#You can keep Your Secrets. Because even the Dark is Afraid of Something | Familiar's Guide | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

earpskeeper · 10 days ago

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word count - 1.4k second part of the secrets you keep - hopeful version - part one can be found here trigger warnings - self harm, talk of suicide, very bad mental health please prioritise your own mental health before choosing to read this and as always my requests are open :)

That night, the house slowly settled into a quiet calm. The usual hum of the city outside had softened to a distant whisper, and inside, everything felt still, almost too still. The light from the hallway had been dimmed long ago, leaving the guest room bathed in soft shadows. The kind of shadows that seem to hold their breath, waiting.

Kyra stayed behind, curled up beside you on the narrow bed, her body a warm, comforting presence against your side. Her hair brushed your cheek, faintly scented with shampoo, and every now and then her shoulder pressed lightly against yours, as if afraid to let go. She shifted occasionally in her sleep, the faint rise and fall of her breathing soft against your skin, a fragile rhythm that kept the darkness from swallowing you whole.

The room was small but safe, and the silence between you felt fragile - like the quiet right before a storm breaks loose. You lay there, eyes tracing the dark shapes of the ceiling, your hands resting limply on your stomach. Your fingers twitched slightly, but you didn’t move. The silence wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and familiar. You wanted to speak, to say something, anything, but the words felt stuck somewhere deep inside your throat.

Your mind raced, spiraling through memories, regrets, and fears you’d tried so hard to bury. You thought about the pills. The ones you had taken without anyone knowing, despite Katie’s efforts to lock everything away. The pills hidden in the top drawer of Katie’s bedside table - how you’d found the lock broken open one day when no one was looking. How easy it had been to slip them into your pocket. How you’d told Kyra you’d thrown everything out, hoping she’d believe you.

You swallowed hard and finally broke the silence.

“I was going to kill myself tonight.”

The words hung in the air like a shattering glass, jagged and raw.

Kyra stiffened beside you. Her breath hitched. “What?”

You didn’t turn to her. Your voice was robotic, devoid of emotion, distant and numb. “I had the pills. I had it all planned. After tonight. I was ready.”

Kyra’s body tensed, a cold shock running through her. She blinked, confused, disbelief flooding her eyes.

“Pills? What pills?” Her voice cracked. “Where did you even get them? Katie made sure… she told me she did a deep clean of her house. Locked up anything sharp, every bit of medication. To keep you safe. You said you didn’t have any pills.”

You said nothing. The silence was louder than words.

Kyra’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. Her eyes flicked away, then back, searching your face as if hoping to find some clue, some lie that might explain this betrayal.

“You lied to me,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You said you were feeling better.”

Finally, you turned your head slowly to look at her, your eyes dull and tired, like they were trying to hide from the truth. “I needed you to believe me. Otherwise… I wouldn’t have been allowed to go through with it tonight.”

For a long moment, Kyra closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose, trying to suck all the anger and panic back inside. She swallowed the scream she wanted to let out, the scream that threatened to shatter everything.

“Tell me the whole plan,” she said, voice hollow and broken.

“I was going to wait till you were asleep,” you said quietly, voice flat and measured, “so I could have one more night with you. Just one. And then… then I wouldn’t wake up. But it’s okay, because my final moments would be with you.”

You paused briefly, as if weighing each word carefully before continuing.

“I picked just after midnight. It was the quietest time, the house asleep, no distractions, no one to hear or stop me.”

“The pills… I took them from Katie’s bedside table. The top drawer. I knew she’d been locking up anything sharp or dangerous. But that drawer was unlocked. I didn’t have to break anything or make noise. I just slipped them out.”

You spoke as if reading from a script, every word deliberate, every detail laid out with unsettling calm.

“I counted them carefully, enough to make sure it would work, enough so I wouldn’t wake up again. The plan was simple: take the pills, lie down, and wait.”

You looked at the ceiling, your tone hollow, “I thought about how you’d find me in the morning, how you might try to stop me, but by then… it would be too late. I thought about the silence, the finality.”

You swallowed hard but kept your voice steady. “I was ready.”

Kyra sat frozen, one hand pressed against her mouth to stifle the gasp she wanted to let out. The bile rose in her throat as she listened to you describe your own death so clinically. It was almost unbearable.

When you finished, her face had drained of all color.

“Okay,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Okay, I… Katie needs to be here. Katie needs to hear this.”

Without hesitation, she called out, her voice trembling and loud enough to echo down the hallway, shaking the silence. “Katie! Caitlin! Come here! Now!”

The sound of hurried footsteps filled the stillness. Katie appeared first, eyes wide with concern, Caitlin right behind her, calm but clearly alarmed.

“What’s wrong?” Katie asked, her gaze flickering between you and Kyra.

Kyra slowly pushed herself upright from the bed, her entire body trembling as if caught in the grip of a storm she couldn’t control. Her hands didn’t leave yours, they clung tightly, as though holding on to you was the only anchor keeping her steady. Her eyes were wide, searching, flooded with a mix of fear, disbelief, and heartbreak.

“She… she’s not okay,” Kyra’s voice cracked, barely more than a whisper at first, raw and fragile. She swallowed hard, struggling to keep the panic from overwhelming her. “She told me… she told me she was going to kill herself. Tonight. She said it - all of it. The plan, the pills… everything.”

Her breath hitched as she struggled to keep calm, but the weight of the confession was crushing her. “I didn’t know… I thought she was getting better. I thought we were all helping her.”

Kyra’s voice cracked, tears welling up, her words barely more than a whisper. “We have to do something. We have to help her.”

Katie’s face tightened, confusion quickly twisting into heartbreak. “But… I locked everything away. I checked twice. How did she even get them?”

Your eyes flickered down toward the drawer, the shame and fear pooling inside you like a storm.

Caitlin stepped further into the room, her voice gentle but steady. “Where are they, love? The pills?”

You hesitated, swallowing hard, the weight of the moment pressing down. Your gaze shifted (first to Kyra, then to Katie) before you finally pointed wordlessly toward the drawer.

Without hesitation, Caitlin moved quickly and pulled out the bottle. Her breath caught as she saw it was still nearly full.

Katie sat down on the edge of the bed beside you, reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear, her touch tender and grounding. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Your voice cracked, fragile as a thread. “I didn’t want you to be mad.”

Katie’s eyes welled with tears, but she kept her voice steady, filled with fierce love. “We’re not mad. We’re scared. We love you. And we’re going to help you.”

Caitlin nodded firmly, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “This doesn’t end here, alright? We’re going to figure it out. Together.”

Kyra sat back down beside you, pulling your hand into hers again. Though her own body still trembled, her grip was steady, anchoring you in the storm.

Katie exhaled slowly, meeting your eyes with a soft intensity. “We think it’s best if we go back to the hospital. Just for now. To keep you safe.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t have the strength to.

You just nodded, a small, fragile hope flickering inside you.

You were still here.

And for now, that was enough.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #awfc imagine #arsenal wfc x reader #katie mccabe x reader #kyra cooney cross x reader #leah williamson x reader #earpskeeperrecs #beth mead x reader #caitlin foord x reader

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skywalkerslvt · 4 months ago

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Hiii i have another request. ❤️

I was wondering if maybe you could write something where kinda dom peter parker and reader are like in a VERY secret friends with benefits relationship and it’s just very steamy and they can’t keep their hands off each other….. Like maybe he’s in a situationship with someone else so no one can know? Idk take your liberties with this ask

a/n: Julia, this is sounding familiar 👀 i'm liking the vibes tho, this was hot 🤭 hope u enjoyyyy (btw sorry it took so long to get to this, life has been busy and the writers block goes crazy)

CW: fwb!peter, cheating, almost getting caught, semi-public sex, fingering, p in v, 1k words

It’s a stupid idea. A reckless, dangerous, completely fucked-up idea. But that’s never stopped you before.

Peter’s got a thing with someone else—some girl who smiles at him like he’s the best thing to ever happen to her, someone who gets to hold his hand in public and laugh at his jokes without worrying who’s watching. You’re not that girl. You’re the secret, the thing he buries behind locked doors and bitten-off moans, the one he comes to when the weight of playing nice gets too heavy.

And you should care. You should feel guilty, or jealous, or anything besides the molten heat pooling in your stomach when he drags you into the nearest dark corner, his hand already sliding up your thigh, his breath hot against your ear. But when he whispers, “You gonna let me have you again?”—low, teasing, so damn cocky—you don’t even hesitate before nodding. Because no matter how bad of an idea this is, you always let him.

He drags you off to a small bathroom, pushing you up against the door roughly, the sounds of the party on the other side of the door now forgotten to you as he captures your lips in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. His hands are everywhere, the heat of them against your skin dulling the guilt you feel about–don’t think about her.

Images of Peter walking through the front door with his arm around his girlfriend flood your mind. This was risky–too risky. Peter came here with that poor girl, holding her hand and joking around with her friends only to leave her alone when he saw you nursing your drink and watching him from the corner of the room. He gave you a look before sauntering down the hallway, knowing you’d follow him like a lost puppy–he knew you’d jump on him at any opportunity.

His lips trail down your neck, hot and hungry, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be letting him do this, not when she’s probably still out there looking for him. But Peter’s hands are gripping your hips, fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, and it makes you feel wanted—needed—in a way that twists something deep in your gut.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your skin, his tone smug as his hands slip under the hem of your dress, thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your thighs. “You like knowing I left her out there for you?”

You swallow hard, but you don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your body reacts to him, the way you arch into his touch, says enough. He chuckles, and the sound is low, dark, full of something almost cruel.

“That’s what I thought.”

Peter’s mouth is hot against your skin, his fingers curling inside you with a practiced ease that makes your knees threaten to give out. His free hand presses against your hip, keeping you pinned between him and the door, and you can feel the smirk on his lips as he kisses a path down your throat.

“Always so good for me,” he murmurs, his breath warm and teasing. His fingers speed up just enough to make your breath hitch. “Bet you’d let me do whatever I wanted right now, huh?”

You want to answer, but the pleasure is too much, your words dissolving into a whimper that only feeds his ego. He chuckles, nipping at your collarbone. “That’s what I thought.”

And then—knock knock knock.

You freeze. Peter stills against you, but only for a second before he recovers, his hand slipping over your mouth. Your wide eyes meet his, heart hammering as you both register the voice on the other side of the door.

“Peter?”

His girlfriend.

His fingers twitch inside you, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he looks amused, his smirk deepening as he keeps his palm firm against your lips.

He clears his throat, voice coming out light, easy. “Yeah?”

Your stomach twists as she sighs. “What are you doing in there? I’ve been looking for you.”

You squirm against him, panic creeping up your spine, but Peter just shushes you softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek as if he’s comforting you. Then, in a move so shameless it makes your breath hitch, he moves his fingers again.

A slow, deliberate stroke, like he’s testing you.

Your entire body jolts, and he grins, his eyes dark with amusement as he leans in, lips brushing against your ear. “Be good for me,” he whispers.

“Peter?” His girlfriend’s voice is confused now, a little concerned.

He huffs like he’s annoyed. “I just needed a second. Got a little too much to drink.”

There’s a pause. Your pulse pounds as you fight to stay silent, your body trembling from the effort.

“Oh,” she says finally. “Do you need me to get you some water?”

Peter’s fingers move again, a lazy stroke, and it takes everything in you not to let out a sound. He watches you with dark amusement, clearly enjoying your struggle.

“Nah,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Another pause. Then, finally: “Okay… don’t take too long.”

You both listen as her footsteps fade down the hall. Peter waits a second, tilting his head like he’s making sure she’s really gone. And then—he pulls his hand from your mouth, his smirk widening as he takes in your flushed, wrecked state.

“See?” he murmurs, dragging his lips down your jaw. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His fingers leave you to unbuckle his belt, his hand reaching in his pants to pull the thick length of him out. When he finally slides inside your warm, wet, cunt, you gasp, head falling back against the door. He shushes you, nipping at your jaw as he works you open with a slow, teasing thrust. You should tell him to stop. You should shove him away, walk out of here and leave him to his perfect little relationship.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is, no matter how stupid, and reckless, and completely fucked up this is, you don’t care if this is wrong. You don’t care if she’s waiting for him.

Right now, he’s here with you. And that’s all that matters.

#peter parker x reader smut #peter parker x reader #peter parker smut #peter parker fanfiction #spiderman x reader #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman smut #skywalkerslvt

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animeyanderelover · 10 months ago

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Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional mindset, stalking, overprotective behavior, isolation, mentions of abusive past, child eperimentation, easily manipulated reader, the adult trio is highly toxic as father figures (Illumi is the worst)

Tags: @jamayah @chxxz @leveyani @shenryu-sama @maggiequinn59

Reader is like Eri from Bnha

Gon Freecss

🎣Gon is a simple individual with the determination and the stubbornness to match it. He's probably not the one who you can expect to have deep conversations with whenever your past catches up with you in your dreams or when fear seizes your heart as something within your proximity brings back unpleasant memories of a life that you have escaped from. However, Gon is going to get you outside a lot as soon as he notices that even the simplest animals or the most ordinary animals are a new experience for you as you spent years stuck in a laboratory. As someone who has spent his entire youth outside in nature it is only natural in Gon's mind that he shows you what you haven't seen yet as the thought of never getting to know all the adventures and creatures in the rivers and the forests is something he can't even fathom. Killua may argue that it is reckless of him to bring you with him since you have zero survival instinct, can't even distinguish a harmless butterfly from a venomous snake but if it comes down to sheer experience and awareness no one is beating Gon as he is essentially one with nature. He'll let you see everything you haven't whilst making sure that nothing harms you.

🎣It is actually quite dangerous for you to talk about your abusive past too detailed with him because it triggers a primal wrath within him to the point where a bit of that darkness may even seep out of him and unsettle and frighten you immensely even if you won't run away. That is why Killua has advised you to only be very shallow when answering his questions as Gon is still a very curious person to the point where he may even come over as quite insensitive and ignorant if your meek replies don't satisfy his curiosity. He's always pushing it slightly, mainly because he is convinced that you shouldn't keep secrets from him since he has essentially become your bigger brother and is going to protect you from everyone and everything. Explaining your Nen ability to him requires you to talk in simpler terms as otherwise he wouldn't be able to wrap his head around it but even after he has roughly grasped what you can do he is still not the least bit afraid. It's an amazing and useful ability and coupled with your sweetness and innocence he is genuinely not able to see just what you would do if you were to lose control and since he relies usually on his physical abilities he won't be the biggest help in training you.

Killua Zoldyck

🪀Killua is by comparison everything that Gon isn't and that is a good thing since it means that they balance each other out. There is obviously also a white flurry of anger within him but as a trained assassin he knows much better how to suppress his murderous intent than Gon who is more open with his emotions. So even if he secretly plans how to gruesomely rip someone's heart out of their chest nothing of that sort will be revealed on his face. You've told him in detail what has been done to you in the past so he knows that the last thing that would help you to feel safe around him would be for him to expose his own dark side to you. He's partially able to sympathise with your backstory as he went through tough training that everyone else would see as nothing short of child torture to get to the point where he is today but he is much tougher than you are which makes him very protective of you. He doesn't want you to be sheltered forever, he is familiar with the feeling of being imprisoned, but at the same time he knows how naive you are to the world around you and thinks that Gon's reckless adventures with you are too big of a jump from the life you were familiar with beforehand.

🪀If Gon is the extroverted and nature-loving older brother than Killua is the more introverted and chill counterpart of him. He familiarises you with electronics and basically watches all of the movies and TV shows with you that you have never been able to watch before. From the classics to what is currently very beloved, both of you spend hours in front of the TV which causes Gon to complain. He buys you tons of sweets when you reveal that you don't even remember what chocolate tastes like since it has been years since you had it and then he basically creates a tierlist for sweets with you so that he knows in the future what you love and what he should avoid to buy for you. When he takes you with him in cities he sees it through that you never stray away from him more than his arm's length, his eyes always scanning and analysing your surroundings as if he fears that someone will wait for you in a corner to take you back to the same medical room you were abused in for your entire childhood. Killua would be much more suited to help you with your quirk as well as he doesn't think as simply as Gon does and for that would be able to understand the principles and limitations better.

Hisoka Morow

🃏Whilst your abilities are unique it is not the kind of strength that Hisoka desires yet he still sees the potential that your powers could have to benefit him nevertheless. Initially his reasons for saving you from that medical room are nothing short of shallow and horrific. Your ability to rewind the bodies of a living being to a previous state bring a couple of advantages with it. You could restore his body if he were to be severely wounded in a fight, could restore the body of opponents he longs to fight and force them to continue fighting until he is satisfied and even restore their own abilities like Chrollo's. It is for that selfish reason that he takes you with him initially but even if he absolutely creeps you out at times you have just kind of resigned yourself to your fate and for that silently accept that you will be used for your abilities once more. The only advantage that comes with it is that you see the world outside of that facility for the first time and your sheer astonishment with the simplest things around you kind of amuses Hisoka to the point where he kind of makes a challenge out of it to see what ordinary things won't surprise you, your amazement giving him a very good idea what you had to go through.

🃏Your life is a strange mix of violence and newfound adventures, a unique mixture that you only really get because Hisoka is Hisoka. He starts growing fond of you over time in his own way though that doesn't mean that you will receive a normal childhood from that day on. He spoils you with sweets and toys and tags along with your childish antics to the point where he even lets you do his hair and makeup but you will still be there to fix him up when he got too excited whilst fighting a strong opponent or use your powers to heal them simply because Hisoka hasn't gotten enough of it yet. Still, he does get more cautious with how much he exposes you to the outside world as he knows that he sure as hell isn't the only one who has a keen interest in your special abilities. He knows that he could never provide you with a normal childhood like other children your age but that doesn't mean that he would just simply give you away. He isn't as selfless as you are and he will never be. No, he'll continue to have you tag along with him for all of your life. He isn't a sane father figure but he sure as hell is still nowhere near as bad as the people who had you in their hands before he entered your life.

Illumi Zoldyck

🤎The mission in itself is very easy. Infiltrate, kill and retrieve. Three simple steps that Illumi has repeated hundreds of times before during other missions only that during this mission he stumbles upon you. Tiny, fragile and trembling like a leaf in the wind as he enters your room, his needles in his hands. He didn't know of your existence, is merely here to steal some important data and if it wouldn't have been for your abilities he probably would have killed you without consideration. Yet whilst going through the files catered to you and realising just how much potential and use your powers would have for him and his family he simply takes you with him. After all you were not part of the mission nor are you someone he was paid to terminate or deliver which means he is free to take you. One can only imagine the surprise of everyone in the Zoldyck manor when he returns with you in his arms before bluntly stating that from now on you will live here. As the one who found you and made the decision to keep you he sees it as his job to see it through that you behave and learn how to use your powers so that his family benefits from it. Honestly, he isn't much different from the people who were previously using you.

🤎It is only after he has slightly mellowed out that he starts growing softer. You are quite obedient, nothing like his younger siblings as you simply follow along as obeying is the only thing you were supposed to do and for that it is the only thing you really know how to do. What is a deeply rooted issue in everyone else's eyes though is only good behavior in Illumi's eyes and he actively praises you for it. In return you get a big room stuffed with toys and plushies although you essentially become the second Alluka in the household, sheltered and isolated. Whilst Alluka has Killua though you end up with Illumi who is the only one you get to see most days. He feels like he has a special right over you in comparison to everyone else solely because it was he who found you and brought you back and he makes sure to drill that into your head as often as possible. He is your sole provider. He is your savior. You should only listen to him and turn to him when you have a problem. He hasn't used his needles on you yet as you have been so far a very obedient child but if some of his sibling's bad influence would rub off on you he will not hesitate to do the same thing to you he did to Killua.

Chrollo Lucilfer

📖You are freed for only one purpose and that is to rewind Chrollo's body before the Chain user placed the condition on him that would kill him the moment he used his abilities. You only remember chaos, violence and blood when the other members of the Phantom Troupe rescued you after they found out about your unique abilities and it is Chrollo who manipulates you into staying with them after he saw with his own eyes what you are capable off. He wants your abilities. You are no member of his troupe and for that he has attachment to you, could easily end your life right then and there as you aren't the first child he would have murdered yet he can't just steal your abilities from you. The problem is that you don't even know how your powers work, something he needs to know from you in order to steal your Nen from you and as he is unwilling to lose such a treasure he decides to simply take you in for now and assist you in figuring out your abilities until he has helped you to figure them out so that he can then steal them from you. You probably sense that none of his smiles or words are sincere as he offers to take you in but you also know that you have nowhere to escape, merely accept your new fate.

📖Your past is probably the first thing that kind of leads you to bond with him and the rest of the troupe. Chrollo has always been someone who loved studying humans and since he has a special interest in you he wants to know everything about you. Not only from files but from your own lips. Everyone in the troupe has had a rough life so you earn the first tiny spark of sympathy from him and other members when you end up confessing that you have no parents and that the only thing that was worth keeping you alive for was your Nen ability. Honestly, it is likely that you may end up getting the whole troupe platonically obsessed with you. Their childhood has been ruined but yours isn't shattered completely yet so they end up working hard to provide you with everything that you have never experienced or gotten before. Chrollo in particular grows heavily obsessed and keeps you almost constantly by his side, teaches you how to write and read and even reads you bedtime stories. The whole troupe has come silently to the agreement that even if he takes your abilities you will be kept. If Chrollo is the head of the spiders and they are the legs than you are the heart and the soul of them.

#yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #platonic yandere #yandere gon #yandere gon freecss #yandere killua #yandere killua zoldyck #yandere hisoka #yandere hisoka morow #yandere illumi #yandere illumi zoldyck #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer

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lillythecoolone · 2 months ago

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"𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐳𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬"

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 ��𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩? 𝙅𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 𝙭 𝙔𝙤𝙪 a/n: my grammer and punctuation, may not be the best because english is not my first language. Hope it's okay, and that you will still enjoy the story! Feel free to request any character (could be outside rdr also!) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It had never been easy, keeping a secret relationship with Javier. What if the gang found out- or busted you two doing something. You two could never take any chances. That meant stolen touches behind wagons, kisses barely hidden behind trees when no one was looking. At night, when everyone was half drunk or asleep, that’s when it was safest for you two, to do something. Javier would give you that smirky look, signaling to you, that you two should meet tonight. And everytime, you would pretend to walk off alone. And a few minutes later, you would hear a faint rustle from behind you, followed by big, warm and scarred hands around your waist, pulling you in.

You always liked that. Meeting in secret. If the gang members found out, you would surely be thrown out since you had just joined. Wouldn't it be weird, joining a gang only to just get into a secret relationship with a random guy, after just a few months. Javier on the other hand, didn't care, maybe he was just with you for pleasure. Still, every time he touched you, like really touched you, it felt like more than just a fling. The way he whispered your name like it meant something to him. The way it curled on his tounge. The way his hands would linger a little too long after, like he didn’t want to let go. But the doubt crept in when the sun rose. Javier would go back to being smooth talking, charming Javier. You’d catch glimpses of him laughing with with the girls, or humming Spanish songs while oiling his rifle before going on guard duty, not even glancing your way. You told yourself not to care. Not to expect more. He probably *was* just in it for the thrill. You were the new one, after all. He didn’t have to be serious. And you? You weren’t supposed to feel serious things for him either. But deep down, you did. - You were already leaning against the tree where you usually met, heart thudding with that familiar nervous excitement you always felt when you two agreed to meet. You expected the usual: hands on your hips, lips against your neck, that low chuckle he always gave when he made you gasp. Instead, he stepped out of the dark and didn’t touch you right away. He just looked at you. Quiet. Almost serious. It scared you. Was he "breaking up" with you. Did he change his mind right then and there?

"You ever think about what we’re doing?" he asked, voice low and not quite teasing this time. You blinked.

“What do you mean?”

He hesitated, then moved a little back, almost like he didn't want to be there. Like he felt disgusted or was scared of you. Your stomach twisted. That cold, familiar panic welled up in your chest. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe you were just a passing thrill and the weight of it finally caught up to him. You took a step back too, arms crossing over your chest like armor.

“If… if you don’t wanna do this anymore,” you said, trying to sound casual and failing, “you can just say so.” H e looked at you, and there was no disgust in his eyes, just something you couldn’t name. A flicker of guilt, maybe.

“No,” he said quickly, stepping forward again. “No, it’s not that.” You stayed quiet. Waiting. Afraid to hope. “I just...” he ran a hand through his loose hair, he always had his hair up, it looked good on him. But damn, loose hair suited him.. very, well. He looked frustrated with himself. “This ain’t just messing around for me, alright? I try to keep it like that, because it’s easier. Safer.”

He finally reached for you, one hand gentle on your arm. “But then I see you, and I forget how to be careful. And I know if they find out, and then Dutch might send you packing. Or worse.” The silence hung between you like smoke. “So yeah,” he added, voice rough, “I think about what we’re doing. I think about it too much.”

You softened then, the tightness in your chest loosening just a little. The words weren’t perfect, Javier wasn’t good at that kind of thing, but you could feel the truth in them. He *was* scared. Just like you. Slowly, you reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into it like he’d been waiting. "Then let's just be careful," you whispered.

And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy or full of heat. It was slow. Like a promise. - A few months had passed, and you were getting more comfortable. The once stolen glances had turned into quick smirks over the stew pot. Light brushes off his fingers when you handed him ammo. A wink when he walked by singing, guitar slung across his back like he owned the whole damn world. It wasn’t a full on anouncement. You and Javier were still careful, but less paranoid. You’d flirt when it felt safe, laugh a little louder when he told his stories, lean into him just a bit when the nights grew colder and darker. You flet safe with him.

And people had started to notice.

You’d catch Charles glancing at the two of you with a raised brow and the ghost of a knowing smile. Mary Beth giggled one night when she saw you duck out of camp after Javier left not long before. Wonder why... And Uncle, yeah Uncle flat out muttered, “Hmph. 'Bout damn time that gal' settled down,” before taking another swig from his beer bottle. But no one said anything about it. No lectures, no judgment, no Dutch making it a thing, maybe he hadn't even noticed. Maybe they were just used to it. Maybe they respected you both enough not to make it their business. Or maybe, just maybe, they liked seeing Javier smile a little softer when you were near.

One evening, as you sat on a crate near the fire, Javier dropped down beside you, knees brushing. He handed you a beer without asking. You smirked.

“You tryna' make me fall for you or something?”

He chuckled, low and smooth. “That already happened, hermosa. You just didn’t notice.” Across the fire, Karen raised her mug in a toast with a sly grin. “Ain’t no secrets last long in this gang.” And just like that, the last of the tension in your chest eased.You weren’t just sneaking around anymore. You were *his* , and everyone already seemed to know. a/n: no, no, i didn't forget what you all waited for. Ready fior it to get steamy? - That night, the camp was quiet. The fire had burned low, and the only sounds were the soft chirping of crickets and the slow rhythm of horses shifting in their sleep. You lay awake in your bedroll, staring at the canvas above you, heart already thudding in anticipation. You didn’t even need to look up when the tent flap shifted—you felt him before you saw him. His presence was always warm, magnetic. And tonight, it crackled with something more.

“Still awake, cariño?” he whispered, low and quiet. You sat up, already reaching for him. “You’re late.” He grinned, that familiar smirk curving his lips as he sank down beside you. “Worth the wait?” You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in, capturing his mouth in a kiss that said everything for you. His hands, rough and warm, found your hips immediately, pulling you into his lap as if he couldn't stand the inches between you. The kiss deepened, slow, then hungry. His tongue tasted like whiskey and something sweet, and you let yourself melt into him, fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair. He groaned into your mouth, his voice low and gravelly. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

Your laugh was breathless against his lips. “Good.”

His hands roamed beneath your shirt, calloused palms dragging over your skin, slow and reverent. You gasped softly as his mouth found your neck, peppering it with kisses that grew hotter, more insistent. His stubble scraped just enough to make you shiver. “Quiet now,” he murmured against your throat, nipping lightly. “Don’t want the whole camp hearin’ how good I make you feel.” The thrill of being caught never quite left, even now. And with his voice like that, low, deep, sinful, it made it even harder to obey. You unbottuned his vest, and tugged of his shirt under it in one motion, running your hands across his chest, feeling the heat of him, the hard muscle beneath your palms. He sighed like he’d been waiting for your touch all day. Maybe he had. Time blurred in that moment, heat building slowly, tension winding tight, until the only thing that existed was him. His hands. His mouth. The sound of your breath mixing with his. And when you finally sank into each other, bodies pressed close, hearts thudding in unison, it wasn’t just lust anymore. It was something deeper, quieter. Something that made your chest ache in the best way. He kissed your temple, his hand brushing through your hair as he held you afterward.

“You’re not just some secret to me,” he said, barely louder than a breath. You smiled, still dizzy from the way he touched you, the way he made you feel wanted, needed. “I know.” His kissed grew more intense, and rougher. And the moans grew to another level of loud, but you had to be quiet because the whole camp could hear it. "Don't hide, hermosa" he grinned, he wanted the camp to hear that you were *his*. You blushed, feeling his growing bulge between your throbbing legs. "Please.." You begged him in between kisses. "What?" He smirked, stopped kissing you for a short while. Hids mouth was hungry. But you pressed his head down. Signaling something you so dearly ached for. Something your pussy do dearly ached for. He smirked, he groaned flirtly and maked his was down. He lifted you dress, took out your undergarments, not breaking eye contact, and the only thing you could do was to look at him achingly and impatient while he did it. When he finally had everything off, you laid completely naked. Bare breasts and nippels so hard, that they could cut through glass.. almost. He smirked and broke eye contact, looking at something that was so wet it was almost like a waterfall. He leaned down and began kissing you clit, sending chocks up trhough your whole body by the oh so clean pleasure you felt by it. And then, tounge work began. His tounge moved expertly through your folds, the juices covering his tounge in one lick. The pleasure was so overwhelming, that you screamed out into your clothes that laid freely beside you. Just to cover the screams. He smiled, and your felt the weirdly looking beard on your folds when he did, just more pleasure, you thought. When you were almost there, he stopped. "No! why did you do that?!" You sais exhausted and angrily you body still shaking for the nearly orgasmn you awaited, but it never arrived. He smirked again, and unbottoned his pants. Revealing a larger member than you expected. You were flabbergasted, in a good way. He leaned down and spreaded your legs even more. Then inserted it. And waves of fulfillment chocked your body. More and more moans escaped your lips when he started moving, faster and faster. His groans also grewing higher and louder "Fuck, your so tight, hermosa" (hermosa - beautiful) He leaned down and kissed you, cancelling some upcoming moans from your mouth. This was a big risk. Laying in your tent, people sleeping just a few meters away from you. Risky. Made it even more freaky and sexy. You felt your orgasmn knocking on the door again. And javier noticed by the louder moans he so desperately tried to cover with his kisses. But it he didn't sucseed by covering them. And a final loud one escaped your swollen lips when you came. And apparently that was also the breaking poibnt for Javier. He pulled out fast and came over your stomach. The white liquid felt warm, and you began to feel tired. After javuier had cleaned you up, he layed down beside you, cupping one of your breasts, and mumbleing spanish short phrases into your ear, praising you, you guessed by the nicknames he had given you, you remembered those. He kissed your ear, neck, cheek, mouth. And soon after, you fell asleep in his arms. Naked, in the cold and airy night. Surrounded by properly awakedned people now. - The next day felt akward, people gave you looks. Not bad ones, but ones that smirked a little. Esecially Arthur who was sleeping in his wagon just outside of your tent. You blushed by the looks, and kept your distance for the rest of the day. Avoiding the "camp mom" Susan. Just not to get scolded. Because word got around camp fast, and you were sure everyone knew already. a/n: That was the story! i hope yall liked it. Please feel free to request any other charcter: smut? head cannons. i can do anything!

#javier escuella #red dead redemption 2 #smut #risky #rdr2 #javier pena x reader #oc #thank you #sexy hunk #spanish #mexican #summer 1899

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vividiana · 4 months ago

Text

chapter 2

pairing: Astarion x f!Durge · word count: 4.6k

rating: M for now, will change to E (18+)

tags: modern AU, witness protection, strangers to friends to lovers (see AO3 for a more exhaustive list)

summary: It’s been over a year since Eve had to uproot her life and assume a new identity—anything to distance herself from the past she wishes she could forget. When an erratic, if oddly charming, newcomer stumbles into her place of work, she recognizes something familiar within him and the two can’t seem to stay away from each other. But Eve is not the only one running from her past.

An alternative, modern take on the Dark Urge x Astarion romance, filled with friendship, secrets, healing, and ABBA.

a/n: this chapter is a bit heavier as we start to get into Eve's backstory. but fortunately, she has World's Best Roommate to come home to, so it's not too terrible 💛

chapter-specific cw: mentions of past relationship abuse, mentions of murder, nightmares, flashbacks, blood, guns, anxiety attacks, being called pet names by slimy men

previous chapter · read on AO3 · dividers

“I’m afraid this is all we have time for today,” says Therapist Number Nine, or Halsin, as he insisted she call him. “Thank you for your honesty, Eve. I’m truly glad you decided to take this first step in coming here. Does the same time next week work for you?”

Eve is currently channeling all of her energy into maintaining a neutral expression, so the most she can manage is a nod.

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

“Thanks,” she mutters before grabbing her bag and walking out of the office.

The perky receptionist attempts to talk to her, but Eve is already reaching out for the door. She needs to get out, needs to breathe, needs to–

The afternoon air is too warm to offer her any relief. It envelops her in a constricting embrace, making it even harder to breathe.

She rushes back to her car and as soon as she closes the door, her body jerks with a loud sob. She rests her forehead on the steering wheel as the tears keep falling.

This is why she keeps changing therapists, why she never makes it past the first couple sessions. Because after all the formalities and testing the waters, they start digging, and when they dig, she starts to remember, and she doesn’t want to remember. She just wants it to stop hurting. To make it through the day without despising herself. Why is that so much to ask?

But this one, this Halsin, with his kind, insightful eyes that made Eve feel like he was peering into the very core of her rotten soul, he didn’t seem to have a need for your standard interview. No, he had to get straight to the point, to call it as it is, or rather, as he saw it.

Abuse.

It echoes painfully against her skull, the concept rattling around her mind looking for fertile ground to take root, but she won’t let it. She doesn’t want it to stick, doesn’t want to face it head on.

The tears don’t stop and it scares her, the sheer force with which the pain seizes her body. It’s not that she doesn’t usually cry—it’s just never about this. Never about him.

There is no relief to be found in those tears, only an increasingly hollow feeling, the gaping hole in her chest widening with every trembling sob.

She can’t stay here, because the longer she stays, the more details come back to her, the more vivid his voice grows in her mind—after she went through such great lengths to never have to hear it again. But she can’t find it in herself to force her muscles to move.

It’s not until someone pulls into a parking spot to her left that Eve is snapped back to the present, the sudden movement reminding her that the world around her carries on. She sits up and retrieves some tissues from the glove compartment to try to manage the sniffling mess her face has become.

She’s still too shaken to drive, so she decides to walk to a CVS down the street to get some water and a Twix bar. When she’s waiting to check out, she spots some discounted face masks and grabs one for her and one for Lae’zel. Surely the “Exfoliating Strawberry” will fix her.

When Eve finally makes it back to Clinton, she is, of course, late. And while she looks like a chewed-up possum, with her puffy cheeks and wrinkled jumpsuit wrangled out from the jaws of her dryer, Agent Ravengard looks like a model, all lean muscle and perfect smile. This time, his locks are pulled up into a bun, eyes obscured by a pair of round rimless sunglasses. He waits for her on a bench outside the coffee shop, his iced mocha and her chai latte in hand.

Gentleman that he is, Wyll tactfully ignores her frazzled state as he rises and hands her the beverage, then nods towards the park on the other side of the street.

“How was your weekend?” he asks as they start walking.

“It was fine,” she says, her voice still a bit hoarse. She clears her throat and continues: “Lae’zel dragged me out on a hike yesterday. And Saturday was not particularly exciting, since I had to work. My manager was giving me a hard time. This lady yelled at me because we were out of Smirnoff Ice. You know, the usual.”

“Have you thought about looking for a different job? Every time I ask about it, you sound exasperated.”

“Oh, every single day. But there is only so much you can do with a high school diploma, no employment history, and no references.”

“You know you can always put me down as a reference, right? We do that sometimes. Just give me a heads up, so I can prep. But I’m also quite good at making things up on the spot—I was in an improv group in college, have I ever told you that?”

“No, you haven’t,” she laughs. “But that seems very on-brand.”

They sit on one of the few remaining benches in the shade and Wyll asks her about her support network: whether she’s made any new friends or found a way to get involved with the local community. It feels like he is actively avoiding the subject of therapy.

But then there is a lull in the conversation and finally, trying to make himself sound as casual as possible, he asks:

“Oh, and how was your appointment today?”

There it is. The real question, the one he was warming her up for.

“I don’t like this guy.” Eve avoids his gaze as she speaks, watching a bird perched on a bench a few feet away, ruffling its feathers.

“Mhm. And why is that?”

“He’s too nice,” she sighs as she turns to face him, painfully aware of how silly she sounds. “He treats me like I’ve never done anything wrong in my life.”

“Eve, you know I like you, but this feels like you’re just making up excuses at this point.”

“I’m not,” she insists.

“He’s too nice? That’s the issue?”

“Yes. And there is another thing, he just– He’s barely met me and he thinks that he can tell me the truth about my life, when he doesn’t even understand the full picture.”

“So maybe with time, he will begin to understand the full picture? If you let him.”

Eve takes a large sip of her beverage to stall.

He doesn’t get it. And after all, why would he? We are nothing alike.

“Eve, you know I can’t force you to do this,” Wyll continues when she doesn’t respond. “It’s your life. I’m here to connect you with resources, but it’s up to you whether you use them or not. But you said it yourself, not so long ago: that you wanted to feel better, that you’re tired of living like this. I understand that whatever he said made you uncomfortable, and you can bring it up to him during your next session. But if you truly want things to change, you will have to deal with that discomfort. For a while, perhaps. I know you know this, too. And I understand that it’s hard to accept. But please just give it an honest try, will you? Not for me. For yourself.”

She’d rather do it for him, honestly. And so, to not make his job any harder than it already is, she says, however reluctantly:

“Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

“Splendid.” After a moment, he adds: “I know it’s not easy, Eve, but I think you’ll find it to be a good choice in the long run.”

She nods, thoroughly unconvinced.

In a great display of mercy, Wyll changes the subject and asks about Lae’zel. Eve jumps on the opportunity to divert from her problems and update him on the highs and lows of the youth soccer league.

When he walks her back to her car, she asks:

“Has there been any progress with the investigation?”

“No, nothing new. I’m sorry, Eve.”

“But you’ll tell me if there is, yes? I’m still avoiding the news.”

“Of course.”

After they say their goodbyes, Eve heads to the elementary school, but this time she chooses to wait in her car. The drive home is quiet, Lae’zel glued to her phone, probably on the prowl for her next hook-up.

As soon as they make their way back to the apartment, Eve heads to her room and engages in the titillating activity of lying on her bed and staring at the ceiling, her gaze following the branching out cracks in the paint.

She knows she needs to find a distraction soon to avoid a repeat of her outburst in the car, but that would necessitate moving, which currently seems like an insurmountable task.

There is a soft knock on the door.

“Come in.”

She turns her head to watch as Lae’zel walks in, an unusual hint of concern in her hazel eyes. She grabs the chair from Eve’s desk and sits facing the back, her elbows propped on the plastic as she speaks.

“Talk to me, boluda, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

But in the silence that follows, Eve eventually finds the right words and recounts the unfortunate appointment, skimming over the details of what exactly she told Halsin. She’s still facing the ceiling as she talks, which makes it a bit easier.

Lae’zel listens thoughtfully, refraining from any comments. When Eve finishes, she waits for a moment before asking:

“Do you need a distraction, company, space, or…?”

“I don’t know, I kinda want to rot in bed for a bit. But company might be nice.”

Lae’zel nods, her gaze gliding around the room. When it lands on the corkboard above the desk, she leans towards it, brows furrowed.

“What’s this about?” she asks, pointing to the pinned note.

“Oh, that. It’s kind of a long story,” Eve says, waving her hand dismissively.

But Lae’zel just cocks her eyebrow and Eve sighs, sitting up as she explains:

“Okay, so there was this guy…”

“Uh-huh,” Lae mutters in a this will be good tone.

“...who came into the Blushing Mermaid on Friday. A new customer. Um– and he was a bit… frazzled, let’s say. Anyways, I go up to take his order and I don’t know what it is about him, but I get this feeling that he looks familiar, like we’ve met before. So I ask him about it, and then he just snaps at me, starts talking nonsense–”

“Sounds like a douchebag.”

“Well, yeah, But then I called him out on it, and he instantly apologized, which literally never happens. And he seemed genuinely sorry, like– It just felt like he was going through some stuff and wasn’t himself. Which I can understand.”

“And then what?”

“Well, we talked for a bit. You know, just your usual customer small-talk. And then he left and I saw that he wrote that note on the receipt and gave me a tip that was higher than his total. He came in on Saturday again and we chatted for a bit and that’s kind of it. Left a standard tip this time.”

“And you kept the note because…?”

Eve opens her mouth and closes it shortly, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Uh– I don’t know. It comes with a funny anecdote, I guess?”

“Mhm,” Lae’zel says. She has a talent for conveying entire sentences with hums and weighted stares. This particular one seems to communicate: you’re full of shit. After a moment of silence, she asks: “Was he hot?”

Eve can feel the blush that spreads across her cheeks under this sudden interrogation.

“I– He–” she stutters. And then, carefully choosing her words, she responds: “He had a certain charm about him, yes.”

“A certain charm. Mhm. And he came back on Saturday.”

“Yeah…” Eve says, already fretting where this is going.

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t–”

“Is the food that good?” Lae interrupts her.

“No, not really–”

“So maybe it’s the ambiance… is it cozy and inviting?”

“No but–”

“Eve, I went to the Mermaid one time to support you, and I will never step foot in that shithole again. Unless you ask me to murder your manager, which I would happily do.”

Eve takes a mental note of the generous offer before asking:

“Okay, so what’s your point?”

“What is so great about that place that he would come back the next day?” Lae asks, like she’s trying to get Eve to understand a math equation.

“I don’t know, but we have a lot of regulars! So people clearly like coming back.”

“Yes, but they’re mostly truckers, or older people who don’t want to eat alone, or men who want to watch a game with their bros. So which category does this mysterious stranger fall into, out of those three?”

“None. But he’s new in town and said he wanted to check out the local scene.”

“Right. So wouldn’t it make sense for him to go to a different restaurant next time to see what else is around here?”

“…maybe.”

“Unless, of course, there was something compelling him to come back. Like, maybe a cute, funny, feisty waitress, who wasn’t afraid to talk back, who has a beautiful smile and a great ass to match?”

“I, uh– Well thank you, but–”

“If you don’t want to make a pass at Wyll, then maybe you should bang Note Guy.”

“Can we go back to the part where you were showering me with compliments?”

“Gladly. You’re also very smart.”

“Aww, thanks.”

“Which doesn’t stop you from being a dumbass about certain things, this being one of them.”

“Okay, well, thank you Lae, this was a very helpful distraction, but I think this conversation is over now.”

“If you say so,” Lae says, standing up. She heads for the door, turning back to add: “When he comes back tomorrow, which he will, you should get his number.”

“Go away,” Eve says exasperated as she tosses a pillow at Lae’zel. She dodges without as much as batting an eye.

Left to her own devices, Eve fetches her laptop and as she scrolls through the selection of horror movies on Netflix, she tries not to think too hard about Note Guy’s smile.

The night is restless.

A gunshot.

Blood.

There is so much blood.

He’s still holding the gun with one hand when the other grabs her chin, forcing her to look at the body.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he commands, voice dripping with venom. “You made me do this. This is your fucking fault.”

The gun clatters to the floor and Eve startles when his hands come up to cradle her face.

Tears.

But not hers– His.

She might have been impressed by how quickly he managed to make them fall, were she not hypnotized by the growing pool of crimson on the plastic tarp.

“You know I love you, babygirl. You know that, right? I have to keep you safe. This is how I keep you safe.”

Her throat is too tight to utter a sound, but she manages a curt nod. He leans in to shower her with quick, frantic kisses, lips wandering around her face and neck, whispering praises and declarations of love against her skin.

But all Eve can do is stare at the unfortunate eyewitness. She was so beautiful, full of color and life. But now, her long purple hair sticks to her scalp in clumps, darkened with blood, her golden eyes wide open, frozen in terror.

Wrong place. Wrong time.

That’s all it took.

The body turns its head to look straight at her.

Eve jerks awake, drenched in cold sweat. It takes her a moment to realize where she is, that she’s safe.

It’s not even 7 a.m. but she doesn’t want to go back to sleep, doesn’t want to risk seeing him again. She just needs to find a way to stay occupied until noon and then her shift will start, giving her something else to stress about.

But no matter what she does, she can’t shake how visceral the dream felt. She keeps hearing his voice, fragmented memories resurfacing through the haze.

“You look terrible,” Wulbren greets her when she finally makes it into the diner.

“Thanks for noticing!” she responds, a little louder than intended, as she walks past him.

The next couple hours pass in a blur.

It’s not her best day. One might even say that it’s one of the worst days in her illustrious career at the Blushing Mermaid. She confuses people’s orders multiple times. She nearly snaps at a customer for asking her why the prices are so high, as if that was somehow her decision.

Contrary to Lae’zel’s predictions, Note Guy doesn’t show up at his usual time, which Eve feels strangely grateful for. She doesn’t want him to see her like this, when her brain is so scattered, when just being here physically hurts. And it’s more than wanting to make a good impression on a customer—no, it’s something uniquely about him, about how he might perceive her. Though why would she care about his opinion in the first place?

Half-way through the day, she is carrying a tray full of glasses when all of a sudden, she loses her balance. The tray tops over, glass shattering into a thousand pieces as it hits the floor.

Someone claps and cheers, like she’s a fucking court jester who went for ye olde broken glass gimmick in a desperate attempt to liven up the crowd.

Thank you. That’s so helpful and exactly what I needed right now.

She rushes to a couple seated at the nearest table, assessing for damage.

“Are you okay? I’m very sorry.”

“We’re okay sweetie,” the older woman reassures her. “Are you?”

The simplicity of the question hits her like a brick wall.

No.

“I’m okay, thank you. I’ll be right back to clean up.”

But as she heads for the kitchen, Lakrissa emerges with a broom and mop in hand.

“I’ve got it,” she whispers as they pass. “Go drink some water or something.”

Of course, it’s not long before Wulbren shows up looking for her, because apparently having a breakdown and needing a couple minutes to compose herself outside of her scheduled lunch break is highly unprofessional.

A couple hours later, as she enters the bar room, she spots the familiar white curls and curses under her breath. This time, Note Guy is wearing a lilac linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She briefly notes how much the color suits him before the dread of talking to him in her current state takes over.

“Welcome back,” she says when she comes up to his table.

He smiles with that stupidly charming smile of his and makes some comment about how busy the place is for a Tuesday night. His attempt at striking up a conversation goes completely over her head and instead of acknowledging it in any way, she just asks:

“What can I get you?”

Smooth. Keep up the attitude and he will stop coming back.

He must notice that something is off because he eases on the cheeriness and doesn’t force her into small talk, which Eve is eternally grateful for. Small mercies.

By some miracle, she makes it to the last few minutes of her shift.

She checks in on a booth full of men who have grown increasingly drunk and obnoxious throughout the evening. As she’s picking up the empty beer glasses off their table, she feels a hand rest on her waist as another man scoots behind her to join the group.

“Scuse me,” he mutters.

Because of course how could you possibly pass someone without touching them? It makes her skin crawl, her jaw tense as she picks up the pace.

“Aw, always with the frown,” the man says as he sits down, his speech slurring slightly. “What’s the problem, sweetie? You can tell me, I’m a good listener.”

“Anything else I can get you?” she asks, looking at the other people at the table.

“Get us another round,” the man says.

“Nah, Rick, you’ve had enough,” another one chimes in.

An argument breaks out, and Eve grasps at the opportunity to excuse herself:

“I’ll give you a moment to decide. I’m heading out soon, but I’ll have my colleague check up on you.”

When she turns away, she catches Note Guy’s gaze for a second, before he averts his eyes hurriedly.

She walks up to his table and asks:

“Anything I can get you before I’m off?”

“Just the check, please.” And then he looks like he might say something more, but instead he opts for a short: “Thank you.”

Eve goes through the motions of finishing up her shift, her mind miles away. When she eventually clocks out, she throws on her denim jacket and leaves through the back floor. Relief washes over her as she steps into the crisp night air, grateful that this disastrous day is finally over.

But the relief is short-lived as a familiar voice reaches her from the steps leading up to the front door of the diner.

“Oh, it’s you!” says Rick or Nick or whoever else, a limp cigarette hanging from his mouth.

Eve tenses immediately, her palms closing around a small can in her jacket pocket. She doesn’t particularly want to finish this day off by treating some drunk to a helping of pepper spray, though if he gives her the faintest reason, she won’t hesitate.

But the man seems harmless enough, though no less insufferable, as he stumbles down the steps and onto the parking lot, positioning himself rather inconveniently on the path to her car.

“Didn’t mean to bother you back there, Miss,” he slurs as Eve walks briskly, eyes fixed on her destination.

“It’s just– You looked so sad today and I know that look. My wife left me and it’s still hard sometimes. She took the dog, you know, my Millie–”

He continues his sorry tale as Eve keeps walking, refusing to acknowledge his existence.

“You know, sometimes when I get groceries I accidentally buy those chewy treats she liked so much. It’s a habit. Honest to God, I just forget–”

The diner door opens and shuts, but she doesn’t let it distract her as she passes the man in a wide berth.

But then she hears slow footsteps behind her, and her muscles tense anew, fingers gripping the spray as she flicks the safety mechanism to the side. And because apparently the situation is not aggravating enough, the familiar voice slithers into her mind, dripping with affection that makes her skin crawl:

“You gotta learn how to fight, baby, in case I’m not there to protect you. I need to know you can take care of yourself before I send you on a job all alone.”

“Twenty years of marriage and all of a sudden she wants a divorce, no warning, she says I stopped trying–”

Eve is almost by the car when another, chipper voice cuts through Dick’s drunken rant.

“There you are, darling! I told you to wait for me.”

Eve’s head snaps back in disbelief as she sees Note Guy jog towards them, his mouth curled up into a fond smile.

He stops beside her, and Eve catches a glimpse of his arm snaking up to her shoulders, but no touch follows. It’s as if he’s hovering his palm over her back in some exaggerated pantomime of affection.

“Is there a problem?” he asks sweetly, but his expression is tense as he looks up and down the man before them.

The customer ceases his sloppy soliloquy as his eyes flit back and forth between the two of them. Eve can almost hear the booze-soaked cogs turn in his mind as he tries to piece together the puzzle before him.

“Nah, no problem. Miss and I were just talking.” He gestures to Eve as he takes a drag of his cigarette.

“Mhm,” Note Guy hums, and then makes a show of checking his watch. “I think it’s time to go home, don’t you?” But he makes no effort to move, instead looking at the customer pointedly.

“Right, I ‘spose,” the man says, palming at his jacket pockets. “Shit, the boys took my keys.” He sighs, as if he wanted to say: don’t you hate it when that happens? “It’s not that far, guess I’ll just– I’ll be off then. Night, Miss,” he says before heading down the street.

Eve’s finger is still on the pepper spray when she turns to the man at her side. He takes a large step back, looking a touch embarrassed.

“Darling?” she asks incredulously.

“I briefly considered ‘babe,’ but that seemed even more awkward,” he says, fidgeting with his sleeves.

“Well, either way, this was unnecessary,” Eve says coldly.

“Oh. Right. Well, I just– I saw him bother you in the restaurant and then– I didn’t want to just walk past without saying something when he was clearly making you uncomfortable. But I won’t take up more of your time,” he says, taking another step back. “Good night.”

A tinge of guilt grips at her chest as she watches him turn around and briskly walk away. Her mouth opens before she can question it.

“Wait!”

He stops and turns halfway to glance back at her.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, before resuming his walk.

She stands there for a moment, eyes fixed on his silhouette, hoping that the next time she sees him, she will feel more like herself—and not like she wants to curl up into a ball and hide from the world.

Once she’s back at her apartment building, she starts putting in the code to the door when it swings open, and a woman steps out, smiling to herself.

As the woman holds the door open, Eve recognizes her from the Hinge photo Lae’zel showed her last week—Jen, 25. Even prettier in person.

“Thanks,” Eve says, grabbing the handle, and watches Jen walk away, swaying slightly on her chunky platform boots. Her black night slip of a dress does absolutely nothing to shield her from the evening chill, but she doesn’t seem to care.

Eve can’t help but smile, head shaking in disbelief as she makes her way upstairs.

When she gets to the apartment, she finds Lae in the kitchen in nothing but a tank top and underwear. She’s chopping some vegetables, the countertop full of neatly arranged tupperware containers.

“So that’s what you do after sex? Meal prep?!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lae’zel says, not looking away from the task at hand.

“I think you do,” Eve says, leaning against the fridge with her arms crossed. And then in a pointed tone, she adds: “I passed Jen on my way out.”

But Lae’zel seems thoroughly unfazed.

“And?”

“It seems like you’re breaking your own rules. Need I remind you? Lae’zel’s Sex Codex, Rule Number One: ‘No second dates. Always leave them wanting more.”

“I left her wanting more, trust me.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did.”

“How was work?” Lae’zel asks, making it abundantly clear that she will not be discussing her entanglement with Jen any further.

“Just about everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong.”

“What about Note Guy?”

“Oh. Like I said: everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong. Including Note Guy.”

This prompts Lae’zel to finally turn away from her chopping board.

“I need to know everything,” she demands, knife in hand.

“I desperately need a shower, but meet me in ten for face masks and story time?”

“It’s a date.”

a/n: thank you for reading! 🧡 a quick note on the language: "boluda" generally means "idiot," but in Argentinian Spanish it can also be used as a term of endearment between friends, which is how Lae uses it here

taglist: @roguishcat @arzen9 ✨ (lmk if you'd like to be added!)

next chapter · my masterlist

#astarion x durge #astarion x the dark urge #durgestarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfiction #bg3 modern au #my fic

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slothquisitor · 22 days ago

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Portrait of a Family Part IV: If we make stories for each other about what is in the room, we will never have to go in.

Summary: Before there was Lucanis, there was another Dellamorte Caterina favored.

Read from the beginning.

Read on AO3.

_________________________________________________________

Lucanis does not know, could not know, that the rooftop he’s claimed as his own was also his mother’s favorite. That nearly twenty years before he finds himself on that rooftop, his mother was in this exact same spot.

She is told she looks like her mother, all dark hair, dark eyes, but she has the build of her father: lean and willowy. Her tutors call her brilliant, a good strategist with a quick memory. Her mother oversees her other training, watches from the sidelines as she goes through her movements, as she and her siblings spar together; her sharp eyes missing nothing. She is quick to correct, quicker to criticize. She is an impossible woman to please, and yet, the young woman keeps trying. Her approval is hard won, and she remembers the moments she feels it, precious as pearls. She gathers them in her heart, guards them against anything that might crush them.

“You know, it’s rather rude to leave your own party,” comes a voice, a familiar one at that. This young man, this Crow, she knows him almost as well as she knows herself. They have been friends for years, friends even before it was wise to be, even before it was clear he would survive his training to become a full Crow.

Tomas is her dearest and best friend. He knows all her secrets, save one. The one she cannot tell him lest it cost her this, the brightest and the best moments.

“Once the drinking began, I’m not sure anyone noticed my absence,” she replies without turning.

He drops down to the ledge beside her, their feet hanging over the edge, dangling above the street. This is their spot. She had first met him here by chance, a pair of fledglings jumping roofs, playacting the lives they now lead.

“I’m sure your mother noted it,” he replies, glancing pointedly at the opal ring she twists between her fingers.

The ring: a gift. A curse. The mark of her favor. It doesn’t feel like she thought it would, being given this ring. She doesn’t like the weight of it, how heavy it feels on her hand. Because it feels not like a promise, but a threat, something that can so easily be snatched away the moment she disappoints her mother. The young woman had looked around the room, glanced at her siblings, looking she thinks for help or escape. A lifeline, perhaps.

She’d seen nothing but relief on their faces. She is the oldest and the favorite daughter. And now, the rest of them are safe from the fantastic burden of their mother’s expectations.

“She notes everything,” she replies. It is difficult to have secrets, to have anything that is truly hers within that house, that villa. An assassin in a family of assassins. Her father at least pretended he didn’t know everything, but he’s gone now, and so is much of the laughter.

Her friend sighs, glances out at the city that is theirs. “Someday, you’ll be First Talon.”

She stares at the ring that is as much a pronouncement as it was a gift. It is an inevitably now. “I’d do it differently than she does.”

“I know.”

The idea of it, of being First Talon, doesn’t scare her. She wants it; she is ambitious. Always has been. It is something of the fact that it is what her mother wants that makes her chafe against her future, that makes her fight against her bonds. It is a natural inclination, she thinks. All daughters wish to rebel against their mothers, don’t they?

“She’s sending me on a contract in Antiva City,” she tells him. She’s looking forward to it, to getting away for a while, but her heart clenches at the thought of leaving him behind.

“Perhaps I should similarly take a contract there,” he replies with a grin.

“Do you think you could?” she asks, afraid to let hope slip into her tone. Wouldn’t it be nice, a pair of Crows in the city? The distance between them collapsed. She is not the future First Talon, and he is not a member of a cuchillo house; they can simply be themselves.

Her heart stumbles over itself as his shoulder brushes against hers. “Yes.”

***

Two Crows are in the garden.

They are hidden in the shadows, in spaces between the hedges. Sometime in the last few months, confessions have been made, and in a world where so little feels in their control, they at least have this. Because they are in love, they are no longer careful, no longer so secretive. They know these midnight meetings will not go unnoticed, but the young woman finds that this is easier to do than to tell her mother.

The young man has no one to tell, but he cares little as long as he gets to see her. He has loved her from the moment he met her as a fledgling, from the moment she had beaten him in the sparring ring. He didn’t know who Guilia Dellamorte was then, but he does now, knows the weight she carries, the ring she bears, what it means, the family she belongs to.

And perhaps it is selfish to want her. He knows what they will say, the things that will be whispered behind their backs. That he is an upstart, looking to improve his standing. The Crows pretend to be apolitical, but amongst themselves, they are anything but. Houses rise and fall, Talons are named, and then they die, and new ones take their place. But not in House Dellamorte. He doesn’t care about any of that, though.

He only cares about the woman who allows him to kiss her, who whispers her secrets to him. That trusts him to have her back. Guilia.

Heads pressed close, they whisper about a future that feels tangible enough to touch. They make plans for all the ways their lives will be different, the choices they will make that are different from their parents’. Each kiss and press of fingers laced with so much hope.

The world is theirs for the taking, isn’t it?

***

There is a cradle in the nursery.

She is not sure when it arrived, if it was spirited inside yesterday or sometime last week. She has been away on a job. She may be pregnant, but she can still work. She may be the eldest, but she is the last to make this foray into parenthood. Most of her siblings already have children, but she has waited and waited and waited. It just had never felt right, and now she is here, their little bird will join the family in just a few short months.

Everyone tells her that motherhood changes everything, but she sees her mother, sees the First Talon, and knows that isn't necessarily true. Not even her own husband's death had slowed her down. So a baby will change very little, she thinks.

Still, the room is nice. It feels softer than the rest of the villa, tucked away near her and her husband's shared rooms. And there are already children here. Her nieces and nephews already running through the gardens and causing the same sorts of trouble their parents had before them.

It is only her lifetime of training that catches the footfalls behind her; they would be imperceptible to anyone else. Her husband is a very good Crow, after all. But she hears him, senses him almost as though some part of her very soul has always been attuned to him. She doesn't turn, simply allows him to come up behind her, arms gathering her to him.

"You're home," he sighs into her hair. She leans into his embrace as his hands drop to the swell of her stomach. "Both of you."

"Is this your doing?" she asks, gesturing at the cradle that has appeared.

"I know your brother said we could have theirs now that Lilia is older, but I…"

She turns in his arms. "Wanted something that was ours?"

She knows her husband loves her, knows he even loves her family. But he was not raised steeped so deep in tradition as she has been. The history of the rooms and furniture in this place feels heavy to him. He has taken her name, but he will give their child their own cradle - their own chance to define themselves.

"Yes. Do you like it?"

She smiles before kissing him. "Of course."

They stay like that for a while, swaying together, breathing in the same air. It is not often that they are apart, but she wishes it happened less.

"I have news as well," she says.

"Oh?"

"It is still so early, so promise not to say anything?"

He kisses her hands. "I swear."

"Magdalena is pregnant too." Her sister had told her, whispered it as they climbed through the city in the darkness. Her sister already has a daughter, but she's hoping for a boy.

He grins. "Really?"

She catches his hand, presses it against the spot where she feels the baby moving. "Our little bird will have a cousin just their age."

#lucanis dellamorte #illario dellamorte #caterina dellamorte #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age: the veilguard #portrait of a family #slothquisitorwrites #a little bit of fluff so that we cry even harder later <3

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ithebookhoarder · 1 year ago

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Marc and Steven with a Murdock? Like Daredevil?? If you want, of course ❤️🖤

The Moon Boys with a Murdock!Reader

A/N: Of course I want to! 😆 I'm only sorry it took me so long to answer this. However, I seem to be on a roll today - I can't believe I've got two requests out?! Like, who even am I?

Masterlist

As you said with a Murdock, I’m going with a sibling vibe here which would be pretty adorable anyway as Matt would be such a good brother if he’d ever had the chance.

He would be incredibly close with you and take his role as your protector as seriously as he takes his role as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

You’re the only one he lets know his true self as you’ve been through everything he has. You’ve shared the happiest and saddest moments of your lives together and the bond it forged is as strong as vibranium.

It holds you both together, not matter what you go through or where you end up - including when you both end up at colleges on opposite sides of the country.

You’re extremely careful to never let him pull too far away from you, even when he gets in one of his moods. In fact, you’re sure to turn up and let yourself in to his apartment when he goes too quiet and even Foggy can’t seem to pull him out of the darkness that haunts him.

It’s why you don’t run away when the Moon Boys come crashing in to your lives. The chaos that seems to follow them and their fears that they are too much for you is honestly familiar. Every attempt to push you away only makes you draw nearer - first as a friend, later as something more.

You’d probably meet Moon Knight first around New York. I mean, it's kind of hard not to come across him, given what Matt does and how chaos seems to find its way into your lives.

He'd be the latest adoptee into the Defenders / New York 'Avengers reject club' (your name for the gang, not theirs...) so you'd quickly end up involved in each other's lives.

You'd bond pretty quickly, once you get to know one another without the personas and danger. After all, I think Steven would be eager to find friends who aren't necessarily supers and just like to drink coffee, read novels and go to the dog park at the weekend.

He'd be super keen to get to know you. You're one of the only people who get what their life is like, but also have a foot in the real world.

You'd win over Marc later on, wearing him down with your positivity and unwavering optimism (and also Steven will not shut up about you).

You're not afraid of the darker parts of their world, and become a much needed safe space for Marc, once he lets his guard down.

For instance, you'd be great at patching him up - having had enough practise on Matt over the years. You're also used to having someone nocturnal in the house, coming and going at all hours of the night. Plus, you can obviously be trusted to keep a secret or two.

If anything, Marc's only reluctant to let you get close to him as he doesn't want to taint you. To ruin something so bright and wonderful by dragging you into his darkness.

If Matt's ok with putting you in danger, then that's up to him as your brother. You're family. But for Marc and Steven to do that? It's a line they're unwilling to cross... until you prove to them you aren't going anywhere. That you can handle yourself and that you're already in this mess anyway, so why shouldn't you both be happy?

From that moment on, there's no looking back for any of you. You're leaping in to this together head first, and soon enough you can't imagine life any other way.

Matt, however, can.

Let's be real, he wouldn’t be the biggest fan of Steven and Marc. In fact, he’d be pretty against your relationship the minute he finds out about it.

One, because he thinks no one is worthy of you.

Two, because he hates the idea of you getting hurt or being in danger and being in a relationship with multiple people who all serve an ancient Egyptian deity as his personal vigilante is the very definition of dangerous.

"I... I can't even begin to understand how you could possibly think this is a good idea? At all? He - they - are literally the puppets of an Egyptian god - a GOD, Y/N. You don't want to get in the middle of all that?"

You quickly remind him how he gave a similar speech to Karen when he found out about her and Frank Castle seeing each other, and that didn't work. Last time you checked, they're still blissfully in love.

"Besides, Matthew! You're the one who goes running around at night, getting in fights, wearing a glorified halloween costume. Like, I am the SANE sibling here. ALSO! Marc and Steven were forced into their situation. They didn't go looking for it like a crazy nut job. So, yeah. I think if anything, you don't have a leg to stand on here!"

Matt would be able to sense who was fronting the moment they appeared. He’d be able to recognise them from the way their heart is beating and their mannerisms the second they stepped through the door, which is helpful but also incredibly unsettling.

Steven would brush it off, seeing it as Matt just being a kind brother to you. However, I think Marc would have more of a problem with Matt’s hostility, and enhanced senses. It puts him on edge to know they are being so closely scrutinised.

They also have the same temperament so I can imagine there will be more than a few clashes in the beginning, their similar brusque natures making it hard for them to not bump heads.

However, after Matt learns about Marc’s DID and his childhood trauma I think he’d be more sympathetic. After all, you both didn’t have the easiest childhood either.

He also knows what it’s like to live with a condition that can make your life harder but also makes you unique.

According to the comics, both of them are known to be good detectives and also keen boxers. I can totally see them building a reluctant respect for one another after they realise they have more in common than just their love for you.

In fact, I know you’d have to pull them out of the ring after Marc agrees to a sparring match with the famous ‘Devil’. The pair of them would get a weird pleasure from trying to beat the other to a pulp - they don’t often find someone evenly matched to have a friendly bout or two with.

At least it would once again prove to Matt that your boys could definitely take care of you if you ever needed it.

Matt would definitely be sure to offer his legal advice whenever he’s concerned you both might be skating on thin ice with the law. Apparently, ‘I’m being controlled by an Ancient Egyptian God’ hasn’t ever been tried as a legal defence in the American justice system before… and Matt is oddly willing to try it.

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junovae · 6 months ago

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i love you, but i hope we never meet again.

how can a person love and hate another at the same time? how can one thing contain two truths at once—love and aversion, beauty and destruction? i used to think it was impossible. that was before i met you.

“i didn’t tell you to protect your feelings,” you said one unassuming afternoon. your words carried weight—double meaning. is love so easily interchangeable with deceit?

“i don’t want to compliment you because it’ll fuel your ego.” words of affirmation were my primary love language, but because of you, i felt ashamed of wanting to feel good. and yet, you basked in every compliment i gave. is love so easily interchangeable with pride?

“do you want me to ask you on a date?” do i want you to ask? of course i do. but the funny thing is, you never asked me on dates even after that. when i voiced what i wanted, it somehow became about you—as if you needed me to admit i couldn’t live without you. is love so easily interchangeable with self-esteem?

“my parents don’t like you because they don’t know you yet.” and yet, you never tried to change that. you never introduced me to them—never showed me i was worth being known. is love so easily interchangeable with shame?

“i hate you,” you’d whisper when i made you feel something real—the words bitter even as you lay curled in my arms. was it so hard to say the truth? to say, “i love you” instead? is love so easily interchangeable with defiance?

“i’ll change for you,” you’d promise, over and over again. but promises are wind—actions, thunder. and yours never matched. is love so easily interchangeable with manipulation?

“you’re beautiful and perfect just the way you are.” and yet, your gaze wandered to other girls when you thought i wasn’t looking. is love so easily interchangeable with lust?

i learned your language, yet you found ways to criticize my pronunciation.

and though the hurt grew louder, there was a time when the good outweighed the bad—when you were my everything. after all, you were the boy i gave my first kiss to, the first i introduced to my family—and they loved you, by the way. my secrets, my fears, my joys, my honesty, my youth—you held pieces of me that the world would never see.

you were my best friend. the one i prayed with. the one i laughed and cried with. late-night study sessions, vacations, video games, movie marathons, gym trips, baking competitions. the one i cared for and supported in every way—academically, emotionally, physically.

then over time, your carefully and strategically strewn words turned to poison—always more than perfect but a little less than honest. laced with manipulation, words filled with double meaning. they echoed in my mind until i started to believe i was just overthinking—that it was all in my head. was i the problem? i ignored the micro-lies and broken promises, and desperately picked up the breadcrumbs of hope you threw at me—just enough to keep me believing you’d change.

you know, i would be lying if i said i didn't still think about you. i wonder how you’re doing, if your family is staying warm this winter. if you've finally found the balance you so desperately wanted to find in your life—who you were, who you are, and who you wanted to be. i wonder if you've achieved your dreams and are now on the path to success. at times, tears sting my eyes and my heart aches for the familiarity of your presence. that's the problem with no longer having your best friend and lover. you lose both. twice the pain. you long for their kinship but know you deserve better than the hurt they've caused you.

but the damage is done. and i’m afraid the hurt will consume me the moment you return—a shadow in the dark, waiting to pounce. i can forgive you, but the trauma lingers, ever so quietly. “maybe one day in the future,” you said as i walked away, but i’m not sure i want a 'one day.'

now because of you, i understand that things can hold double meanings—love and pain, truth and lies. and now i’m guilty of it, too.

i love you—but i hope we never meet again.

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morgansmornings · 26 days ago

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#Strength and Honor Immortal | Jenna #You can keep Your Secrets. Because even the Dark is Afraid of Something | Familiar's Guide #Order Up: que

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aparticularbandit · 1 year ago

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Of An Endless Infinity: Day Eight (III)

Summary: What does it mean to be the Ultimate Hope?

Is it only hope on the big scale? That the world is not so dark and depressing and destructive as the villain in front of you says it is? That you can win, even when everything else says that you can’t? That maybe it is better to live your life, even afraid, than it is to keep yourself sequestered away, alone?

Does it not also mean hope on the small scale?

Or: Makoto sacrifices himself in the hope that the other survivors might be able to help Junko. It remains to be seen whether this will actually succeed.

Chapter Rating: T. Fic Rating: M for Danganronpa reasons.

AO3

previous chapter | next chapter

Day Eight (of an Endless Infinity).

It is easy – far too easy – for Kyoko to push away the things she doesn’t want to think about by replacing them with the things she believes she needs to think about. To focus on the mystery of her recovering memories, of the case she was working that seems related to but somehow separate from that of the members of Ultimate Despair; on the mystery of how to bring about what Makoto wanted (and for which he died), of how to somehow give Junko hope (an idea that has fallen to the wayside as she focuses on everything else, hoping against hope that what she needs to do here is not the thing she most wants not to do); and now on the mystery of what, exactly, Byakuya is planning by using Junko’s video cameras, of how the secret tunnels, in specific, play into what he intends to do. She has never personally explored the secret tunnels; although Junko led her through them once and carried her through them another time, that isn’t the same as exploring them thoroughly, and in the grand scheme of things, the idea of investigating them hadn’t seemed tremendously important. And so, while not technically forgetting about them, she’d forgotten.

Perhaps that is to her detriment.

So Kyoko tries, again, to push the memories of her relationship with Junko out of her mind as she returns to the laundry room to reclaim her, tries to push the discomfort of being around her out of the way, because right now, as much as she hates to admit it, she needs her.

(Of course, Kyoko hides the not-quite-Monokuma plush bear in her room before she meets with the others. Given Byakuya’s reaction to it, she can’t risk making Toko or Hina even more uncomfortable with her than they might already be (and she certainly can’t risk making Toko panic). She cannot know how much Byakuya might – or might not have said or implied with regards to that last vote, and so she cannot know how much it might have impacted their current image of her; more, she cannot know how much damage their own recovered memories of her previous relationship with Junko has done either, can’t know how much they’ve remembered. (No damage, as far as Jack is concerned. Jack never forgot. But then again, Jack hadn’t said anything about it either. In fact, she’s not sure Jack even cares.)

Besides, Kyoko isn’t sure why she even took the bear with her in the first place. Its only use would be as a comfort – a hope – to Junko. That latter might be in memory of Makoto and what he wanted, but she can’t be sure that’s what she was thinking about when she chose to bring it with her.

And she doesn’t want to consider that any part of her might want to comfort Junko.)

((Ignore the past all you want, but the past is still there, unflinching in the face of you.))

Kyoko finds Junko weaving her fingers through Toko’s unbraided hair, working some sort of something into her scalp as Hina keeps an eye on them, and then slowly beginning to braid one half of her hair into its characteristic long braid with a look of familiar frustration, her cheeks puffed out and red as she focuses. Hina notices Kyoko first – perhaps she hears the small click of Kyoko’s heel as she enters (or perhaps the other two are so focused on their conversation, on what they’re doing, to catch her) – and she softly excuses herself in what looks to be an attempt to keep them from noticing before she walks over to her.

Hina reaches out as though to take Kyoko’s hand, hesitates, and then gestures for her to follow her back to the main hall. When they’ve made it out of the laundry room (and out of the hearing of its other occupants), she looks up into Kyoko’s eyes and asks in a soft voice, “Are you okay?” She searches Kyoko’s eyes, searches her, for anything out of place. “You were, uh, pretty mad earlier.”

Kyoko nods. Her gaze flicks over Hina’s shoulder to Junko, who seems to be tugging on Toko’s nearly completed braid with a grin until Toko whines. It’s achingly familiar. She doesn’t have to remember it for that to be true. “How much do you remember?” she asks, gaze returning to meet Hina’s.

“Ah.” Hina’s eyes widen. She looks away – not behind her, just away – as her face reddens. “I mean! Um!” She covers her mouth with her hands and shakes her head, refusing to say anything else.

That confirms things, then. Hina hadn’t been joking when she’d called Junko her girlfriend; the comment came from her memories, from a clear frustration and exasperation at what she’d learned before Kyoko had. Not that this revelation is particularly surprising. No. It’s just as it should be.

Kyoko tries to be gentle as she speaks, tries, but knows she needs to be firm more than she is gentle, and she’s never been good at mixing both (not the way Yui was). “I want to make this clear. Whatever you remember Junko was to me before—”

“No, no! I get it!” Hina cuts Kyoko off before she can finish. “She was our friend! You didn’t know! We didn’t….” Her voice trails off, and she, too, glances back to Junko, whose focus has turned to the rest of Toko’s hair as she braids it. She presses her lips together in a thin line and then turns back to wrap her arms around Kyoko.

Kyoko stiffens.

“Sorry if this is…if you’re uncomfortable. Um. I know you don’t like being touched—”

Then Kyoko sinks against her and rests her head on Hina’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she murmurs as Hina tenses. “I don’t expect you – or anyone else – to believe me, but I had to….” Her voice trails off until Hina relaxes, and then she tries again. “I had to say something.”

Hina rubs her back before stepping away from her, and she offers her a hopeful smile. “Makoto would have,” she says, “so I will, since he’s not here to do it.” She tilts her head in Junko’s direction. “Just don’t ask me to trust her, okay?”

“I won’t.” Kyoko glances over Hina’s shoulder again and just catches Junko’s eyes. She averts her gaze immediately, pretending that she doesn’t see the look of concern on Junko’s face – a look that she knows is feigned. “I can take her back now.”

“Are you sure?” Hina’s brow furrows. “She’s a lot, but if you need a longer break, it’s totally okay. We’ve got her.”

Kyoko refuses to meet Hina’s gaze (and so she misses it, but you see it, don’t you?) and shakes her head. “No,” she admits. “I’m not sure. But I need….” She cuts herself off before continuing. She’s never liked being open about the cases she’s on – whether she was hired for them or fell into them on her own – and that trepidation doesn’t entirely go away now, not even with Hina, who she trusts. “I can take her back now,” she repeats instead, unsure of how else to say it without giving herself away.

“O-okay.” Hina glances back, but Junko doesn’t seem to be paying them any attention, seems to be fully engrossed in braiding Toko’s hair again, on the single black ribbon she uses to tie it in place. (Kyoko flinches and hopes Hina doesn’t see.) Then Hina’s head tilts to one side. “Honestly? She’s a lot easier than Toko. Most of the time.” She scowls. “And Toko’s gonna talk about how big her boobs are later. She always does.”

Kyoko flushes a bright red. “I….” She swallows, tucks strands of her hair back behind one ear, and drops her gaze. “I never….” She swallows again, harder this time. “I never noticed.”

When she glances up again, Hina has turned back, her eyes even wider with shock. “You never noticed that your girlfriend has big boobs?” She gestures to her own chest. “Did you notice mine?”

“No, and…and no?” Kyoko’s face grows even redder. She can’t meet Hina’s eyes. “Why would I look at your—” She cuts herself off. “Is it bad that I never….?” She can’t even finish the sentence.

Hina places her hands on her hips and cocks her head to one side. “You know, I don’t know! Guys always talk about that sort of thing, but maybe…. Maybe that’s not what girls like about girls?” She blinks twice. “What did you—” Then she cuts herself off. “Actually!” Now her face grows a bright red, and she can’t meet Kyoko’s eyes either. “Not important! Let’s go, uh. Let’s go get your, uh. Not girlfriend!”

Before Hina can go anywhere, though, Kyoko finds herself saying, “She was nice to me.” That’s the strongest image she can pull from her memories, the strongest feeling she has. “She helped me not feel so alone, and she didn’t laugh at me when I didn’t understand what it meant to like someone. She was just....” She searches the world in front of her like it will say something, but there’s nothing else to say. “She was nice. That’s all.”

Hina doesn’t say anything. If anything, she tenses, and her ponytail puffs up like a cat’s tail. Then she seems to half-shake it off and stalks back into the laundry room with the slightest of squeaks.

Kyoko covers her slowly cooling face with one gloved hand and takes a few breaths to still the burning in her cheeks. It helps, but only a little bit, and certainly not enough to go into a room with Toko, who will catch both of their red faces and make some sort of lewd comment that she really cannot handle right now. So she just stays where she is until Junko reunites with her, brow furrowed in confusion and concern, a basket of their laundry heavy in her hands, mouth opening as though to say something and then shutting without any words at all.

It’s uncharacteristic of the Junko she’s known the past several days – uncharacteristic even of the one she remembers. She smells of lilac, not blue raspberries, although that may just be the scent of the laundry detergent, not that it helps. It’s a gentleness – a kindness – and Kyoko can’t tell if any of it’s real or if it’s all just another part of Junko’s act, which is maybe the worst thing of all.

As soon as they make it back to Kyoko’s dorm, Junko drops the laundry basket full of their clothes with a loud thunk. “That’s the last time I’m doing someone else’s clothes, Kyokyo! I tell you!” She digs in the basket for a few moments and then brings Kyoko’s shirt out. “I couldn’t get the stain out, but—” And here she holds the shirt up with a giggle. “—if you ever wear it again, it’ll look like you’re bleeding in technicolor!” She tosses the shirt to Kyoko.

Kyoko barely catches it. “I don’t think—”

“And Toko!” Junko cuts her off as she walks across the room, waving her hands in the air. “She said she’s been editing my book but that it really super sucks, like I’m some kind of writing zombie or something.” She plops back on her mattress and stares up at the ceiling. “Can you even be a writing zombie? Maybe it’s more like I’m one of those trash children. Or never learned how to read. Or something.” She props herself up just enough to stare at Kyoko. “Do you think I’m a bad writer?”

“How would I know? I’ve never read anything you’ve written.” Kyoko sits on her chair, clasps her hands together, and considers how to word her request. She glances up at the video camera still in one corner of her room and presses her lips together. “In your tunnels,” she starts to say, broaching the topic as carefully as possible, “are there any cameras?”

Junko raises an eyebrow. “No. Of course not. There’s nothing interesting down there, and I never wanted any behind the scenes footage to get out. Wouldn’t want anyone else to broadcast their own Killing Game rip-off, you know. They’ll never be able to hit my kind of quality.” Her head tilts curiously to one side. “Why do you—” Her eyes grow wide, and she pops up suddenly. “Oh!” Her lips curve in a smug, catlike grin as she stares at Kyoko. “You want me somewhere no one can see us.”

“No—”

“~I know what you want—~” Junko starts to say in a singsong fashion, leaning forward and crawling on her hands and knees in Kyoko’s direction.

“No.” Kyoko tries to focus on Junko’s eyes the way that she always does, but Hina’s comment about how big Junko’s breasts are flutters into her mind at just the wrong moment, and her gaze drifts. They really are— But then she catches herself looking, catches herself comparing, and her gaze drops further. Something else. Think about something else. She notes how her fingers are gripping into her knees again, certain that she’ll find bruises there later, certain that if her hands were whole the way they once were she would see how white her knuckles have grown. Then she forces herself to relax, takes a steadying breath, and slowly looks up, meeting Junko’s eyes again without letting her gaze drop. “It’s the one place I haven’t explored,” she says – a truth told in the form of a lie. “I only….”

Junko waits, grin fading into an amused smile. She must have seen how Kyoko’s gaze full, must have noticed, but she’s not commenting on it, not saying anything like, My eyes are up here, Kyoko! in that chipper voice of hers. (Monokuma would say it. He wouldn’t hesitate. So why is Junko?) Instead, her head tilts again, that smile of hers softening with an aching fondness that makes Kyoko’s stomach churn. “There’s not a way out down there,” she murmurs, soft, “so if that’s what you’re looking for, you won’t find it.”

Kyoko presses her lips together. Considers. Then says, “I found this earlier,” as she stands, walks to her bed, and takes the not-quite-Monokuma plush from where she’d hidden it beneath her sheets. She stares at it, at the ripped red eye that doesn’t quite match Monokuma’s, at the painful hand-stitching in bright red thread putting its pieces together. There’s nothing toothy to its smile, nothing set to devour. Just the halves of two bears held together with blood-colored thread (real blood, not the fantastic pink that Junko has somehow made it). Then she holds it out to Junko. “Here. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

Her brain itches.

She ignores it.

Junko’s mouth forms a little oh, and without a second thought, she reaches out for the bear. As soon as her fingers brush against its fur, she pulls it to her, holding it tight to her chest. Then she buries her head into the bear’s, looking for all the world like nothing more than a child with a simple teddy bear, one that she’d lost somewhere and just had returned to her. One that she needed. “The tunnels,” she murmurs, finally, her voice soft. “I can do that.”

Then she lifts herself from her sitting position without using either hand to ground herself – all disentangling her legs and up – before gesturing with her free hand for Kyoko to follow her. They enter the bathroom, just as they had in Junko’s own room, and she places a hand just in the center of one of the wall tiles. A panel draws out. Kyoko memorizes which tile it is, but Junko taps in the passcode too quickly this time for her to catch it. Then a portion of the floor moves, revealing a tunnel similar to the one that dropped from the hatch in the Monokuma Room with an equally similar ladder.

Kyoko’s brow furrows. “How….” She pauses, better equips her words, glances at Junko’s skin-and-bone arms, and tries again. “When I fainted,” she tries again, “how did you get me out?”

“That’s such a boring question, Kyokyo,” Junko whines. She holds her not-quite-Monokuma plush to her chest (the real Monokuma would have lewd comments about this, not that Kyoko is thinking about that) and then gestures to the ladder. “Ladies first.”

Kyoko raises a brow. “Aren’t you—”

“We don’t fuck with labels here, Kyoko.” For the first time in a long time (perhaps even ever, though something in Kyoko says that isn’t true), Junko snaps, a frustration so pure that it can’t be faked. Then she looks down at the plush bear in her hands, holds it aloft, and soothes, relaxes. A grin spreads across her face. “Besides, it’ll be the perfect opportunity for you to get a glimpse of my panties!” She spins with the bear, skirt flicking upward, and then stops just to look at Kyoko with that big grin. “Don’t worry! They’re really cute! I made them special just for this occasion!” She winks.

Kyoko ignores her and starts down the ladder.

Halfway down the ladder, Junko calls out, “Hey, Kyoko?”

“Yes?” Kyoko stares down, continuing to try and make an estimate of how long they will be climbing. But when Junko doesn’t say anything for a few moments, she looks up to see if anything’s wrong, if something’s happened. She wouldn’t be surprised, in a place like this.

Then Kyoko catches a glimpse of black, semi-transparent undergarments, rimmed with bright red stitching. They’re small – intentionally so, given Junko – which means she also sees a lot of skin, and a thin, black—

Junko glances over her shoulder, catches Kyoko staring, and laughs. “Made you look!”

As soon as Kyoko realizes what she is very unintentionally doing, she scarlets. She looks away again, her face burning, and ignores Junko the rest of the way down.

(It’s hard to ignore Junko’s cackling, but she’s getting oddly better at it.)

Junko lands at the bottom of the ladder with a sharp clack of her heels then walks past Kyoko with a firm sense of direction towards Kyoko can’t know what before whirling on her heel to face her. She props one hand on her hip, the other still holding that plush bear tight against her chest. “I’m glad you saved Mukie bear,” she says, lowering her head until her chin rests just atop its head again. “It’s not my fault he got all broken, but Ikusaba-sensei never wanted poor Mukie to have anything so soft as a bear, and I thought—”

“Byakuya’s been using your cameras,” Kyoko interrupts, not willing to listen to Junko’s exposition on a plush bear that she could honestly care less about (particularly since it seems to have initially belonged to Mukuro). “Your cameras,” she repeats, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know how he got the code,” although a part of her, disbelieving, suspects that she does,” but he knows it, and he’s using it, which means that if there’s anything down here you don’t want him to see—”

“I already told you, I don’t fucking care about that fucking Togami piece of shit.” Junko’s gaze drifts away gentle, no matter how rough and raw her voice is. “He won’t fucking find anything down here that he wasn’t fucking meant to find.”

Kyoko blinks twice. “What does that mean, wasn’t meant to find?”

Junko feigns surprise. “Oops! Said too much!” She covers her mouth with one hand – a mockery – and then leans forward with a grin. “Don’t worry! It’s not for you!” A giggle, then, “Not anymore anyway!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” Junko winks. “Spoilers!” Then she turns and walks briskly away. “C’mon! Places to go, things to see! All that good stuff!” She lifts her free hand and waves it as though she were a queen.

It doesn’t matter what she says. Junko is never going to give her any information she doesn’t want Kyoko to have. She’ll give her tidbits of things – like whatever it is Byakuya supposedly found down here – but she won’t tell her directly.

It’s infuriating.

Just because she’s a detective – the Ultimate Detective – doesn’t mean that everything has to be a puzzle.

Kyoko grits her teeth to keep from groaning (because somehow she knows that will just make Junko giddy) and follows suit.

The tunnels aren’t all one size. Most of them are big enough for them to walk through, but ladders lead up and down through smaller tunnels that are barely big enough to fit a full person, while still others require them to get down on their knees and crawl. Junko leads the way through all of them, gesturing here and there when she can to explain which doors are connected to which rooms. They don’t personally check all of the doors – particularly those connected to the dorms, given that the other survivors might be in their rooms – but on occasion, to prove that Junko isn’t lying to her, they check some of them, including the dorms of the deceased. (Makoto’s, for instance, is just as bare and empty and impersonal as Kyoko’s was before Junko moved in. They do not linger there long.)

As they explore, Junko says, “So you went into my hole.”

“What?” Kyoko pretends she didn’t hear what Junko just said (or, rather, how she said it).

“You went into my hole,” Junko repeats, nudging Kyoko with her elbow. “My tunnel in the Monokuma Room. You went into it.”

Kyoko scoots away from Junko. The tunnels aren’t really wide enough for two people to walk through them side-by-side, but Junko’s so thin that they more than make do. This one in particular seems like a main tunnel of sorts, with others stretching from it to other parts of the school. “Yes,” she admits. “I did.”

“And you don’t have any questions?”

“Would you answer them if I did?”

Junko pauses. She tilts her head to one side, taps her chin with one finger, and then shrugs. “Probably not. But you’ll never know if you don’t ask!”

Kyoko considers this and then says the first thing that comes to mind, “The door.”

“That’s not a ~question!~”

“What,” Kyoko corrects herself with a sigh, “does the door at the end of your hatch lead to?” She pauses, then specifies before Junko can pretend she meant the hatch itself, “What does the door marked future lead to?”

“It’s for the future.” Junko’s tone grows bored, stoic. “Duh.” She pushes a hand through her hair and gives her head a little shake. “Or, as I said before, spoilers!” She snorts. “Hifumi taught me that one back before, well, you know.” She gestures out with one hand. “Everything. It’s such a useful turn of phrase.” Despite Kyoko’s moving away from her, she nudges her again, gentle. “You’re not far enough in the story for that yet,” she murmurs, just as gentle. “Just let it cook a little longer.”

There are a lot of other questions Kyoko could ask – questions which may or may not have a more forthcoming answer – but she feels the notebook she’s found hard against her side, thinks of the ones likely still in Byakuya’s clutches (not Toko’s), and asks instead, “What story are you trying to tell?”

“Oh, our most precious knight.” Junko smiles fondly as she says the title. (Has she always said it like that? Is Kyoko only just now noticing? Has she really been that oblivious?) “We’ve already had that discussion, and you guessed correctly. We do not want you to know what sort of story you are in. That ruins our fun.” She winks and then holds the bear a little tighter to her chest, burying her head into his so tightly that her next words are muffled. “We would not want you to spoil the ending.”

“And what would spoiling the ending look like?”

There’s a long pause.

….

A very long pause.

….

An uncharacteristically long pause, broken only by the sound of their boots on the tunnel floor.

….

Finally, Junko says, voice soft in a way it has only ever been in Kyoko’s memories, still muffled by the plush bear, “I am going to die, Kyoko. That is the way this story ends.”

What?

A sigh slips through Junko’s lips as she raises her head, as she rests her chin atop the bear’s head, as she speaks suddenly clear and unmuddied, “I am going to die by my own hand because no one else – no one else – has accepted that death is the best thing for me.” Then she stops and stares straight ahead. “You didn’t,” she accuses, voice tightening. “Mukuro didn’t. Even Makoto didn’t. But I….” Her voice trails off. “I see the shape of the world, the way it was and the way it was supposed to be and the way I have created it to be, and I….” Another sigh, this time followed by a little chuckle as she pushes a hand through her hair again. “I’m so tired, Kyokyo. I’m so tired, and I want nothing more than to taste the sweet despair of my own death. The one that I, and I alone, have written for me.”

Junko doesn’t turn to her, doesn’t finish, just keeps speaking in that same soft, constant, methodic tone of voice, the same one that she held at the end of the last trial, when she wasn’t wearing any funny gimmick but was most herself, as though she speaks nothing but fact, the scent of lilacs swirling so thickly around her they could almost be visible. “I wish to taste the sweet despair of my own death,” she repeats, even softer, “and I will kill myself because I’m tired of waiting on someone else to do it for me.”

Only then does Junko turn and meet Kyoko’s eyes, although it feels to her as though Junko is looking through her instead. “That is the end of this story, Kyoko, and nothing you say or do will change it in the slightest. You are just another character in the narrative I have designed, and everything – everything – you have been part of since we met has led to this end.” Then she smiles – grins – bares her teeth. “So don’t worry, my love,” she says, voice becoming chipper again as she reaches out and pats Kyoko’s shoulder. “You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”

It’s a lot.

It’s a lot, and it’s too much, and Kyoko’s intuition tells her that Junko isn’t lying, but for once in her life, she refuses to believe it, refuses to believe what she should know (what she does know, if only she’d let herself know it), refuses to believe that Makoto’s death meant nothing, refuses to believe that Junko would—

What a creative form of self-harm you have.

Kyoko shakes the thought from her head, ignores all of what Junko just said (or, at least, ignores the implications of it), and asks, “Is that when the mirai door opens?”

Junko snorts again. “Singular minded as always, Kyokyo. Refusing to see what’s right in front of your face. All those messy emotions. Makes it hard to hear the truth, doesn’t it?” She turs away and starts forward again, stopping when Kyoko doesn’t follow. “No,” she says, voice softening again. “The door to the future will open before then.” Her head tilts to the side, and she seems to consider the curvature of the tunnel when she says, “About halfway, I’d say. Halfway through the story.” Then she glances back and meets Kyoko’s eyes. “Is that everything you wanted to know?”

No, Kyoko thinks but does not say. I want to ask if—

“—if I truly loved you.” Junko completes Kyoko’s thought as though she can read her mind, and again she smiles with an aching fondness. (She must have said something else while Kyoko was lost in her thoughts. She can’t have guessed that sort of thing. Perhaps Kyoko hasn’t hidden herself well enough. Perhaps Junko simply knows her that well.) “But you already know the answer to that one, don’t you?”

She does.

“It wouldn’t hurt as much if you didn’t.”

“It wouldn’t hurt as much if I didn’t.” Junko winks and finger guns. “You got it! That’s the Ultimate Detective at work, ladies and blokes and non-binary folks!” She acts as though there’s an audience. There’s no audience.

Kyoko pauses. She intuits nothing but truth in what Junko is saying, but this last bit doesn’t bother her nearly as much as she expected. Junko loves her. Fair enough. (Junko’s going to die. Part of her, acknowledging this, thinks, Good riddance, but Junko must know that. Must expect that. Must delight in the despair of the thought. (Just as much as she must delight in the despair Kyoko is trying desperately hard not to feel at the part of her that regrets and refutes the very idea of the thing.))

Then again, Junko has also harped on her about remembering. She wrote that she’d put the pieces in place for her, pieces to a puzzle that Kyoko still doesn’t understand. The puzzle of the bigger story, perhaps, and her role in it. Not just the things from before, but the things to come. Full knowledge of….

Of what? Of how, exactly, Junko is going to die? If that was the case, why didn’t she slip her a black envelope and card, just like the Victims' Relief Committee had, with the exact things used, the exact place? Those are the kind of pieces Kyoko’s used to seeing, the kind of puzzles she’s used to solving, not this…whatever this is.

Besides, if Junko is the murderer, then there’s really no bringing her to justice, is there?

What, then, does Junko want?

For Kyoko to prevent the murder?

If Junko dies, the air purifier dies with her, and then everyone left from the Killing Game will also die? Is that the greater despair?

She’s still missing something.

But what?

Kyoko grits her teeth together and then, finally, says, “Kiss me.”

It’s a long shot, but—

Junko’s eyes do not widen in any sort of shock. Instead, they narrow, as though she’d expected this sort of thing, too, and she lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. “This isn’t a fucking fairytale, Kyoko. You won’t magically regain your memories from true love’s kiss, or any shit like that.”

“Of course, I won’t,” Kyoko says, staring her down. “You aren’t my true love.”

Junko chuckles a bit at that. “No, I’m not. That would be Yui Samidare, wouldn’t it?”

Kyoko hisses. “How dare you—”

“And you want me to kiss you?” Junko leans forward, hands on her hips, that stupid plush bear that Kyoko should never have given her propped in her right hand. “Funny joke, Kyokyo!”

She’s enjoying this.

Of course, she’s enjoying this.

“I didn’t ask,” Kyoko says through gritted teeth, “because I thought it would unlock my memories.”

“Then why did you ask?” Junko’s head cocks innocently to one side, and she examines her curiously. Like she’s nothing more than a worm, and Junko’s holding a magnifying glass.

Kyoko holds the intensity of her gaze. Returns it. (Refuses to let the mention of Yui make her do something else that she’ll regret.) “I’m trying to figure something out.”

“And you think the best way to do that is for me to kiss you?” Junko’s eyes wander – of course, they wander – and she bites her lower lip. “You’re not seriously—”

“Someone once told me,” Kyoko says, hesitant, interrupting her, “that the best way to gauge whether you like someone or not is to kiss them. I’ve found it’s easier to find out by being kissed than by being the one doing the kissing.”

You remember.

Junko doesn’t have to say it, but the way her whole expression softens says it for her. She licks her lips. “You hate me. It doesn’t take a detective to figure that out, and you’re so much more than a simple detective. You’re the best of the best. Not a triple zero, like someone else I know, but still, you shouldn’t….” And yet she steps forward, pauses. “You want me to die just as much as I do,” she continues before crossing the rest of the distance between them. “You don’t want me. Not now. Not like this.” Her free hand reaches up; her fingers brush gentle along the curve of Kyoko’s jaw, and when Kyoko doesn’t flinch away, she gently tilts her head back so that she can meet her eyes, so that she can search them. “But you remember.” When she finally says it, that soft expression breaks. “You remember, and you hate yourself.” Her lips curve, shattering her – gentle shards of glass unstained. “Do you feel it?” she whispers, eyes alight with her brokenness. “Do you taste your despair—”

You’re not the only one who’s tired.

Kyoko shuts Junko up with a kiss.

(Just as in her memory, she’s not very good at this.)

And again, there’s no indication of shock or surprise. Junko more than meets her – gentle, gentle, gentle – and breaks just long enough to murmur, “Fine, then. If this is the way you want to play,” before taking the lead and kissing her properly, as requested.

At first, Kyoko feels sick. She tries to back away from the kiss, but Junko presses against her until she runs into the wall. (And Junko is right. She does hate herself for this. Hates the part of her that doesn’t feel sick.) When Junko pauses again, when she hesitates, eyes carefully searching hers, Kyoko pulls herself up, brushes her nose against Junko’s the way she remembers Junko doing with her, and murmurs, “More.”

“This isn’t what you want.”

“Don’t tell me what I want.”

Kyoko doesn’t know why she expects Junko to kiss her cruelly. She doesn’t know why she expects biting or force or pain. None of those were present in her memory, and they aren’t present now. Even pressing her up against a wall, Junko kisses her soft, kisses her gentle, kisses her like she’s heard every bad thing she’s ever done and doesn’t care – and maybe that’s the thing of it, maybe Junko’s just kissing her the way she wants Kyoko to kiss her back, full of repressed desperation and longing.

She can’t know.

And, for a moment, leaning up into the kiss, Kyoko tries to forget.

Tries not to think.

Closes her eyes and—

#bandit fic #of an endless infinity with junko and kyoko #danganronpa #junko enoshima #kyoko kirigiri #enogiri #aoi asahina #toko fukawa #dr1 #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #dr thh #danganronpa thh #drthh #thh #junkan #matsushima #this could easily have been split into two chapters but like #oh well it's one chapter here it's just a longer chapter sorry not sorry

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robinastrea · 1 year ago

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ian + robin

Date: April 30, 2024 Location: The Rec Room, Prosperity, Kor’Sel’Koo Characters: Robin Astrea and Ian Solko @iansolko Description: Ian loses a guitar pick, and Robin lifts a couch.

Robin headed into the rec room for some writing and quiet, not really expecting anyone else to be in the space, since they were still docked on Kor’Sel’Koo. And yet, there was someone here already. Ian most likely, though he was sprawled across the floor on his stomach, a mess of dark strands of hair covering his face as he tried in vain to reach his arm under the sofa. If he were Theo or his brothers, Robin might be inclined to lay down close to him, but they weren’t quite there in terms of familiarity. Even so, he moved closer and shifted to a crouching position, parting Ian’s fringe out of his eyes. “What are you looking for?” He wondered.

Ian’s large eyes darted up to look towards him--not meeting his face, though, as he clearly couldn’t crane his neck that far. “Robin.” He said as if answering an invisible question. “Um…this pick that pretty much just flew under the couch out of my hand!” He continued. “Maybe I would just leave it, but Beck got it for me and it’s heart-shaped because she's my Valentine's bae…and also if I left it that would be littering, wouldn’t it?”

Hearing a lot of information in a short amount of time, Robin simply shrugged. “If you leave something under there, it’s something the mates will have to clean up. So it depends on whether you feel bad about Greg cleaning up your guitar picks…or Mari,” he added quietly, but Ian still heard him.

“Oh. Right. I’ll just give Mari guitar picks directly instead…maybe not these ones, though…” The entertainer was muttering to themself now, their arm still lodged, perhaps even stuck under the couch. They didn’t seem too uncomfortable, but they did look to be growing tired of this situation. Robin sighed gently, then stood up and moved over to the side of the couch. Then after patting his pockets to make sure his comm was firmly in place and hadn’t fallen out, he lifted the side of it up with some effort, but effort he could sustain for a little while.

Surprised and with his arm no longer wedged, Ian looked up at Robin in wonder. “Wow. Look at those arm veins…”

Robin squinted his eyes at him at that. Ian seemed to realize what he was supposed to be doing a beat later. “Right. Sorry.” The musician located the pick and darted in and out of the couch’s way quickly. Robin set it down quickly after that, letting out a breath and finding a seat on the floor.

Ian moved to a sitting position close by, then patted Robin’s shoulder. “Hey, thanks man. I feel like I just keep owing you! Like, I find out stuff about you that you probably don’t want me to know, now you’re lifting up couches for me…does Theo know you can do that? I bet he’d write yet another song about you if he did…”

He formed a wry smile. “You don’t owe me if you find out things about me,” Robin answered, deciding not to comment on the Theo bit. He then followed up while attempting to sound nonchalant: “But what things are you talking about?”

“Uh…” Ian looked down and suddenly fidgeted with the strings of his hoodie. “We've talked about your background a little, so you already know I know about that...let's see, new stuff. You know I know that you’re afraid of falling. Heights? One or both. And I know that sometime…maybe fairly recently…you seriously dated a guy named Salem. I mean, I assume he’s a past-tense, I don’t know your life--”

“We’re not together anymore,” Robin cut them off. He didn’t expect his ex’s name to come from the entertainer, and it suddenly unnerved him. His hand reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m assuming Ryder also shared that with you?” Ian nodded, so he continued. “It’s fine if you know. He and I dated publicly, and he was a navigator on the ship, so it’s not as if it’s a secret…and lots of people are afraid of falling,” Robin added defensively.

“As people should be,” Ian nodded, reaching for his guitar. “But I know other important stuff, too, like that you eat citrus-y fruits with your breakfast…if you even eat breakfast, because you skip sometimes. And that you never drink coffee black. You always put something in it.” They started humming instead of talking now, strumming something Robin didn’t recognize on their guitar.

“Those last two things aren’t things you can hold over me, though,” Robin pointed out, noting that Ian could be observant when he wanted to be. “Well-” he reconsidered, “Don’t tell Ryder or Muffy I skip breakfast sometimes.”

“Mm. No promises,” Ian sang softly.

“Besides,” Robin comfortably brought his knees to his chest. “I know stuff about you now, too.”

Ian paused his guitar playing at that, now looking inquisitively and also a bit uncomfortably at him. “Nuh-uh,” he answered.

“Yeah-huh,” Robin replied in a very mature way that was clearly indicative of his first-mate status. “Let’s see. I know you and Mari have some history.”

He wasn’t expecting Ian to actually relax at that, as if he’d expected Robin to have found out something else about him, but he’d take it. Whatever that piece of information Ian wanted hidden, he wasn’t going to pry.

Robin continued. “You told her a bunch of information about the multi-ship deal with the Empress, right? Information that might have even been classified to your ship? But...I’m assuming that you did that because you two were close at some point.”

“Are close,” Ian corrected without looking at him, instead eyeing the neck of his guitar and miming some chords with his fingers, though he wasn’t actually playing now. “Mari was and is very special to me. And given the chance to do it all over again, I’d tell her the same stuff. Maybe even more stuff. It was really important for her to know,” he finished simply, leaving little room to argue.

“Yeah. I figured that,” Robin said, reminding himself of his and Mari’s talk in the cafeteria.

“So you’re not chastising me about telling her?” Ian asked.

“No, I guess I’m not. But I'm going to have to strongly advise you not to share information with non-crew again.”

“Yes, sir.” The entertainer nodded, actually strumming again with his heart-shaped pick. Again, the song was something he didn’t recognize. It was pretty good, though. Robin rested his chin on his knees, listening for a minute or so while also watching Ian literally do their job. But they didn’t play like it was their job; the older was clearly in their element, the guitar an extension of their hands, even. They were a lot like Theo in that way.

Then Ian caught him reeling once again with his next question, out of the blue, though he was speaking in a very quiet tone. “Hey, Robin. Did you love Salem?”

“I-” he really had to fight to keep himself from growing tense, but he did recoil slightly. That really wasn’t Ian’s business…but he was sure they were asking for a reason. “Yeah,” he admitted, then added, “But definitely not anymore. I got hurt too much for those feelings to last.”

“I’m really sorry for bringing it up,” Ian frowned at him, possibly catching onto his reaction. “So, is it possible for you personally to love someone and then stop loving them? Or does it always stay around?”

“Um.” It was safe to say Robin had never been asked that before. He had to think about it for a moment. Ian was patient and solemn in a way that was surprising to him, as he was typically a ball of energy. “I guess…" he decided, "In some way, the love never goes away once it was there in the first place. But I think there’s other equally-important things in a relationship, like trust and safety, that once gone for me are gone forever. And without those things, love is almost irrelevant.” Hopefully Robin didn’t have to spell out that Salem had lost those things, and luckily Ian nodded in understanding. And he didn’t have to spell out this next part either, but he would anyway. “I love and trust and feel safe with Theo, by the way,” he added. “Much more.”

Ian suddenly grinned, almost too knowingly at that. “That’s good, because Theo’s like, in love with you.”

Robin knew that, but it gave him a flutter of happiness to hear it.

“I wasn’t going to ask, but then you asked me about my ex, so I guess it’s your turn,” Robin returned. “Do you love Mari?”

Ian balked at that, but sounded like he was attempting to use a normal tone. “Of course,” he said. “She’s one of my best friends. I already said she was special to me, yeah?”

“Yeah, you did. All right,” they both knew that friendship love wasn’t exactly what Robin was talking about, but he wasn’t going to push. “I’m going to do some writing now, so…feel free to do whatever it is you do, mate. No need to entertain me,” he clarified, pulling out his journal and pens from his bag and resting on the couch.

In his peripheral vision, Robin watched Ian wrestle with this information, the idea of not needing to entertain him seeming to throw the entertainer for a loop. He eventually put his guitar back into its case and covered his hoodie over his head, lying comfortably on the floor. When Robin glanced over at him again ten minutes later, he noticed Ian had fallen asleep, his mouth hanging open as he began snoring. He was also curled up into what the musician had accurately deemed in the group chat once as a fetal position. Well, that was fast.

Robin gave a small, quiet laugh. He wished he had a jacket or a blanket to cover over him, but that was all right. He pushed his glasses up onto his nose and turned his attention back to his journal, continuing to write as Ian’s snoring provided a weird sort of white noise.

#the title is a play on my regular tag eheh #anyway i only wrote this bc they were having a lot of thoughts regarding each other recently #self para

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