed to drag. "Would you like to dance?" he asked upon noticing her staring what must appear longingly at the dancefloor. "I, uh, can't," she sheepishly answered. "I can." Reclaiming her arm, he said, "Trust me. I promise it will be fine." He is paying me $5,000. I don't think I have the right to say no even if I wanted to. Leading her to the edge of the dancefloor, Chara softly instructed where she were to put her arms. One rested on his shoulder, and he held the other. His free hand wrapped around her waist – she hoped he didn't see how hot her face got. "Now," he whispered as if sharing a secret, "stand on my feet." She was sure she heard him wrong. "Excuse me?" "I'm wearing steel-toed shoes. I won't feel a thing." When she hesitated, he added, "Don't worry, this will be fun." Seeing no reason to argue, Frisk slowly stepped onto his feet. She held her hands in position as Chara began to fall into a rhythm. With her feet on his, she felt as if she floated on air. "Are you having fun?" he asked, moving slowly so she wouldn't lose balance. "More than I want to admit," she answered. While standing on his toes, they were closer in height. She didn't know where else to look, so she kept her gaze locked with his. For the next two or three songs, they kept this up. "You're a fabulous dancer," Frisk said, both her arms now draped around his neck. "I would hope so after all those ballroom dance lessons," he replied. "Let me guess: part of the mandatory curriculum for royals?" "Pretty much. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be to host a ball and not know how to ballroom dance?" She gasped in mock horror. "Scandalous!" "Mom would agree." When the last song ended, Chara asked, "Do you mind stepping away from the party? I need a break from this crowd." "I don't mind," she answered, stepping off his toes. "Other than you and Asriel, I don't know anyone here. Normally I'm good at making friends, but I think I'm way out of my element." "Nonsense. You fit right in." They linked arms, and he led her away. "No discrimination is allowed at the castle. Under this roof, we are all friends." "Even if you don't like someone?" "Especiallyif you do not like someone." They left the ballroom and walked down the hall. Stopping a room over, Frisk didn't wait for an invitation before she beelined towards the chair and dropped into it. Her kitten heels already started to rub her heels raw. "This is where I hide out when I need a break from a party," Chara said, leaving the door open as he leaned against the wall. She studied the room. It was about the size of her bedroom at the apartment, and the walls were covered with bookshelves filled to the brim. There was a desk in the middle with a chair on either side – she sat in one of them. The walls were a lovely shade of lime, and the wooden floors were so polished she could see her reflection. "Whose room is this?" she wondered aloud. "Technically the whole family's," he answered. "I use this room the most, however. During the day, the sunlight shines through that window just right, and it's the perfect lighting for painting." "You paint?" He nodded. "I also sketch, use charcoal, and occasionally dabble into forming clay models, but I'm not as good at that last one." Opening her mouth to ask to see some of his art, Frisk thought better of it. The request was almost too personal. She didn't think she had the right to know. Instead, she opted to ask, "Have you considered becoming an artist?" "Of course," he answered. She could hear the unspoken "but." "Why are you undecided?" After waiting so long for a response, she didn't think she was going to get one. Then he shrugged and said, "Guilt, mostly. I am sure you are familiar with the term 'starving artist.' Well, that will never be a problem with me. No matter how well or how poorly I do, I will always have more than enough to live comfortably. "You see, Frisk . . . our stories are not so different. I don't like talking about my life before the Dreemurrs, but I will admit to having spent time being bounced around as if everyone who acquired me could not wait to get rid of me. Relatives, friends of my parents, eventually complete strangers – I changed homes so frequently I learned to stop unpacking. "Before long, I ran away. I was homeless for a while. That's the situation Asriel found me. He brought me to his parents. They took me in, but I already prepared my heart to be sent away again. I didn't get attached, or at least I tried not to. Asriel has a way of making everyone fall in love with him. I was no exception." Chara wore a small smile at this, and Frisk couldn't help but smile along. "It didn't take long for the king and queen to discover who I was and that my parents were no longer suitable guardians," he continued. "They asked if I wanted to stay with them, and even though I anticipated their changing their minds later, I said yes. Except it's been fifteen years since that day, and I don't think they plan on changing their minds anytime soon. "That . . . is why I feel guilty about pursuing art. Why have I been blessed with such privilege when someone like you has to work so hard just to survive? It is not fair or right." "I'm not envious of you, if that's any comfort," Frisk said after a moment when she realized he was done telling his story. "I think if you have the opportunity to pursue something you love, you shouldn't deny yourself." "I know you are right, but I still feel as if because I was adopted into royalty, I must dedicate my life to the service of the crown. Not that the thought upsets me – I love Asriel deeply and want to see him succeed as king one day – but I cannot believe that my life is still mine." Rising from the chair, Frisk slowly walked toward Chara. Despite her heart pounding in her chest, she reached out and slipped her hand in his. She held on tightly as she said, "Your life is nobody's but your own. If you want to serve the crown, great. If you want nothing to do with royalty, that is just as legitimate. If you try to balance the two, that's also fine. Only you get to decide what the right path is. Otherwise, you're going to wake up thirty years from now and realize you wasted your life by living it for someone else. Maybe it's just me, but I'd rather feel guilty now than resentment later." For a moment, he said nothing. She started to fear she overstepped the boundaries, but then he squeezed her fingers. It took another minute before he replied. "Thank you, Frisk, for listening and being compassionate. You are a good friend." If I'm such a good friend, then I shouldn't be getting paid.The thought convicting her, Frisk took a deep breath and said, "I . . . I don't want the money anymore." Chara raised his brows and looked at her as if she just said she wanted to fight Undyne with nothing but a tutu for armor. "But I hired you for tonight. You must receive compensation for your work." "I can't, or at least not in good conscience." "Why not?" Suddenly too ashamed to look at him, Frisk studied her shoes as she said, "I kind of like you, and I want to be friends with you, but I can't be your friend if you're paying me. It wouldn't feel genuine. I . . . I'll give the $1,000 back. Anything that means we can see each other again, and just hang out because we want to. Unless . . . you don't want to." He was silent for more than a moment. Then, "Do you know why I requested your presence for tonight?" "To keep people like that lord from harassing you?" This brought a small smile to his face. "Yes, but . . . I also wanted to get to know you, but I didn't know if you would treat me any differently upon learning who I am. I feared thinking I found a friend, only for those genuine interactions to go away once you realized there is a crown attached. It is why I asked you the way I did: So that if I found your company to be different from what I expected, it was only a job, and we can move on after this." Almost scared to ask, she uttered, "And how did tonight go?" He squeezed her hand again. "This has been the most fun I have had at a Christmas party since I was a kid." "Really?" She tried not to snort. "We didn't really do anything." "I do not need much to be happy. Simply enjoying the company of my friends and family is enough for me." Unsure what to say, she clung to his hand. She didn't have it in her to ask if he thought of her as a friend. While the signs said yes, she feared he would say no. After a moment, he offered, "Would you like to see some of my work?" "Yes, please." Without letting go of her hand, he led her outside of the room. He indicated the paintings hanging on the wall along the way and said, "These are mine." "They're beautiful." There were paintings of sunsets on beaches, rivers flowing through forests, and cabins on farmlands. The largest one was a portrait of the king, queen, and crown prince. Chara painted their fur so realistically, Frisk almost believed if she reached out, she would run her fingers across soft strands. "You're not in this one." "I don't like drawing myself." He said it almost sadly, like he didn't want to leave any evidence that he existed. Rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand, she muttered, "You're really talented. Do you like to paint?" "I love it." "Then you should pursue it, even if it's just a hobby. It would be a shame to let such a talent go to waste." "You really like it?" "Yes." "May I draw you?" Flattered, she almost struggled to say, "Yes." Going back to the room, Chara retrieved a sketchbook and a pencil, and they sat across from each other. He instructed her how to sit and told her to remain still. "I'm only going to do a sketch from the neck up, so this shouldn't take as long." "Can I talk?" she asked after ten minutes. She watched him as intently as she was sure he watched her. Studying him, she saw how focused he was, hand steady and eyes narrowed as they shifted between her and paper. "As long as you hold your posture," he answered, gaze locked onto the page. Careful not to move, she said, "I understand not knowing what to do with my life. I said so as much when we met at the café, right? Anyway, I'm the opposite of you. Instead of options I can't decide among, I have nothing. I want to do something with my life, but I don't know what that something is." "Is there anything you like to do? Or, is there something you liked to do as a kid you still care about?" She had to think for a moment before she replied, "I like making friends and helping them with their problems. Now, I don't know how I can transfer that into a career, but . . ." "You could be an ambassador," Chara suggested. "I do not know if that's too political for your tastes, but it would be your responsibility to represent the kingdom and maintain foreign relations." Trying not to laugh, Frisk replied, "I don't know if I have it in me to take up such a responsibility." "I will never ask you to do anything you do not want to do," he said slowly, "but if you are interested, I can always bring you along to such a meeting." "Will that be all right?" "I do not know, but if you and I are going to be a couple, I do not see why you should be excluded." "Do you need me to keep being your date for show?" "Or for real." Unable to stop herself from sucking in a sharp breath, Frisk felt her whole body overheat. He looked up gradually, his already rosy cheeks burning. The pieces she refused to put together finally fell into place. "I think you should take me on a date first," she replied when she saw he awaited an answer. "Not a party, but something more private." Chara grinned. "How does the café sound?" "Like a grand idea. Same one as before?" "Of course. When will you be available next?" "I'll need to double check my schedule, but I'll call you." Both smiled at each other, and without another word, the quietly resumed what they were doing. Frisk was certain the room suddenly got hotter because both she and Chara were noticeably flushed. Every time their eyes met, they looked away, bashful. "I still want to give you the money back," Frisk insisted. "Keep it." "I can't." "Consider it a Christmas present." "I didn't get anything for you." "It's a gift, not an exchange." "But the deal was I did something to earn the money." "Then pretend it's compensation for letting me draw you." "Are you going to really insist I keep a thousand dollars?" "You can look around my home and know that's pocket change for me. I'm not going to miss it, but if it helps you feel better, you can get me a hot chocolate and banana nut muffin at the café." "Deal, but only because I feel like your determination matches mine." "There's a lot of stupid banter in our future, is there not?" "If we keep each other around, most definitely." They grinned. It wasn't long later Chara stood, approached, and handed the sketchbook to her. "It's only a rough sketch right now. I will finish the rest later." "I only believe you drew this because I watched you do it." Frisk's heart skipped a beat at the portrait. She was so lifelike on the page, she was surprised how moments ago it didn't exist. "If you struggle to believe it now, you certainly will when I finish it." He offered his arm. "We probably need to return to the party. I think it has been long enough." "You're right, but I wish you weren't." Gently setting the sketchbook on the desk, she accepted Chara's hand and stood to her feet. Their arms once again linked, her heart fluttered at the close contact with the boy she didn't expect to like so much, Filled with a courage she didn't know she had, she leaned over and brushed her lips against his cheek. This stunned him into stopping, his firm stance jerking her back as she kept going. Immediately, she feared she crossed the line. "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed. "That was inappropriate of me." "No, actually . . . ," he shook his head, unable to look in her direction, "I would . . . like to . . ." The rest was too muffled for her to make out. "What did you say?" she prompted, uncertain what to expect. Taking a deep breath, he look her in the eyes and said, "I would like to kiss you, if that is all right." A cute guy, who was super respectful, was incredibly sweet, and really loved his family wanted to kiss her. It sounded too good to be true. If this was all a dream, Frisk did not want to wake up. "I thought you would never ask." Her heart raced. She had never kissed anyone before. Suddenly, she was hyperaware of the garlic and onions on some of the foods she snacked on earlier. They leaned closer, hesitant and careful. He was just as nervous as she was. It made her want to kiss him more. "Hey, Chara, are you in here? Oh—hey!" Before their lips could so much as brush, Frisk and Chara pulled away to see Asriel standing in the doorway. Blushing through his white fur, he scratched the back of his head and said, "Sorry! Um, Chara, Mom wanted me to let you know that Frisk is invited over for dinner tomorrow. It'd be just the five of us. She wanted something more casual to get to know Frisk. Uh . . . Let me know your answer before you leave tonight, Frisk!" With that, he sped away as if he had walked in on something more intense than a kiss attempt. "That was something," Chara said after a moment, clearly not used to his brother acting in such a way. "I can do dinner," Frisk added after a moment more, "but only if it's not an early dinner. I'm spending the day with Alice and her family." "I will let Mom know. She will be happy to work something out so you can come. We can finish your portrait then." Scratching the back of his neck, he said, "I suppose we should get back to the party now, huh?" Thinking about the almost kiss, Frisk replied, "Yes, we should." They walked arm-in-arm back to the ballroom. She mentally prepared to feel awkward again, but this time she was ready. While she wasn't getting $5,000 anymore, she knew what she received instead was so much better.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75552911	{"authors": ["Fantastical_Chaos"], "language": "English", "title": "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year"}
Tatsumi's New Hair They said they should be in one of the cupboards…There it is! Tsukasa and Kohaku got some holiday themed sweets for the group to try for their next meeting. HiMERU has to pass by the kitchen on his way to their meeting, so he offered to pick them up on his way. He places the cookies into his tote bag and begins to make his way out of the kitchen- “Ah, HiMERU-san ♪“ A long haired Tatsumi enters the kitchen, causing HiMERU to freeze in his tracks. “HiMERU-san, what’s wrong?” “Your hair…” HiMERU analyzes the minty haired boy’s new look with confusion plastered on his face. “Oh! It’s different, right? It’s my turn for another Feature Live. Producer-san came to me with the idea of having long hair. Apparently a lot of fans were curious what I’d look like. What do you think about it?” “It’s…” HiMERU searches his mind for the right answer. Objectively, Tatsumi looks good with his new hairstyle. His long locks frame his face nicely. It’s just…It also reminds him of something. “It’s an interesting choice.” Tatsumi’s smile drops a bit. “That was a vague answer. Can’t say I was expecting that.” “HiMERU didn’t think you’d grow out your hair again is all. Especially seeing what place in life you were at last time you had long hair.” Tatsumi widens his eyes at HiMERU’s words. “It’s true that the last time my hair was long, it wasn’t the…best. But that just means I get to change what comes to mind when I’m seen with long hair. Instead of Reimei’s “God,” I can be Tatsumi Kazehaya of Alkaloid!” The way Tatsumi can just move on from the topic of his past at Reimei so fast annoys HiMERU. In the past it would’ve made him sick, even angry. Now, it just makes him wish he could do the same. To be able to reflect on that time as just a hardship that can be forgotten and laughed at. “HiMERU-san? Is everything ok?” “HiMERU is fine. Why?” “You keep staring at me. Is it my hair? Don’t worry, it’s only extensions. It’ll be back to normal in about a week!” “HiMERU is well aware that you have extensions in. It would be impossible for your hair to grow that much in such a short time span. HiMERU is just trying to get used to your new look is all. He doesn’t have a problem with it.” Tatsumi looks at HiMERU with his usual endearing expression. The one HiMERU has learned to mean that he’s about to say something stupid. “What?” “So you do like how I look with this hair ♪” HiMERU is taken aback. He was expecting him to say something stupid, and sure enough, it was. However, the way he titled his head, causing him to brush some of the falling locks back with his hand. The way he spoke with a noticeably warmer tone. HiMERU didn’t want to admit it, but it caused his heart rate to raise a bit. Increasing more once he realizes his face is starting to warm up too. He clears his throat before speaking again. “HiMERU doesn’t recall ever saying you looked bad. However, keep trying to fish for compliments and he might change his mind.” Tatsumi lets out a soft laugh. “Didn’t mean for it to come off that way. I just thought it would be nice to have your opinion!” “And why should HiMERU’s opinion matter to you?” “Well for one, you’re my friend, and I hold all my friends thoughts in high regard. But most of all, if one of ES’s most handsome idols thinks my new look is nice, then that means I must be doing something right!” “Most handsome idol?” “Aira-san mentioned it. Apparently there’s a forum of some sort and your name pops up a lot. I can see why ♪“ Once again HiMERU can feel his cheeks rise in temperature, and with that, he takes it as his cue to leave. “Well HiMERU is glad his words were helpful, but he should get going now. HiMERU has a club meeting to attend.” “Of course! It would be bad if I kept you while you have people waiting on your arrival. Hopefully next time we talk it’ll be you preparing for a Feature Live! I’d be more than happy to give you my thoughts on your look!” “HiMERU is sure you will.” HiMERU lazily waves at Tatsumi as he leaves the kitchen. As he makes his way to his club meeting, all he can think about is Tatsumi’s new hairstyle. He looks really good.	Tatsumi's New Hair They said they should be in one of the cupboards…There it is! Tsukasa and Kohaku got some holiday themed sweets for the group to try for their next meeting. HiMERU has to pass by the kitchen on his way to their meeting, so he offered to pick them up on his way. He places the cookies into his tote bag and begins to make his way out of the kitchen- “Ah, HiMERU-san ♪“ A long haired Tatsumi enters the kitchen, causing HiMERU to freeze in his tracks. “HiMERU-san, what’s wrong?” “Your hair…” HiMERU analyzes the minty haired boy’s new look with confusion plastered on his face. “Oh! It’s different, right? It’s my turn for another Feature Live. Producer-san came to me with the idea of having long hair. Apparently a lot of fans were curious what I’d look like. What do you think about it?” “It’s…” HiMERU searches his mind for the right answer. Objectively, Tatsumi looks good with his new hairstyle. His long locks frame his face nicely. It’s just…It also reminds him of something. “It’s an interesting choice.” Tatsumi’s smile drops a bit. “That was a vague answer. Can’t say I was expecting that.” “HiMERU didn’t think you’d grow out your hair again is all. Especially seeing what place in life you were at last time you had long hair.” Tatsumi widens his eyes at HiMERU’s words. “It’s true that the last time my hair was long, it wasn’t the…best. But that just means I get to change what comes to mind when I’m seen with long hair. Instead of Reimei’s “God,” I can be Tatsumi Kazehaya of Alkaloid!” The way Tatsumi can just move on from the topic of his past at Reimei so fast annoys HiMERU. In the past it would’ve made him sick, even angry. Now, it just makes him wish he could do the same. To be able to reflect on that time as just a hardship that can be forgotten and laughed at. “HiMERU-san? Is everything ok?” “HiMERU is fine. Why?” “You keep staring at me. Is it my hair? Don’t worry, it’s only extensions. It’ll be back to normal in about a week!” “HiMERU is well aware that you have extensions in. It would be impossible for your hair to grow that much in such a short time span. HiMERU is just trying to get used to your new look is all. He doesn’t have a problem with it.” Tatsumi looks at HiMERU with his usual endearing expression. The one HiMERU has learned to mean that he’s about to say something stupid. “What?” “So you do like how I look with this hair ♪” HiMERU is taken aback. He was expecting him to say something stupid, and sure enough, it was. However, the way he titled his head, causing him to brush some of the falling locks back with his hand. The way he spoke with a noticeably warmer tone. HiMERU didn’t want to admit it, but it caused his heart rate to raise a bit. Increasing more once he realizes his face is starting to warm up too. He clears his throat before speaking again. “HiMERU doesn’t recall ever saying you looked bad. However, keep trying to fish for compliments and he might change his mind.” Tatsumi lets out a soft laugh. “Didn’t mean for it to come off that way. I just thought it would be nice to have your opinion!” “And why should HiMERU’s opinion matter to you?” “Well for one, you’re my friend, and I hold all my friends thoughts in high regard. But most of all, if one of ES’s most handsome idols thinks my new look is nice, then that means I must be doing something right!” “Most handsome idol?” “Aira-san mentioned it. Apparently there’s a forum of some sort and your name pops up a lot. I can see why ♪“ Once again HiMERU can feel his cheeks rise in temperature, and with that, he takes it as his cue to leave. “Well HiMERU is glad his words were helpful, but he should get going now. HiMERU has a club meeting to attend.” “Of course! It would be bad if I kept you while you have people waiting on your arrival. Hopefully next time we talk it’ll be you preparing for a Feature Live! I’d be more than happy to give you my thoughts on your look!” “HiMERU is sure you will.” HiMERU lazily waves at Tatsumi as he leaves the kitchen. As he makes his way to his club meeting, all he can think about is Tatsumi’s new hairstyle. He looks really good.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75552921	{"authors": ["MoonBrightStars"], "language": "English", "title": "Tatsumi's New Hair"}
lotion Closing shifts always ended the same way, a sad, gloomy taste to it. Quieter, stripped of its warmth, the air still carrying the aromatic last traces of sugar and heat. And the two of you working in quiet sync. You enjoy nights like these though, hoping to spend time with him a bit longer. Yet, the advantages of routines are so unnoticeable between you two. You were finishing the last tray and getting ready to finish making a strawberry cupcake. when he came back from the walk in fridge, rolling up his sleeves. A smear of flour dusted his forearm. He didnt seem to notice. "You still here?" he asked while raising a brow. Not accusing or anything. More like he was glad for the extra company. At least it sounded like it. You let out a light chuckle and pick up the small white box on the counter. Leaning on the counter, you look down at the box in your hand, then up at him. "Cupcake," you said. "There was leftover batter, figured id whip you up something real quick". He gave a tired, yet genuine, smile. He always accepted anything you made. It was one of the many reasons this was easy. He took and opened the box and paused for a moment. The single cupcake sat in the center, simple, neatly frosted with vanilla. No decoration, really. Nothing too flashy. You know he liked things plain. "Looks good," he said, and took a bite without hesitation. You didn't watch him eat the whole thing. You didn't need to. You'd already memorized the timing. But… you can't help but take a glance at him licking frosting off his fingers, the corners of his mouth. It was adorable. "Delicious," he moans out. "Thank you, y/n. Seriously, today kicked my ass." He chuckles. "No problem suguru," you said as you threw something in the trash can beside him, as if nothing depended on that very moment. "Hmm. You should start taking breaks more often, you always overwork yourself. You dont have to stress yourself out like that." Shit, why did you say that? Who are you, his mom? "I know. I just… get a little too caught up on the other guys. Like what if they mess up something while im not here, yknow?" He lets out a sigh. "I'll take your advice, though. I dont want you to worry about me, y/n." He flashes a smile. You returned with a weak smile. That actually went… well? You thought he would be defensive. No, he's not the type to react that way, you guess. You're just tired. The store lights buzzed faintly overhead. The night outside settled deeply, pressing faint shadows of the street lights against the glass. Time moved the way it does when people are tired. By the time everything was closed and the last lock slid in place, you guys had already clocked out. You grabbed your bags, and he did what he always did. "I'll walk you home," he said almost automatically. As if it weren't a decision at aall.Not like you would say no anyway. The air outside was cool and damp, the breeze chillingly kissing both of your faces. The city was quieter than usual, probably because it's a late wednesday night. You guys dont really say anything when walking together. One thing about you two that he liked is that you both enjoy silence without it being awkward. He walked half a step ahead, hands deep in his pockets. His shoulders rose and fell with a slow rhythm. You quickly notice his stumbling steps. He cleared his throat once, softly. Then the next one was rougher. "You good?" you asked. He nodded. Though it was slower than usual. By time you reached your house, his steps were uneven. There was a moment. Brief, fragile, where he lookedat you, confusingly as if trying to piece something together. Like his mind was slippinng. You turn to him with the fakest concern ever. "Hey," he muttered, running a hand through his long locks. "Fuck… I dont— im just… tired." Exactly on time. You place a hand on the side of his shoulder, "Suguru, you sure you're okay?" You say as you unlock the door. "You can rest here at my place for the night until—" "Thanks, but you know I-" he coughs into his hand. You softly pat his shoulder. "Look, it's fine. By the looks of it, you probably caught a cold. It'll be too chilly out to walk and wait at the bus stop to get home anyway. Please," you plead while half a step through the door. He looks at you with teary eyes from the wind and follows you inside. You wonder if he noticed. And if he did, he shouldn't. When he weakly closes the door behind him, he collapses. Not dramatic, just a soft, heavy drop, like his body decided it had nothing left to hold onto. You swiftly catch his fall and drag his body downstairs. For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the old freezer downstairs. You stood over his stiff body in the dim light. His breathing was somewhat shaky, but calming to look at. He stared at you with half lidded eyes. This wasn't the moment for triumph, however. This was preparation. You knelt besides him, brushing his hair out of his face in a gesture you practiced so many times in your head. "Don't worry,	lotion Closing shifts always ended the same way, a sad, gloomy taste to it. Quieter, stripped of its warmth, the air still carrying the aromatic last traces of sugar and heat. And the two of you working in quiet sync. You enjoy nights like these though, hoping to spend time with him a bit longer. Yet, the advantages of routines are so unnoticeable between you two. You were finishing the last tray and getting ready to finish making a strawberry cupcake. when he came back from the walk in fridge, rolling up his sleeves. A smear of flour dusted his forearm. He didnt seem to notice. "You still here?" he asked while raising a brow. Not accusing or anything. More like he was glad for the extra company. At least it sounded like it. You let out a light chuckle and pick up the small white box on the counter. Leaning on the counter, you look down at the box in your hand, then up at him. "Cupcake," you said. "There was leftover batter, figured id whip you up something real quick". He gave a tired, yet genuine, smile. He always accepted anything you made. It was one of the many reasons this was easy. He took and opened the box and paused for a moment. The single cupcake sat in the center, simple, neatly frosted with vanilla. No decoration, really. Nothing too flashy. You know he liked things plain. "Looks good," he said, and took a bite without hesitation. You didn't watch him eat the whole thing. You didn't need to. You'd already memorized the timing. But… you can't help but take a glance at him licking frosting off his fingers, the corners of his mouth. It was adorable. "Delicious," he moans out. "Thank you, y/n. Seriously, today kicked my ass." He chuckles. "No problem suguru," you said as you threw something in the trash can beside him, as if nothing depended on that very moment. "Hmm. You should start taking breaks more often, you always overwork yourself. You dont have to stress yourself out like that." Shit, why did you say that? Who are you, his mom? "I know. I just… get a little too caught up on the other guys. Like what if they mess up something while im not here, yknow?" He lets out a sigh. "I'll take your advice, though. I dont want you to worry about me, y/n." He flashes a smile. You returned with a weak smile. That actually went… well? You thought he would be defensive. No, he's not the type to react that way, you guess. You're just tired. The store lights buzzed faintly overhead. The night outside settled deeply, pressing faint shadows of the street lights against the glass. Time moved the way it does when people are tired. By the time everything was closed and the last lock slid in place, you guys had already clocked out. You grabbed your bags, and he did what he always did. "I'll walk you home," he said almost automatically. As if it weren't a decision at aall.Not like you would say no anyway. The air outside was cool and damp, the breeze chillingly kissing both of your faces. The city was quieter than usual, probably because it's a late wednesday night. You guys dont really say anything when walking together. One thing about you two that he liked is that you both enjoy silence without it being awkward. He walked half a step ahead, hands deep in his pockets. His shoulders rose and fell with a slow rhythm. You quickly notice his stumbling steps. He cleared his throat once, softly. Then the next one was rougher. "You good?" you asked. He nodded. Though it was slower than usual. By time you reached your house, his steps were uneven. There was a moment. Brief, fragile, where he lookedat you, confusingly as if trying to piece something together. Like his mind was slippinng. You turn to him with the fakest concern ever. "Hey," he muttered, running a hand through his long locks. "Fuck… I dont— im just… tired." Exactly on time. You place a hand on the side of his shoulder, "Suguru, you sure you're okay?" You say as you unlock the door. "You can rest here at my place for the night until—" "Thanks, but you know I-" he coughs into his hand. You softly pat his shoulder. "Look, it's fine. By the looks of it, you probably caught a cold. It'll be too chilly out to walk and wait at the bus stop to get home anyway. Please," you plead while half a step through the door. He looks at you with teary eyes from the wind and follows you inside. You wonder if he noticed. And if he did, he shouldn't. When he weakly closes the door behind him, he collapses. Not dramatic, just a soft, heavy drop, like his body decided it had nothing left to hold onto. You swiftly catch his fall and drag his body downstairs. For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the old freezer downstairs. You stood over his stiff body in the dim light. His breathing was somewhat shaky, but calming to look at. He stared at you with half lidded eyes. This wasn't the moment for triumph, however. This was preparation. You knelt besides him, brushing his hair out of his face in a gesture you practiced so many times in your head. "Don't worry," you murmured. You rolled him over to his back, facing the ceiling, and took hold of his wrists and cuffed them. He didn't resist. He couldn't.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75552931	{"authors": ["Toenailmeat"], "language": "English", "title": "lotion"}
Toast to Freedom “If there are any objections as to why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.” Daisy’s eyes sparkled with excitement. The crowd shuffled in their seats. Bertie’s heart sunk. Suddenly, the church doors flew open with such drama as could only be from a movie. “I object!” A familiar voice rang out. Every eye turned to see the Valet as he strolled down the aisle. The minister fumbled with the rope in his hands. “O- on what grounds do you object?” Jeeves continued his stride until he stopped in front of the couple. Bertram was practically beaming, and Daisy was looking back and forth between the two of them. Finally, Jeeves spoke. “It is rather simple, your honor. These two should not get married because Mr. Wooster does not wish it.” The Minister exchanged a disdained look with the bride. “Is this true, Mr. Wooster?” he questioned. Bertram heaved a great sigh, looked at the ground for a moment, then returned his gaze to his bride-to-be with a pained smile. “Daisy, darling, you are a lovely woman,” he started, raising their clutched hands, “but the fact is, this is all a misunderstanding. I have no desire to be a married man.” Daisy’s lips trembled, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Yo-you mean you don’t love me?” Wooster’s heart broke a little as a tear rolled down her cheek. Jeeves procured a handkerchief, and Bertie used it to gently wipe away the tear. “I wish you all the love and happiness, Daisy. I just can’t be the one to give it.” Daisy stepped back and wailed. Guests began to stand and shout. Jeeves and Wooster caught each others’ eye— two brains with one thought: Run. They walked, then ran down the aisle. Guests grabbed at them, so they hooked arms to stay together as they made their escape. Someone tried to close the doors, but Jeeves rose up threateningly, and they were able to break through. Now out of the church, they continued running towards the car, still arm in arm. They leapt in, started it up, and drove off. The “Just Married!” cans tied to the back of the car rattled behind them. “Best not go home, Jeeves,” Bertie said, “it’s sure to soon be overrun with angry aunts and former future in-laws.” Jeeves nodded. “That would be wise, sir.” He glanced at Bertie, who was still clutching his arm, but said nothing. Bertie noticed, he always does. “Oh, sorry Jeeves. Do you mind if I hang on a bit more? My life just flashed before my eyes back there. I need a moment to calm the nerves.” Jeeves returned his focus to the road. “Not a problem, sir.” Bertie sighed in relief and pressed himself further into his Valet’s arm. It was warm and strong, and the stability did much to make him feel better. Jeeves’ heart fluttered at this, but he betrayed no sign of it. He was not one to reveal his deeper emotions— not while he was working, anyway. It was difficult, though. After about twenty minutes, Bertie was falling asleep on his arm. He allowed himself a soft glance. It was dusk when the car finally parked and Bertie stirred awake. He realized the position he was in and chuckled out of embarrassment. “Sorry, Jeeves. I hope I didn’t drool on you.” Jeeves, surprisingly, gave a fond little smile. “Do not dwell on it, sir.” Bertie looked around. “Where are we, anyway?” “A bed and breakfast in the country, owned by my cousin. I do not suppose people will know to look for us here. We have time to ‘rest and recuperate’, one could say.” Bertie smiled. “Yes! Rest and recuperate. Sounds like just what the doctor ordered!” Jeeves smiled. “Quite.” They got settled, and Bertram now sat on the bed in his room. “Jeeves, why don’t you have your cousin bring up a couple of whiskeys? I think I need that tonight, and I don’t want to leave you out of it, if you care to join.” “That is most kind of you, sir.” Jeeves paused, considering. “I think I shall join you.” Jeeves left momentarily, and when he returned, he bore a tray with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Bertram’s eyes bulged in surprise. “A whole bottle, Jeeves?” Jeeves uncorked it and poured two glasses. “One may justly indulge after all the abuse one has suffered over the past month, I should think,” Jeeves justified. He sat across from Bertram on the room’s armchair and extended the tray. Bertram grinned, reaching for the glass. “You positively enable me, Jeeves. Thank you. Toast to freedom, ey?” They clinked glasses. “To freedom.” They both downed the whiskey. They poured seconds and nursed them in silence for a few minutes. Bertie caught a look in Jeeves’s eye. “What is it, Jeeves?” Jeeves hesitated. “Permission to speak candidly, sir?” Bertram nodded. “Of course.” Jeeves coughed, slightly guiltily, and said, “Well, sir, there is something I don’t quite understand.” “Yes?” “Since you did not desire to marry Daisy, how did it get so far as the altar? What made you unable to call off the engagement before that point? It is something that has often vexed me over the years, that you feel you have no say in the	Toast to Freedom “If there are any objections as to why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.” Daisy’s eyes sparkled with excitement. The crowd shuffled in their seats. Bertie’s heart sunk. Suddenly, the church doors flew open with such drama as could only be from a movie. “I object!” A familiar voice rang out. Every eye turned to see the Valet as he strolled down the aisle. The minister fumbled with the rope in his hands. “O- on what grounds do you object?” Jeeves continued his stride until he stopped in front of the couple. Bertram was practically beaming, and Daisy was looking back and forth between the two of them. Finally, Jeeves spoke. “It is rather simple, your honor. These two should not get married because Mr. Wooster does not wish it.” The Minister exchanged a disdained look with the bride. “Is this true, Mr. Wooster?” he questioned. Bertram heaved a great sigh, looked at the ground for a moment, then returned his gaze to his bride-to-be with a pained smile. “Daisy, darling, you are a lovely woman,” he started, raising their clutched hands, “but the fact is, this is all a misunderstanding. I have no desire to be a married man.” Daisy’s lips trembled, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Yo-you mean you don’t love me?” Wooster’s heart broke a little as a tear rolled down her cheek. Jeeves procured a handkerchief, and Bertie used it to gently wipe away the tear. “I wish you all the love and happiness, Daisy. I just can’t be the one to give it.” Daisy stepped back and wailed. Guests began to stand and shout. Jeeves and Wooster caught each others’ eye— two brains with one thought: Run. They walked, then ran down the aisle. Guests grabbed at them, so they hooked arms to stay together as they made their escape. Someone tried to close the doors, but Jeeves rose up threateningly, and they were able to break through. Now out of the church, they continued running towards the car, still arm in arm. They leapt in, started it up, and drove off. The “Just Married!” cans tied to the back of the car rattled behind them. “Best not go home, Jeeves,” Bertie said, “it’s sure to soon be overrun with angry aunts and former future in-laws.” Jeeves nodded. “That would be wise, sir.” He glanced at Bertie, who was still clutching his arm, but said nothing. Bertie noticed, he always does. “Oh, sorry Jeeves. Do you mind if I hang on a bit more? My life just flashed before my eyes back there. I need a moment to calm the nerves.” Jeeves returned his focus to the road. “Not a problem, sir.” Bertie sighed in relief and pressed himself further into his Valet’s arm. It was warm and strong, and the stability did much to make him feel better. Jeeves’ heart fluttered at this, but he betrayed no sign of it. He was not one to reveal his deeper emotions— not while he was working, anyway. It was difficult, though. After about twenty minutes, Bertie was falling asleep on his arm. He allowed himself a soft glance. It was dusk when the car finally parked and Bertie stirred awake. He realized the position he was in and chuckled out of embarrassment. “Sorry, Jeeves. I hope I didn’t drool on you.” Jeeves, surprisingly, gave a fond little smile. “Do not dwell on it, sir.” Bertie looked around. “Where are we, anyway?” “A bed and breakfast in the country, owned by my cousin. I do not suppose people will know to look for us here. We have time to ‘rest and recuperate’, one could say.” Bertie smiled. “Yes! Rest and recuperate. Sounds like just what the doctor ordered!” Jeeves smiled. “Quite.” They got settled, and Bertram now sat on the bed in his room. “Jeeves, why don’t you have your cousin bring up a couple of whiskeys? I think I need that tonight, and I don’t want to leave you out of it, if you care to join.” “That is most kind of you, sir.” Jeeves paused, considering. “I think I shall join you.” Jeeves left momentarily, and when he returned, he bore a tray with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Bertram’s eyes bulged in surprise. “A whole bottle, Jeeves?” Jeeves uncorked it and poured two glasses. “One may justly indulge after all the abuse one has suffered over the past month, I should think,” Jeeves justified. He sat across from Bertram on the room’s armchair and extended the tray. Bertram grinned, reaching for the glass. “You positively enable me, Jeeves. Thank you. Toast to freedom, ey?” They clinked glasses. “To freedom.” They both downed the whiskey. They poured seconds and nursed them in silence for a few minutes. Bertie caught a look in Jeeves’s eye. “What is it, Jeeves?” Jeeves hesitated. “Permission to speak candidly, sir?” Bertram nodded. “Of course.” Jeeves coughed, slightly guiltily, and said, “Well, sir, there is something I don’t quite understand.” “Yes?” “Since you did not desire to marry Daisy, how did it get so far as the altar? What made you unable to call off the engagement before that point? It is something that has often vexed me over the years, that you feel you have no say in the matter of your marriage.” Bertram looked down at his glass uncomfortably. “Well, Jeeves, it is the code of this Wooster to never let love go unrequited. If one can feasibly return affections, one is obligated to do so.” Jeeves’s gaze softened. “That is very noble of you.” Bertram nodded. “But it is also very foolish.” Bertram’s eyebrows shot up, shocked at the words and their source. “I beg your pardon?” Jeeves took another swig from his drink. Bertie was struck with how unprofessional this was turning, but he wanted to see where it would go. “How can love be properly returned if it is not properly requited? Will the other party not suffer once it is known?” “Well, well I suppose as long as it’s never found out…” Bertie stammered. But Jeeves countered, “And more importantly, you would suffer. More so than a woman rejected. A heart rejected is a heart that can heal. A heart suppressed is miserable forever. It is against my own code, sir, to see you suffer in this way.” Bertie’s heart melted a little bit. “Well, Jeeves, that’s very kind of you to say.” The way Jeeves was looking at him just now made his heart flutter a bit. He took another sip of his drink, an inexplicable embarrassment creeping up his neck. Here he was, seen and judged in a way no one had ever seen him before, cared about in a way no one had ever cared about him before. He looked back at Jeeves. “I… I don’t always know how to fight for myself. I am very grateful that you do it for me, on occasion. I know that I’m safe as long as you’re around. That’s why I…” That’s why I love you, is how that was supposed to end. What? He can’t say that to his valet. “That’s why I… why I’m so glad I have you, Jeeves.” Jeeves felt that’s not what Bertram had wanted to say. There was a moment of silence— not quite awkward, not quite comfortable. “Another glass, sir?” “Please.” They drank. Wooster wiped his mouth and, words beginning to slur, said, “I really don’t know why you’re content to remain a valet, Jeeves. A man with half your brain could run a country very well. Care to share what makes you choose this path?” Jeeves sat back in his chair, swirling the bit of drink in his glass. His eyes glistened. “Well, sir, there are several reasons I prefer this life. In essence, it provides the best of both worlds. I appreciate the connections it affords me, to people of all classes. I am relatively free to move about unnoticed, allowing me to act discreetly when needed. I prefer not to have all the attention, when I can help it. It far benefits me to prop up a deserving other and stand behind him in support.” Bertram frowned. “Well, I suppose that made sense, until the end. Why are you still with me then, what? I’m nothing special.” Jeeves leaned forward, and now they were both pretty close to each other. “Mr. Wooster, you are the most deserving man I’ve ever stood behind.” Bertram felt his face flush. Jeeves hadn’t addressed him by his name outright since the day they met. This must be serious. “Ah— I— erm—“ he muddled, then, “Wu-what makes you say that? I’m a daft bimbo on a good day and an utter arse on a bad one. I don’t see what gives you such faith in me.” Jeeves looked physically pained as he said, “Please, sir, do not speak so poorly of yourself. You are the most loyal, caring, optimistic gentleman I’ve ever known. I love—“ you “the—“ way you “when— I mean to say, you spread joy wherever you go, and not enough people in your life appreciate that.” Bertie was gaping now. He had no idea Jeeves felt this way. There was so much bloody affection in his gaze. Bertram knew he was flushing even more now. But his self-deprecation and confusion won out yet again. “Even if I’m all as you say,” he said, “how does that make me more deserving than… some congressman? Or a king? I’m not going to do anything important with my life.” “Your happiness is the only accomplishment that matters to me, Mr. Wooster.” There he was at it again with the sweet talk and the name. Bertie couldn’t handle it. He was getting physically hot at this point. Finding his glass empty, he took a swing straight from the bottle. “That’s quite a thing to lay on a chap,” he said with a chuckle in an effort to ease some of the tension he was feeling. His voice came out a lot weaker than he meant it to. Jeeves immediately shied away. “My apologies, sir. Perhaps it was unwise for me to join in the consumption. I will make an effort to—” “No, Jeeves! That’s not what I— it’s alright. Better, even. I’m glad you— I— we— you know. It’s good to know these things, if they can be known.” Jeeves nodded, but his eyes were now downcast. Bertram shifted positions, now practically cradling the bottle as he eyed Jeeves. “Do you ever get lonely in your work?” “Sir?” “Well, you know. You’re surrounded by people who, by class, outrank you. Of course, no one could outrank you in any other way, my dear. UHM. My dear valet. Er…” Bertie was losing the plot here. He needed to get back on track fast. “What I mean is… well, yes, in terms of recognition, but also in terms of equals, friends, you know, are you… do you get enough?” Jeeves seemed to relax again at this line of questioning. “I have many friends and connections of my equals. And you give me plenty of recognition, sir.” “It’s never enough, Jeeves!” Bertie reached out without thinking, now clutching to Jeeves’s hand. “I always wish to give so much more than I do.” Jeeves swallowed, suddenly frozen with wonder. “Sir…” There was a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, though it could have been from the alcohol. Bertram froze as well, suddenly incapable of controlling his body and blanking in thought. Jeeves was a pretty sight right before his eyes. “What more could you give me that you do not already?” Jeeves finally said. They had been gravitating closer and closer together without noticing, and now they were almost nose to nose. Bertram’s eyes flicked to Jeeves’s lips involuntarily, Jeeves noticed and inhaled sharply, Bertie blinked rapidly, trying to gain control of himself again. Bertie suddenly realized how tightly he was holding onto Jeeves’s hand. Since when was he holding Jeeves’s hand? Bertie let go and ran his hand through his hair. “I…” he sat back in his chair, a buzz on energy crawling through him like little ants. “Say, remember when you first entered my service, and I fired you and you went and spoke your mind?” Jeeves nodded slowly. “Well, there are moments when I listen to your advice, and moments when I don’t. I’ve learned to listen more often. But Jeeves, you deserve to be heard out always. In anything, really. I want you to be comfortable talking about anything and everything with me. I suppose what I’m saying is, we ought to be equals from now on.” Jeeves was stunned yet again. “Sir…” “You may call me Bertie, if you wish. Or Wooster. Or Mr. Wooster. Or—“ “Bertram.” Bertie wasn’t expecting Jeeves to actually go for it! “Jeeves.” “So long as I can call you that, you may call me Reginald— in private, that is.” Bertie could hardly breathe. “Reginald,” he said aloud, because for the first time he was allowed to. They were once again magnetized towards each other. Bertram was again losing control of himself. He reached out, clutched Reginald’s arm. “Can I call you dear?” Reginald clutched him in return, never ceasing to surprise Bertram. “Only if I may do the same.” Bertie smiled then, and Jeeves smiled back. “WOW!” Bertie said. Drunk Jeeves. Candid Jeeves. Caring Jeeves. Smiling Jeeves. Bertram. Dear. It was dark, and there was a delectably soft, warm sensation pressing back against him. He opened his eyes and found himself sitting on his Valet, and said valet gazing up at him with a warm sparkle in his eye. “I say. Did we just kiss, Jeeves?” Reginald smiled. “Yes, Mr. Wooster. We did.” “I say! Can we do it again?” “Yes, dear.” Bertram clutched Reginald’s face and kissed him with more intention this time. Now that he knew he was doing it, he could more properly enjoy the experience. It was soft and gentle, warm and firm. Everything was Jeeves. Reginald. They were simply enveloped in each other for several minutes, lips moving against lips, drinking each other in.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75552936	{"authors": ["TooManyFandoms2Name"], "language": "English", "title": "Toast to Freedom"}
Laredo. Fuckers. The cicadas scream in the pecan trees, their rattling buzz sawing through the thick Texas humidity. Four aluminum lawn chairs—faded by decades of sun—groan under familiar weights. Bill’s thighs spill over the sides, Hank sits rigid as a porch post, Dale slouches like a discarded snakeskin, and Boomhauer’s long limbs drape effortlessly, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. Their beer cans sweat condensation onto denim-clad thighs. The Alamo Brewery logo glistens under the porch light, its red-and-gold cursive blurring under droplets. "Yep." Hank’s voice is gravel under a truck tire. "Yep." Bill’s agreement is a sigh, his jowls quivering. "Yep." Dale flicks ash off his cigarette, the ember carving a tiny comet trail. "Mmm-hmmm." Boomhauer’s hum vibrates deep, a bass note under the chorus. Silence settles again, thick as the August heat. Fireflies blink in Morse code across the yard. Hank’s eyes flick sideways, catching the aberration. "I see you got a new hat." Dale doesn’t turn his head. "Same hat." Boomhauer grins, teeth flashing. "We dang ol’ dyed it." And oh, it’s dyed alright. Dale’s trademark orange Mack cap—the one that’s survived three propane explosions and a raccoon infestation—now glows radioactive lime under the bug-zapper’s violet hum. The fabric’s frayed edges and oil stains remain, but the color screams like a frog he's stepped on. Hank’s brows knit. "... why?" Dale exhales a lungful of smoke, watching it curl toward the stars. "Two words: Laredo. Fuckers." Bill’s double chin trembles. "... what?" Boomhauer leans in. "Dang ol’ MAGA." Then—soft as a moth landing—Boomhauer presses his lips to Dale’s temple. Dale leans back into him, cigarette still dangling, as comfortable as a hound in a sunspot. Hank and Bill exchange a glance. "Aww," they chorus, half-mocking, half-sincere. Beer cans tilt skyward. The afternoon hums on.	Laredo. Fuckers. The cicadas scream in the pecan trees, their rattling buzz sawing through the thick Texas humidity. Four aluminum lawn chairs—faded by decades of sun—groan under familiar weights. Bill’s thighs spill over the sides, Hank sits rigid as a porch post, Dale slouches like a discarded snakeskin, and Boomhauer’s long limbs drape effortlessly, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. Their beer cans sweat condensation onto denim-clad thighs. The Alamo Brewery logo glistens under the porch light, its red-and-gold cursive blurring under droplets. "Yep." Hank’s voice is gravel under a truck tire. "Yep." Bill’s agreement is a sigh, his jowls quivering. "Yep." Dale flicks ash off his cigarette, the ember carving a tiny comet trail. "Mmm-hmmm." Boomhauer’s hum vibrates deep, a bass note under the chorus. Silence settles again, thick as the August heat. Fireflies blink in Morse code across the yard. Hank’s eyes flick sideways, catching the aberration. "I see you got a new hat." Dale doesn’t turn his head. "Same hat." Boomhauer grins, teeth flashing. "We dang ol’ dyed it." And oh, it’s dyed alright. Dale’s trademark orange Mack cap—the one that’s survived three propane explosions and a raccoon infestation—now glows radioactive lime under the bug-zapper’s violet hum. The fabric’s frayed edges and oil stains remain, but the color screams like a frog he's stepped on. Hank’s brows knit. "... why?" Dale exhales a lungful of smoke, watching it curl toward the stars. "Two words: Laredo. Fuckers." Bill’s double chin trembles. "... what?" Boomhauer leans in. "Dang ol’ MAGA." Then—soft as a moth landing—Boomhauer presses his lips to Dale’s temple. Dale leans back into him, cigarette still dangling, as comfortable as a hound in a sunspot. Hank and Bill exchange a glance. "Aww," they chorus, half-mocking, half-sincere. Beer cans tilt skyward. The afternoon hums on.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75561336	{"authors": ["scaryfangirl2001"], "language": "English", "title": "Laredo. Fuckers."}
Night shifts The morgue at Nevermore was colder than usual when Wednesday pushed the door open and stepped inside like she was coming home. Tyler lingered behind her, rubbing his hands together and whispering actual words so she would not accuse him of mumbling. In his mind, a morgue was were romance came to die. “You know, most people go out for dinner on a date,” he noted. Wednesday didn't even turn around. She walked straight to the steel table, flicked on the overhead light, and let the cold white glow spill across rows of metal drawers. “Normal people waste their evenings,” she replied. “I prefer productivity.” Tyler muttered that she could have warned him to bring a jacket. She answered that he should have adapted by now. He followed her deeper inside, trying not to stare too hard at the jars lining the walls like glass eyes watching them. She selected a drawer and pulled it open with no hesitation. Tyler winced even though nothing moved. “I still can’t believe the school lets you come down here alone,” he mumbled. She snapped on a pair of gloves without looking up. “I do not ask for permission,” she said blandly, and then added, “Hand me the scalpel kit. If you drop it, I will be disappointed.” He gave it to her carefully. He had learned that she did not joke about sharp objects. She began working immediately, leaning over the cadaver with that steady focus that always made him forget how creepy the setting was. She told him to take notes on the time while she examined the tissue. He pulled out a pen and tried to act like this was an everyday activity. “So this is a homework thing?” he asked. “Partly,” she replied flatly. “Partly personal interest.” He blinked. “Right. Of course.” She moved the lamp closer. Tyler tried not to watch the way the light cut across her face, outlining every sharp and exact part of her expression. He attempted to distract himself by reading the labels on the nearby jars, but every so often she spoke and his brain snapped right back to her. “Write down that the discoloration is slightly darker than expected,” she said, and he wrote it quickly even though he had no idea what darker than expected actually meant in this context. He stood close enough to see the cadaver but far enough to make sure he would not pass out and embarrass himself. When she leaned over to adjust the angle again, her shoulder brushed his wrist. He jolted so obviously that she paused just long enough to say, “You are trembling. Is it the temperature or the cadaver.” His mouth opened and closed once before he said real words. “Just cold,” he insisted. “Definitely the cold.” She watched him for one slow second, like she was deciding whether to believe him. Then she went right back to examining the specimen. “You should practice better lies,” she retorted. “Yours are very transparent.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m not lying.” She replied, “You are now lying about lying.” Several minutes passed with only the sound of metal tools clinking and her quiet voice naming things he pretended to understand. She told him to angle the lamp lower. He did it fast, trying not to let his hands shake. “You are holding it like it is going to explode,” she sighed. He muttered that he had never been this close to a dead body before helping her. “You will adapt with time,” she said, as if talking about a mild inconvenience. She continued working, and he watched her for longer than he meant to. There was something strangely peaceful in the way she handled everything, like nothing in this room was too strange or too dark for her. When he commented that the skin tone looked different from last week, she barely looked up. “I noticed that three minutes ago,” she told him. “Pay attention.” He groaned under his breath. She added, “Your eyesight may be deteriorating.” He told her that his eyesight was perfect. She replied, “Denial is a symptom.” The morgue settled into a quiet rhythm again. Tyler adjusted to the cold and the stillness, at least a little, though he kept an eye on the cadaver just in case anything at Nevermore decided to break the rules of being dead. Wednesday finally stepped back and removed her gloves with slow precision. He exhaled, thinking they were done. She rinsed her hands in the sink, then turned to him with that same calm expression she used for everything except threats. “We are not leaving yet,” she said. “I want to observe your reaction to prolonged exposure to cold environments.” He stared at her. “You want to watch me be cold.” She corrected him. “I want to see how long you can stay here without complaining.” He raised an eyebrow. “So this is a test.” She nodded calmly. “Everything is a test.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to look unfazed. “I’m completely fine,” he lied again, and of course she caught it instantly. “Your breath is visible,” she pointed out. “You are not fine.” He stepped closer to her, hoping the little pocket of warmth their proximity created would sabotage her	Night shifts The morgue at Nevermore was colder than usual when Wednesday pushed the door open and stepped inside like she was coming home. Tyler lingered behind her, rubbing his hands together and whispering actual words so she would not accuse him of mumbling. In his mind, a morgue was were romance came to die. “You know, most people go out for dinner on a date,” he noted. Wednesday didn't even turn around. She walked straight to the steel table, flicked on the overhead light, and let the cold white glow spill across rows of metal drawers. “Normal people waste their evenings,” she replied. “I prefer productivity.” Tyler muttered that she could have warned him to bring a jacket. She answered that he should have adapted by now. He followed her deeper inside, trying not to stare too hard at the jars lining the walls like glass eyes watching them. She selected a drawer and pulled it open with no hesitation. Tyler winced even though nothing moved. “I still can’t believe the school lets you come down here alone,” he mumbled. She snapped on a pair of gloves without looking up. “I do not ask for permission,” she said blandly, and then added, “Hand me the scalpel kit. If you drop it, I will be disappointed.” He gave it to her carefully. He had learned that she did not joke about sharp objects. She began working immediately, leaning over the cadaver with that steady focus that always made him forget how creepy the setting was. She told him to take notes on the time while she examined the tissue. He pulled out a pen and tried to act like this was an everyday activity. “So this is a homework thing?” he asked. “Partly,” she replied flatly. “Partly personal interest.” He blinked. “Right. Of course.” She moved the lamp closer. Tyler tried not to watch the way the light cut across her face, outlining every sharp and exact part of her expression. He attempted to distract himself by reading the labels on the nearby jars, but every so often she spoke and his brain snapped right back to her. “Write down that the discoloration is slightly darker than expected,” she said, and he wrote it quickly even though he had no idea what darker than expected actually meant in this context. He stood close enough to see the cadaver but far enough to make sure he would not pass out and embarrass himself. When she leaned over to adjust the angle again, her shoulder brushed his wrist. He jolted so obviously that she paused just long enough to say, “You are trembling. Is it the temperature or the cadaver.” His mouth opened and closed once before he said real words. “Just cold,” he insisted. “Definitely the cold.” She watched him for one slow second, like she was deciding whether to believe him. Then she went right back to examining the specimen. “You should practice better lies,” she retorted. “Yours are very transparent.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m not lying.” She replied, “You are now lying about lying.” Several minutes passed with only the sound of metal tools clinking and her quiet voice naming things he pretended to understand. She told him to angle the lamp lower. He did it fast, trying not to let his hands shake. “You are holding it like it is going to explode,” she sighed. He muttered that he had never been this close to a dead body before helping her. “You will adapt with time,” she said, as if talking about a mild inconvenience. She continued working, and he watched her for longer than he meant to. There was something strangely peaceful in the way she handled everything, like nothing in this room was too strange or too dark for her. When he commented that the skin tone looked different from last week, she barely looked up. “I noticed that three minutes ago,” she told him. “Pay attention.” He groaned under his breath. She added, “Your eyesight may be deteriorating.” He told her that his eyesight was perfect. She replied, “Denial is a symptom.” The morgue settled into a quiet rhythm again. Tyler adjusted to the cold and the stillness, at least a little, though he kept an eye on the cadaver just in case anything at Nevermore decided to break the rules of being dead. Wednesday finally stepped back and removed her gloves with slow precision. He exhaled, thinking they were done. She rinsed her hands in the sink, then turned to him with that same calm expression she used for everything except threats. “We are not leaving yet,” she said. “I want to observe your reaction to prolonged exposure to cold environments.” He stared at her. “You want to watch me be cold.” She corrected him. “I want to see how long you can stay here without complaining.” He raised an eyebrow. “So this is a test.” She nodded calmly. “Everything is a test.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to look unfazed. “I’m completely fine,” he lied again, and of course she caught it instantly. “Your breath is visible,” she pointed out. “You are not fine.” He stepped closer to her, hoping the little pocket of warmth their proximity created would sabotage her experiment. It did. She frowned. “You ruined the conditions,” she defended. He smiled. “Sorry. I guess you just make me warmer.” She stared at him with an unreadable look. “That is unhelpful to my data.” He told her that her data would survive. They stayed near the metal table, talking in low voices because talking loudly in a morgue felt wrong even for Tyler. She asked him if he actually disliked the place, and he answered honestly for once. “It freaked me out at first,” he said. “But with you here it feels… not freaky.” She looked at him with that careful, quiet attention of hers, the kind she usually used on puzzles she intended to solve. “You are strange,” she commented. Tyler rolled his eyes at the irony of being called strange by the girl taking him to a morgue for a date. “I get that a lot,” he replied, smiling. She added, “It is not an insult.” When she reached for her notebook, her shoulder pressed lightly against his chest. He felt it everywhere. She wrote a new line he could not see. “What did you put,” he asked. She closed the notebook immediately. “Confidential.” She closed the drawer with a soft clunk, like she was tucking something in. Tyler followed her to the door, rubbing his arms dramatically. She told him to stop acting like he was freezing to death. He told her he might actually be freezing to death. She looked at him with a flat expression. “You are still talking. You are fine.” He laughed, because somehow even her insults felt warm. Before she stepped into the hallway light, he said quietly, “For what it’s worth, I like being here with you.” She paused just half a second, not turning fully, just enough for him to see her profile. “Your tolerance for unusual environments is improving,” she said. He shook his head. “Maybe I’m just getting used to you.” She did not smile, but she didn’t dismiss him either, and that felt like the closest thing to softness she ever let slip through. They walked back into the corridor together, the door swinging shut behind them with a slow, final sigh. The cold stayed in the air around them, but something warmer carried between their steps, something quiet and unspoken that felt safer in the dark corners of Nevermore than it ever would anywhere else. Wednesday did not look back again, but Tyler knew she had filed the entire night away in that precise mind of hers, and the thought made him follow just a little bit faster.	ao3_english	2025-12-10T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75552941	{"authors": ["England_mademe2410"], "language": "English", "title": "Night shifts"}
volver, volver "Cheers!" Lime-flavored alcohol, fermented using the rare imported fruits the Backstreets rarely afford. At the third shot, the mouth loses sensation—citrus, sugar cube, ice, and the burn of alcohol are gone in moments. One's attention gradually moves onto a new area of concern as a result, to the surroundings: the ceiling's asbestos, the chiseled patterns in the cracked walls, the small fish swimming in the display tank, and the blood staining the floor. Celebration. Hong Lu smiles at Sinclair. "You're not as bad as you make yourself sound. Look how cool you can act if you receive the opportunity." Sinclair laughs and scratches his head. A flush of embarrassment rushes to his cheeks, redder under the sallow bar lights. "W-Well, I try. Sometimes." Hong Lu raises the bottle in her hands once more. "One more round?" "Sure," he smiles. It's a good day to be alive and kicking. The lassitude following when they've shit to do has finally assuaged, if only for a short while. Stupid fights. Stupid drama. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A pleasant distraction to get themselves thinking about a better world to live in, maybe, where people stop stabbing each other in the back and betraying those in their good graces. "Are you a drinker, Sinclair?" Hong Lu asks, leaning against him. The heat from his shoulder passes into hers. "I-I've had phases. Back then there was never a day we didn't get drunk and hungover... Haah. Nowadays..." Sinclair sighs. "What about you?" Hong Lu takes a look at the half-emptied bottle in her hands, then glances at the numerous unopened, littered bottles around. "I haven't thought of it, to be honest. I don't rely on any vices. Or, maybe, you can say I find my vices in whatever pleases my eyes, heart, and soul the most. Music. Pain. Flowers. Rhythm." Hong Lu doesn't wait for a response before gulping her drink, with Sinclair hastily taking in his own, all in a big swig. "You're... really reckless, aren't you?" He blurts. "I mean, of course I am, too—that's why we get along. But you... It's like you've nothing to lose." "What of it?" "...Just wondering." They grow comfortable, talking insignificant matters. They aren't going to remember it in the morning anyway. For a night only, Sinclair hopes he could simply drown everything occupying his mind away; that they might cease to exist, if for a single moment—the paranoia, the responsibilities, and the expectations coming with leading a syndicate, of being called a "leader." No leader in the world is going to do his men any good, really, he believes. All leaders, of every ilk, are tyrants. Of course, there's no choice when you're given a label you didn't ask for or want, so you merely need to grin and bear it and accept a duty that brings with it merits and losses. "You're so brave, Sinclair..." she pauses, a finger tracing along the glass as if she is watching water move. Her pupils expand and shrink. "Braver than any man I‘ve met before. Most would choose to shun what they don't like. You, instead, confront them in a manner you understand. And I don't think it's for a lack of options or out of pure, misplaced confidence." "R-Really?" He feels warmth blossoming from his chest. "I, uh... never thought that... What made you think so?" She smiles, almost catlike. She continues. "A woman's intuition? Something no man shall ever be capable of perceiving—your actions may be incomprehensible... yet there exists meaning for you alone. Your motivation isn't because you know the sky is blue, because your family taught you, or because of experience." Hong Lu is so smart. Sinclair wonders how she found herself leading a gaggle of gamblers instead of becoming a scholar at the prestigious Nest academies. She speaks like no woman in the Backstreets does—with such eloquence he doubts the men at Tingtang speak, lest their words be equally erudite. Sinclair watches as her thin finger draws an imaginary, heartfelt arc across his palm, the lines of life, love, and fortune. It tickles his skin—like her breath in his ears as she speaks with the affection and tone of a lover. "But no matter," she concludes, "I wish for nothing but your happiness in whatever choices you may choose to make. You are free to live your life as you so desire." She takes one last chug, as if to close her point and assert it further into the conversation. He holds his tongue as the liquid travels the column of her throat, glistening and dewy like freshly watered lotus ponds at noon. He reaches. His hand lands on Hong Lu's thigh, grasping the hem of her pants. "You're really cool," he says. She glances up to him. She laughs with a hiccup in her voice. "You're cool, too," she whispers. Then, after a while: "I wonder if there is a way to preserve our feelings." "Well, you can sing them—tell stories! Your friends can, um..." His thoughts drift between the samba, merengue, salsa... There are so many other kinds of dances he doesn't understand, it's embarrassing. "...Dance? How does it sound?	volver, volver "Cheers!" Lime-flavored alcohol, fermented using the rare imported fruits the Backstreets rarely afford. At the third shot, the mouth loses sensation—citrus, sugar cube, ice, and the burn of alcohol are gone in moments. One's attention gradually moves onto a new area of concern as a result, to the surroundings: the ceiling's asbestos, the chiseled patterns in the cracked walls, the small fish swimming in the display tank, and the blood staining the floor. Celebration. Hong Lu smiles at Sinclair. "You're not as bad as you make yourself sound. Look how cool you can act if you receive the opportunity." Sinclair laughs and scratches his head. A flush of embarrassment rushes to his cheeks, redder under the sallow bar lights. "W-Well, I try. Sometimes." Hong Lu raises the bottle in her hands once more. "One more round?" "Sure," he smiles. It's a good day to be alive and kicking. The lassitude following when they've shit to do has finally assuaged, if only for a short while. Stupid fights. Stupid drama. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A pleasant distraction to get themselves thinking about a better world to live in, maybe, where people stop stabbing each other in the back and betraying those in their good graces. "Are you a drinker, Sinclair?" Hong Lu asks, leaning against him. The heat from his shoulder passes into hers. "I-I've had phases. Back then there was never a day we didn't get drunk and hungover... Haah. Nowadays..." Sinclair sighs. "What about you?" Hong Lu takes a look at the half-emptied bottle in her hands, then glances at the numerous unopened, littered bottles around. "I haven't thought of it, to be honest. I don't rely on any vices. Or, maybe, you can say I find my vices in whatever pleases my eyes, heart, and soul the most. Music. Pain. Flowers. Rhythm." Hong Lu doesn't wait for a response before gulping her drink, with Sinclair hastily taking in his own, all in a big swig. "You're... really reckless, aren't you?" He blurts. "I mean, of course I am, too—that's why we get along. But you... It's like you've nothing to lose." "What of it?" "...Just wondering." They grow comfortable, talking insignificant matters. They aren't going to remember it in the morning anyway. For a night only, Sinclair hopes he could simply drown everything occupying his mind away; that they might cease to exist, if for a single moment—the paranoia, the responsibilities, and the expectations coming with leading a syndicate, of being called a "leader." No leader in the world is going to do his men any good, really, he believes. All leaders, of every ilk, are tyrants. Of course, there's no choice when you're given a label you didn't ask for or want, so you merely need to grin and bear it and accept a duty that brings with it merits and losses. "You're so brave, Sinclair..." she pauses, a finger tracing along the glass as if she is watching water move. Her pupils expand and shrink. "Braver than any man I‘ve met before. Most would choose to shun what they don't like. You, instead, confront them in a manner you understand. And I don't think it's for a lack of options or out of pure, misplaced confidence." "R-Really?" He feels warmth blossoming from his chest. "I, uh... never thought that... What made you think so?" She smiles, almost catlike. She continues. "A woman's intuition? Something no man shall ever be capable of perceiving—your actions may be incomprehensible... yet there exists meaning for you alone. Your motivation isn't because you know the sky is blue, because your family taught you, or because of experience." Hong Lu is so smart. Sinclair wonders how she found herself leading a gaggle of gamblers instead of becoming a scholar at the prestigious Nest academies. She speaks like no woman in the Backstreets does—with such eloquence he doubts the men at Tingtang speak, lest their words be equally erudite. Sinclair watches as her thin finger draws an imaginary, heartfelt arc across his palm, the lines of life, love, and fortune. It tickles his skin—like her breath in his ears as she speaks with the affection and tone of a lover. "But no matter," she concludes, "I wish for nothing but your happiness in whatever choices you may choose to make. You are free to live your life as you so desire." She takes one last chug, as if to close her point and assert it further into the conversation. He holds his tongue as the liquid travels the column of her throat, glistening and dewy like freshly watered lotus ponds at noon. He reaches. His hand lands on Hong Lu's thigh, grasping the hem of her pants. "You're really cool," he says. She glances up to him. She laughs with a hiccup in her voice. "You're cool, too," she whispers. Then, after a while: "I wonder if there is a way to preserve our feelings." "Well, you can sing them—tell stories! Your friends can, um..." His thoughts drift between the samba, merengue, salsa... There are so many other kinds of dances he doesn't understand, it's embarrassing. "...Dance? How does it sound?" Hong Lu considers the notion briefly—long enough to smile, at least, even as her thoughts fumble in the blur of alcohol. "I see. That sounds great," she admits, grabbing his hand that's grasping her thigh. Their fingers intertwine like branches. "It'll be the only time, then—will you dance for me? With me?" "N-Now? We‘re too drunk for this. You'll fall—ouch!" Hong Lu yanks him, forcing him out of the comfort of his seat. The movement causes them to wobble unbalanced in their spots. The corners of the chair and desk knock him, but Hong Lu holds his balance—as she is the stronger out of the two and as her feet are as agile as ever, despite her condition—so he bobs precariously in her grip. "So what do I do next?" Hong Lu wonders aloud, placing a hand on his waist while he instinctively places his own upon her shoulder. "You hold this, then take a step with this foot—" He steps clumsily. "No, it's this side... That's it. Then like this, and…" They're centimeters away from crushing the opposite's foot. Despite all odds and despite all logic, they're dancing. He pulls closer. With a short spin and a flick of his feet, Hong Lu twirls him; the momentum leaves him dizzy. He lands safely in her arms with an awkward smile. "...And like that, really." "What next, then?" Hong Lu breathes, close, in his ears. He doesn't know. It was the extent of the knowledge his syndicate possesses. It's good; there's scarce to embellish or add in his eyes, so he simply goes with it. If any have an opinion about how much he fucks up every basic move known to man, then none in the room speaks of it—just Hong Lu is watching, with bright eyes and a brighter smile. "Mm, let's... What happens next is..." The movement becomes stuttered. Strands of hair stick to Hong Lu's face from her sweat. Or is it water? Lime juice? Who can tell? "Don't worry," Sinclair mumbles. "I'm doing everything wrong... And that makes the story you tell much more meaningful. More relatable, I think." "I hate when things are too perfect," Hong Lu nods along. They stumble their way across the room—newborn foal-like, grasping sanity to stay afloat amidst a drunken fog that refuses to ebb. It is impossible to see one without the other, so they twist and turn until they hit the far edge of the table, and a yelp of pain escapes Sinclair. Hong Lu does him the favor of lifting him on the tabletop to rest from standing. "Sorry. I wish I could properly teach you how to dance..." He leans, palms to the table for support. Hong Lu settles between his spread legs. "Can I teach you something I know, then?" she proposes instead. He bites his lips, head hanging low. His breathing turns shallow and quiet. He's not a completely ignorant fool—he can hear her intentions loud and clear. It makes him happy, lifting his chin up; Hong Lu can't help but giggle at the sudden shift in his disposition. "Y-Yeah. Whatever you‘re planning... I think... we could go with it." He hiccups as Hong Lu hikes up Sinclair's legs onto her shoulders. Sinclair gives her a surprised expression when their hips suddenly make contact through their clothes. "Ehehe. You have such pretty legs..." she sighs. "I‘ve thought that ever since we first met." "They're not slender like the models in magazines, though..." he mumbles. "Or muscular like yours are—" "Nuh-uh. I prefer your kind of body." She presses, grinding her crotch along the curvature of his ass. Her hips slowly grow impatient. He feels his face beginning to heat up as the outline of Hong Lu's half-hard arousal appears and prods at his backside; she notices too, but pretends nothing is out of the ordinary. "Can I put it inside?" He doesn't remember what he was saying. The request disorients him further, so he nods wordlessly, his hands clutching the edge of the table tight. She unbuckles her belt as Sinclair stares up at the ceiling, waiting. He hopes the liquor isn't drying up so the night could go on forever. When they are undressed from the hips down, Hong Lu slides her fingers to touch his entrance, experimentally pushing it in. A strangled cry comes forth, and he tosses his head to the wall. His back arches at the touch with the same natural cadence of a blossoming flower turning towards the sun. Hong Lu slips in two fingers with no hesitation. They wiggle, adjusting to the texture, to his pulse, until his muscles grow accustomed to the thickness. Then another. There's dull pain whenever the fingers press deep; she kisses his chest to distract from it. The wet sounds of Hong Lu fingering him grow in intensity, rivaling the noisy ambience of the bar's music in their little private room. She deems it satisfactory, withdrawing her fingers to spit—to coat them generously, a bit overdone, and even Sinclair notices and laughs—then aligns with Sinclair's opening. He closes his eyes and sighs into it as Hong Lu sinks in without further ado, filling him in a fluid stroke. "Ah," Sinclair croaks when they come to a full stop. He grabs his sombrero and pulls it to cover his face, groaning at the sheer pleasure. Hong Lu giggles at the action; she pats his ass to coax him out, but he refuses to relent and pulls the hat until he has grown comfortable enough to hold eye contact. His gaze is timid but wanting. "O-Okay..." "Okay." Hong Lu laces their fingers together. With the alcohol buzzing his veins, his heartbeat hammers into his temples. It‘s an acute rhythm to fuck to—fast-paced, to chase every push and pull until climax, lime liquor-flavored and light-hearted. When Hong Lu draws and enters Sinclair with the roll of her hips, she whines a satisfied moan as the friction wraps tight around her length. Sinclair‘s legs wrap themselves tighter around her shoulders; they anchor themselves and pull, urging her on. Sinclair doesn't realize he has made a loud, broken noise in his throat from the movement. "D-Do that again," he moans breathlessly. Hong Lu‘s response comes quick and automatic. She keeps doing so, chasing after the sounds of his gasps and breathless moans each time they interlock their hips—clumsy and eager. His arms and legs feel tingly, like pins and needles, electrical current coursing the delicate, pliant vessels in his limbs giving way for each of Hong Lu‘s thrusts, soft like melted sugar and milk. "I'm close, Sinclair," she pants. "Yeah, me... m-me too—" Hong Lu moves to rub at Sinclair‘s clit while maintaining her tempo. Warbling cries escape Sinclair. He attempts to close his thighs but Hong Lu forces them wide open with a smugness in the curve of her mouth. "Cute," she giggles. He answers her with a weak slap to the shoulder, though her remark comes before his reflexes can act accordingly. His lips stretch out in a nervous smile at the playful retort, then his eyes roll and his body starts to tremble with release. "A-Ah...!" Beneath the haze of liquor, Sinclair feels Hong Lu pulling out to ejaculate onto his stomach with a single jerk. She moans through gritted teeth, brows furrowing and face burning bright as her length twitches, dripping the last bits of release to paint across Sinclair‘s midriff. They collapse on the table. "I‘m sleepy..." Sinclair yawns. He pulls with her head nestled in his shoulder. "Let's get out of here." Hong Lu hums and rises.	ao3_english	2025-12-11T00:00:00Z	https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75569596	{"authors": ["cresnoire"], "language": "English", "title": "volver, volver"}

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