#estimating with point cloud | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cherrixpie · 5 months ago

Text

NEMESIS

part four of five

↬ you were supposed to steer clear of mattheo riddle. Shame that he was just so irrestible.

↬ sfw; wc: 9.1k (good lord these keep getting longer); cw: violence, blood, broken bones, suggestiveness, swear words; tags: gryffindor!reader, muggleborn!reader, enemies to lovers

( masterlist )

The wind howled through the stands, tearing at banners of both red and green, as sheets of icy rain slashed down in relentless torrents. Over night, the weather had taken a dramatic shift, to the disfortune of any poor bloke who was on the pitch today. The pitch had turned into a mire of mud and puddles and looked more like a battlefield than the site of one of the most anticipated Quidditch matches of the season: Gryffindor vs Slytherin. Above, the players on their broomsticks were little more than blurred streaks of color, their shouts swallowed by the roaring of the storm. The sharp crack of a Bludger smashing into a broomstick echoed through the chaos, drawing gasps and cries from the diehard fans who clung stubbornly to the stands despite the weather.

Near the base of the stands, Madam Pomphrey hovered over you like an agitated owl as you sorted through the bandages and potions at hand. Ever since you'd started practical training in the Hospital wing to improve your chances to become a healer at the prestigious St. Mungos Hospital, you'd been assailing her at quidditch games. But you'd only ever had Gryffindors to look out for before.

“Playing in this weather is nothing short of lunacy,” Madam Pomphrey muttered, her words only heard over the howling wind because she stood so close to you. “The last thing I need is another student catching their death out here- or worse, ending up on one of my stretchers.”

Though you didn't say it out loud, you estimated the chances of that being close to zero. Not only the weather made this an exceptionally brutal game. It seemed as if the players translated the stress of playing in such conditions into pure violence, and the thick mist of rain only made the many fouls harder to detect. The game was turning more brutal by the minute. You did your very best to identify your friends, but only caught a glance of Harry hovering over the game, looking for the faint glint of the snitch through the fog and dodging the occasional bludger. And, of course, Ron, guarding the rings.

But your restless eyes didn't only scan the skies in search of your friends. Any time a Slytherin player passed the stands, you'd anxiously try to make out whether they were a beater, whether they were Mattheo. But he seemed to be amidst the center of the game. Sometimes you thought you spotted him when you recognized a figure with club that vaguely resembled him. Sometimes, you thought the figure looked back at you, but you couldn't be sure of anything when rain and fog clouded your vision and made it impossible to pin point anything.

Suddenly, another violent crack echoed through the stadium and the fans let out a collective gasp when the small, blurred figure of Gryffindor’s seeker slipped from his broom, having been violently hit with a bludger. Before even Madam Pomphrey could react, you, who'd been on your toes all game, cast a spell to slow his fall and took off over the field to meet him when he met the ground in a rather soft thud thanks to your spell. The nurse followed hot on your heels and together, you hoisted Harry up on your shoulders and helped him towards the sidelines as Madame Hooch signaled time-out.

The bludger must've hit Harry in the face at short distance, because it only took one look at his blood-smeared face and crooked nose to know the latter was broken. You had the vague idea it wouldn't be the last one toady. As Madam Pomphrey healed it with a flick of her wand, eliciting a crack from the nose as it sprung back in place and a pained groan from Harry, you recovered a diptam from your belt and leaned down in front of him to apply it to his face.

“That was Riddle,” said Harry bitterly as you healed the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities. The murtlap essence did wonders on his injuries, but still, your worried eyes scanned his face restlessly as Harry kept raging. “He's had his sights on me ever since we lifted off the damn ground! Dunno what's up with him, it's like he doesn't even care about the game anymore. He's a damn psychopath, he is.”

Before you had the chance to respond, three thuds announced the arrival of three other players and you turned to them as they approached. Madam Hooch lead them, she walked on large strides over to Harry to inspect the graveness of his injury. Behind her followed a highly enraged looking Malfoy, platinum hair clinging to his forehead, and Mattheo, seemingly relaxed though there was a storm brewing in his eyes that rivaled the one he and the others were facing above ground. Your eyes met and you froze mid movement when he, despite the situation, gave you a quick grin. Just like Harry and Malfoy, he was covered head to toe in mud and his hair was even more of a mess than usual, but you had to admit it suited him better than the other two.

“From such a short distance, my my,” raged Madam Hooch who was quite red in the face. As most teachers did, she directed her anger at some point over Mattheo's shoulder instead of looking him into the face. “That's a foul if I ever saw one. Gryffindor gets a penalty.”

“But Madam Hooch!” called Malfoy indignantly. “He only did his job, isn't it allowed for the beaters to use their clubs anymore?”

“On the bludgers, not on fellow players!” hissed Madam Hooch angrily. Malfoy stroke up another argument, beginning with the words "my father...", but Mattheo couldn't have cared less. So what if Gryffindor got a damn penalty, there was much more important things to be enraged about. Like the way you fussed over Potter, how worried you looked, how pretty you looked in your nurse uniform, a white dress that fell down to your knees paired with the most adorable nurse cap. Mattheo realized he liked white on you. In his world that was drowned in such darkness, you stood out amongst crowds like a glowing ember. As much as he hesitated to admit it, he felt lighter anytime he laid eyes on you.

“Mate, help me out here!” Malfoy pushed him, but he fell on deaf ears, because you had just glanced back at him. Your reproachful look almost made him smile. A few loose strands of hair fell from your nurse cap into your face and clung to your skin. Even if you were to glare at him, he'd much rather have you do that than go back to giving your attention to Potter, of all people. But alas, you turned back to him and wiped the paste off of his face, giving him a light slap on the back to get back on his broom.

If possible, the wind cut even sharper as the game went on. Even under the cover of the stands, theoretically providing protection from the rain, you were soon drenched to the bone. You'd even had to borrow a Gryffindor sweater from Dean because your uniform had started to become see-through, and the material wasn't thin. By now, everyone was just praying for one of the seekers to catch the snitch and win the game. Though Slytherin was in the lead, partially due to a newfound brutality from their beaters, if Harry caught the snitch soon, Gryffindor would still win.

Just when you dragged the box with the medical supplies further under the cover of the stands to prevent the bandages from soaking up- by the looks of the game you would need them plenty- it happened. You hadn't looked, preoccupied with your task, so the only indication that something was wrong was the shocked screams of the crowd. As you looked up to see what was going on, for the smallest split of a second, you could make out a seemingly rogue bludger rushing towards the stands, specifically, towards you. You didn't even have time to close your eyes or shield yourself from the impact when a flash of green shot through your field of vision and the crowd breathed a sigh of belief.

Rushing forwards, you gripped onto the barrier and looked up at the sky only to catch a glimpse of Mattheo's jersey until he disappeared into the mist once more. Gryffindor scored. As the red and golden covered stands to your left erupted in hollers and cheers, you were hit with the sudden realization that Mattheo had not only saved you from being hit by a bludger, but had also diverted from the Gryffindor chasers, allowing them to score. It didn't fit. He'd been playing with undeveloped ferocity the whole match and now passed up the chance to intercept Gryffindor scoring? But, you thought to yourself, heart still hammering in your chest from the shock, maybe you should just give up trying to make sense of Mattheo Riddle, when he'd so far proved to be everything you thought he wasn't.

Due to the doubled efforts of Nott’s solo runs and Mattheo's bludgers being a major hindrance to the Gryffindor chasers and messing up their formations, forcing them to scatter, Slytherin took the lead by a long shot. But still, if Harry caught the snitch now, they could still win.

You were focused on him that you didn't even catch the maneuver of the Gryffindor beaters. There was a resounding crack heard throughout the stadium, even through the splatter of rain, and one of the Slytherin beaters was slammed into one of the stand walls with such force he bounced off of it before hurling towards the ground. Seconds before the player could hit the ground, they managed to pull their broom up and towards the sky, but their face was full of blood.

Your brain needed a moment to comprehend the situation, but then you read the name on the back of the player’s jersey and the blood seemed to freeze in your veins. Oh God. It was Mattheo. Panic-stricken, you turned to Madam Hooch. Not only had this clearly been a foul, but Mattheo needed time out to get patched up. But Madam Hooch was preoccupied with overlooking the Slytherin chasers ramming through a Gryffindor formation and the endless sheets of rain seemed to obstruct her vision. The Slytherin stands roared in indignation, but Mattheo steadied his broom mid-air, wiped his sleeve over his face, which only seemed to make it worse, and got back into formation.

Even Madam Pomphrey, who had expressed her dislike of Mattheo several times, gasped worriedly. “The game needs time out! He can't play in this condition!”

Your insides felt like claws, reeling against your ribcage as a sudden assault of worry hit you. The impossible frustration of not being able to help, to have to watch Mattheo get back into the game with gritted teeth was suffocating. Past you would have been indifferent, maybe. Past you was an idiot. Your hands gripped the barrier so tightly your knuckles turned white, and you couldn't take your eyes off of Mattheo’s figure. The blood seemed to be obstructing his vision even more than the walk of downpour already did,

Why did you care so much? Why did worry over a boy like Mattheo Riddle eat you up from the inside? Though it was quite untrue, you doubted there was anyone like Mattheo Riddle. Maybe it was just easier to pretend that your concern, the fact that you cared so much, was illogical, than to admit to yourself that he wasn't just you-know-who’s son anymore. That your fear of him had subsided and given way to not only interest, but affection.

The thought scared you. You knew exactly what your friends would say if they knew that you cared for their mortal enemy. Hermoine would look at you with a mixture of disgust and worry, maybe she'd even feel betrayed. And Ron? He'd feel like you'd fratanized with the enemy, you knew he would be angry. What about Harry? He'd been so understanding yesterday, but only after you reassured him that you detested Mattheo. A lie. Mattheo was supposed to be your nemesis, too. But he wasn't anymore.

What was he to you? The question rummaged in your brain as you watched his figure anxiously, wincing any time he got too close to a bludger. In the forest, he'd been intriguing. In the kitchens, exciting. Then, in the library, and you felt almost ashamed to admit it, attractive. But that wasn't all. What you felt for Mattheo couldn't be summed up in mere interest or attraction. It was a coiled up snake in the deepest pits of your self that had raised his head slowly, before you'd even realized it. You couldn't pin-point it, you just knew you wanted to know everything about Mattheo there was to know, and, that you hated to see him hurt.

The Slytherins were now in the lead by one-hundred-and-sixty points, but you couldn't have cared less about the score. More than ever now, you hoped for the game to end so you could have a look at Mattheo. But when the whistle sounded shrilly through the stadium, it was only to announce another two penalties for Gryffindor after Malfoy had fouled Harry mid-dive, both of whom Ginny dunked.

And then, finally, Harry and Malfoy went into a dive and, under the victorious roars of the Gryffindors, Harry emerged holding the snitch over his head. The score board showed Gryffindor: 260 points - Slytherin: 250 points.

Mustering up little more than a sigh of relief, you hurried over to the cart with the bandages and healing potions, arming yourself with supplies as the players landed one after the other. More than half of them immediately made a beeline for the medical tent, to you and a very ill-tempered Madam Pomphrey who muttered something about high risk sports and student safety. It had been an exceptionally rough game, and most players were at least bruised up, at worst limping heavily and clutching their ribs. As they trailed in, your eyes frantically darted around in search of Mattheo, but you couldn't find him.

Soon, you were preoccupied with fixing up the Gryffindor chasers, but your quick, distracted glances around the tent told you that he wasn't here. But where could he be? Dread pooled in your stomach as you bandaged up Ginny’s left hand and applied murtlap essence to her fellow chaser’s cuts and bruises. Only more people seemed to trail in, but, bit by bit, you managed to send them all off again. Still, Mattheo hadn't showed. As you were just contemplating whether you could just walk into the snake’s den, aka the Slytherin changing rooms, and offer treatment, you felt someone’s hand on your shoulder.

You spun around and were faced with Theodore Nott, looking very wet and very moody. The sight of him calmed you somewhat, you knew he and Mattheo were close. Nott looked as grumpy and sinister as ever, but he didn't sound aggressive. “Are you free here?” he asked in his Italian accent and you nodded silently. His frown subsided somewhat. “Can you come with me? Mattheo’s refusing treatment.”

For a split second, you wondered whether Nott knew about Mattheo and you. Then, you mentally slapped yourself back into reality. There was nothing between Mattheo and you, other than a few late night encounters. He'd only asked for you because he didn't want to ask Madam Pomphrey, you supposed.

“Of course,” you said, a little more enthusiastically than would have been necessary, and quickly rounded up some medical supplies to stuff them into your bag. Then, you followed Nott out of the tent, through the downpour of rain and down the steps that led into the Slytherin’s changing rooms.

As you walked down the stairs, you passed a group of Slytherin players who shot you nasty, albeit unsurprised looks. Struggling to keep up with Nott’s long strides, you hurried after him and averted your eyes from the passing Slytherin's. In front of a door with the engraved words ‘changing rooms’, Nott halted his step and nodded towards it. “He's in there, make it quick.”

Nott took off after his friends and you were left standing before the door. For a few hesitant seconds, your fist hovered in the air in front of the wood, and for some silly reason, your heart was thumping like mad. Finally, you knocked. Due to your sudden surge of timidity, it was a soft, quiet sound, barely heard over the splatter on the roof. Still, a voice you recognized as Mattheo's called from inside, clearly audible. “Come in, princess.” As if it had been a command, your hand fell down to the handle, you pressed it down and the door swung open.

The first thing you noticed about the Slytherin changing rooms was that they were way tidier than the Gryffindor ones that you'd often visited after a game to fetch Harry and Ron. No empty bottles, no forgotten jerseys on the ground and it smelled surprisingly good for a sports changing room, though the distinct smell of smoke clung to the air. All seemed perfect in place- except for the a smashed-in locker on the left side and the boy that sat, smoking, on one of the benches.

Mattheo hadn't even made an effort to change yet, both his jersey and his face were seeping with blood. His nose looked broken and his lip was busted up, which didn't stop him from taking continuous drags out of his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. Wisps of smoke curled around him like ghostly shroud. His dark curls hung heavy and damp over his sharp features, framing the defiant smirk that tugged at his lips despite the pain evident in his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. His eyes, dark and unfazed, met yours with a flicker of something unreadable- half daring, half relief- as if, even now, bloodied and battered, he was too proud to let the hurt take hold. Or too used to it.

His heavy gaze felt disarming as you stood aimlessly in the doorway, faintly dripping with water falling from loose strands of your hair. Mustering up a small smile, you closed the door behind you and attempted to ignore the way his gaze burned into your back as you turned to the door. “What if I hadn't been me?” you asked in an effort to diffuse the situation of the weird tension in the air. “What if I'd been one of your friends? That would've been awkward.”

When you turned back to him, his gaze had softened almost indiscernibly. His cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his eyes raked over your drenched and drippy figure before snapping back to your eyes with the self-assurance of a skilled predator cornering its prey. You met his eyes without blinking and the corner of his lips twitched slightly. “None of my friends knock as if they're scared somebody will hear it.”

Your lips curled. “Touché.” With slow, deliberate steps, you walked over to him and came to a halt before him, fingers closing tensely around the handle of your medical bag. Even just the parts of him you could see looked badly hurt, though he didn't show any signs of pain. Maybe he had CIPA syndrome. Or maybe he was just a masochist.

Mattheo caught your wandering gaze, blew a cloud of smoke your way and leaned back against the back of the bench expectantly, cigarette between his bloody fingers. “Well, then, I'm all yours.” A lazy grin played around his lips, in spite of the situation, and it was as attractive as it was infuriating.

Before he could react, you snatched the cigarette out of his fingers and discarded it into an ashtray near you before turning back to him. “It smells disgusting,” you let him know and he chuckled, raising his hands in faux surrender.

You felt hesitant to approach him, touch him, even though you had his consent. His dark eyes rooted you to your spot, made you unable to move. You wondered whether it was some sort of spell until he raised his brows. “Any day now, princess.”

“Don't rush me,” you whispered, averting your eyes and scrambling around in your medical kit for the right supplies. You layed out bandages and healing potions out on the bench opposite him and turned to him once more to tap your wand against his nose, murmuring “episkey” under your breath. With a disgusting cracking sound, it snapped back in place, but Mattheo didn't flinch, only continuing to stare up at you. With the same feeling of sticking your head into a snake den, you leaned down nervously to examine the wounds on his face, whether they needed stitching. The deep cut near his jaw did.

“Careful there, princess,” Mattheo murmured and your eyes snapped from the wound to his eyes, only inches away. “Someone might think you have un-pure intentions.”

You couldn't help the blush that painted your cheeks pink, more so due to his proximity than his words. Still, you brought some distance between you and searched in your bag for needle and thread. “My intentions couldn't be more pure,” you huffed and he laughed lightly from behind your back about a joke you couldn't understand. Or maybe, you did.

“That is true,” he lamented and you heard ruffling. You turned around quickly and snatched the pack of cigarettes out of his hands. He looked mildly surprised at the frown on your face.

“Come on,” you said, voice somewhere between annoyance and pleading. “are you really going to poison yourself while I try to patch you up?” Fitting the threat through the needle, you ignored his raised brows and concentrated your attention on the deep cut in his cheek. A damp towel in the other hand, you ran it over the wound to clean it and then leaned in closer. “This might hurt.”

He completely ignored the last part, but you could feel his eyes on you. Damn him, he was just so distracting. “Hm,” he hummed, as if in thought, and ignored your hiss to keep still. “One might almost think you care about me.”

“I do.”

Both you and him looked up in surprise, and you quickly looked away as his eyes stayed on you, almost hungrily. “Hold still,” you murmured, and finally, he complied, allowing you to insert the needle as gently as possible and start to surture the wound. It was almost scary how still he kept now. You desperately wished to break the silence that spread, that followed your words like a blanket of led pressing down upon the both of you. It was only the truth, you cared about him. You cared for him. You cared for Mattheo Riddle. In order to concentrate, you attempted to shut all that out, but the confession hung in the air between you, as impossible to ignore as he himself was.

Finally, you finished the last stitch and tied the suture with a surgeon’s knot off the side so it didn't touch the wound. A small part of you hoped desperately that Mattheo would overlook your slip up, maybe even forget it, but that, of course, was naive. When you put away thread and needle, grabbed the murtlap essence and walked back over to him, he looked up at you without the trace of a smile on his lips. “You care about me,” he repeated, not a question but a statement. His eyes fixed yours as he got a hold of your wrists. “More than you care about him?”

“Who?” you asked, perplexed by the severity in his tone. A hint of displeasure washed over his face, but it gave way to indifference after just a second. ��Potter.”

“W- what?” you spluttered out, laughing nervously. How on earth were you supposed to answer that question? “He's my friend,” you said hesitantly and freed your wrists to dab some of the potion onto the tips of your fingers. As you leaned down, you froze mid motion when you felt hands on your waist. His hands on your waist. Large and warm and rough even through the fabric of your nurse uniform. His touch seemed to send sparks of electricity through your body that balled in your stomach and made your breath hitch.

“Go on,” he commanded quietly, and though they were trembling, you brushed your cream-smeared fingers over one of the bruises on his jaw. They travelled up over his cheek, tending to the scratches there, but you could hardly keep your attention on them when his eyes seemed to bore through your skull.

With a low voice, he muttered your name, your first name, and you were so shocked to hear him call you anything but ‘princess’ you did the smallest of double takes. “Is there anything more than that?” he asked, and he seemed more tense than before as his fingers curled into the flesh of your belly lightly. “Between you and him?”

Both the idea and the fact that you'd just been asked it by Mattheo Riddle of all people elicited a shocked little laugh from you. But he didn't laugh, only watched you with an expression that you might have mistaken for indifference if it hadn't been for the clenching of his jaw. “He's just a friend,” you clarified, your cheeks growing warm. “We're not- we've never- It's not like that,” you closed abashedly and put a bit of distance between you under the excuse of getting more murtlap. His hands fell from your waist as you walked over to the opposite bench, heat boiling in your face.

You tried to keep your expression composed as you got back to him to tend to the other side of his face, putting some murtlap over the stitches as well for good measure. This time, he didn't hold your waist, but when you were finished and brushed off the remaining essence on your skirt, he caught the hem between his fingers and his light tug caused you to stumble forwards in between his parted legs. His hand travelled upwards, tracing the curve of your hip without ever touching them and locked around the hem of your Gryffindor hoodie. There was a magnetic sort of darkness in his eyes when he looked up at you, two black holes that threatened to swallow you whole. “Take that off.”

In hindsight, you probably shouldn't ever have complied with his request. But his voice was so soft, his eyes so alluring, his whole being like a siren’s call. So you curled your fingers under your hoodie and, heart beating hard against your ribs, pulled it slowly over your head.

Mattheo's breath hitched as his gaze locked on you. The dim light of the changing room caught the soft outline of your figure beneath the thin, damp fabric, your nurse’s uniform clinging to you like a second skin, innocent in intention, but anything but now. The delicate outline of your bra was visible through the slightly see-through fabric. His throat tightened, a mix of a pang of guilt and a despicable surge of fire curling in his chest like smoke.

You looked so pure, so untouched by the edges of the world that had long since roughened him up. The contrast hit him like a bludger- your soft, careful hands that had just cleaned his wounds now pulling your hoodie over your head, oblivious to the firestorm you'd lit inside him. The urge to discard that Gryffindor hoodie and dress you in one of his jerseys, hiding the sacred sight beneath with a claim of his possession, was so overwhelming he clenched his fists, desperately trying to remind himself that you were not his, you were too good, too-

His train of thought was interrupted when you shifted slightly and folded your arms over your chest, only pressing your boobs together. He dragged his gaze away, but the weight of your unreachable warmth, your white-clad purity, lingered, carving through his battered core and leaving him feeling utterly undeserving.

When he looked away, you recoiled slightly and scolded yourself for thinking, hoping, he might react. But before you could put some distance between you, he looked up at you and his gaze locked you in place, making you freeze just as effectively as a pointed wand might have. Mattheo leaned forward and for a confused moment, you almost thought he was going to kiss you, but he only rose from his seat and walked past you.

Only when you heard shuffling behind you, you realized he was rummaging around your medical supplies. No, not rummaging, you realized when you looked over in alarm. He was cleaning up, packing all bandages and potions back into your bag.

“You don't have to do that!” you called and hastily approached to take the murtlap essence out of his hands. But he kept a firm grip on it and raised his brows at you with a mocking little smile. It seemed so out of place after the heavy tension between you in the room. “Hey, ‘m trying to do something nice here, princess!” With one glance, you assessed that Mattheo wasn't one for neatness, as he didn't assort the items in any order or symmetry whatsoever but merely threw them all into a heap and closed the lid. But still, the gesture was weirdly considerate and you couldn't help the little smile that crept onto your face.

“Thank you,” you smiled and he only nodded, averting his eyes. Right now, with your moist strands of hair sticking out of your nurse cap, your pretty little smile, the way the nurse uniform clung to your body, it was hard to withstand the urge to kiss you. Then again, what if he did? It'd all be over. It was etched into Mattheo by habit that if he got close enough to a girl to get intimate on any physical level, it was time for any strings to be cut loose as to not endanger the fragile balance that was what was left of his heart.

But it had never mattered to him, he'd kissed and fucked them anyway because he could, and it felt good, and then he was relieved when it was over. He’d never before held back. And in favor of what? Spending time in your presence? Pathetic, was what his father would call it. Mattheo couldn't explain it either, he just knew that, in this moment, his desire to be near you, to keep you, was stronger than the desire to rip your damn uniform off of you, explore the soft flesh beneath and give you the time of your fucking life right here on this bench.

You seemed hesitant as you grabbed the handle of your bag, your eyes raking over his torso. Of course, you were too good of a nurse and too smart of a woman to not guess what wounds he had to hide beneath. But for now, you couldn't see them.

“Thank you,” he said honestly, and the unfamiliar sound felt so natural when he said it to you. “For patching me up. Fine nurse you are.” He made no attempts to hide the flirty undertone and the lightest of blushes spread across your cheeks. He breathed it in like a drowning man.

With a barely concealed smirk and a “you're welcome,” you approached the door of the changing rooms.

Something like an iron fist closed around his insides as you opened the door and he couldn't hold back the words that stumbled from his lips. “Wait!” You froze and turned to him once more with an expectant look, and, as if he'd always known it, a stroke of genius found his way out of his mouth. “You know shit about muggles, right?”

A genuine grin formed on your lips. “I should hope so.”

“How ‘bout you tutor me in muggle studies then?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. With a light frown, you crossed your arms over your chest and he gave you a pleading look. “I'm gonna fail the class if I don't get my grades up asap.” Satisfied by the way he could practically see your resolve melt at the look he was giving you, his lips almost twitched but he bit down on it to hide any trace of his true intentions. In truth, he couldn't have cared less about muggle studies, but it was the perfect excuse.

“Fine,” you said, albeit begrudgingly, but you also gave him a little smile as you slipped out of the door, leaving only the vague smell of your perfume and a shaken up Mattheo behind.

Even though you had been apprehensive to the idea at first, tutoring Mattheo turned out to be something you started to look forward to every week. With every tutoring lesson, he seemed to be warming up to you more and more- and you did, too.

A few weeks into december, you found yourself laughing at his jokes and getting caught up in his brown eyes, that seemed softer than you'd ever perceived them. And you discovered that Mattheo was funny. He had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor that never failed to make you chuckle, even when you probably shouldn't have. Not only that, but he was also smarter than you'd ever given him credit for.

Previously, you'd thought of him as a mix of brute force and cunning, not unintelligent but thinking more so with his fists. But he was incredibly smart, and you felt not only a growing bond but also fondness in a not-so-platonic way. It also helped that confusion looked simply adorable on him, which was not a word you thought you'd ever apply to Mattheo Riddle.

“So,” he asked in one breath as he plopped down on the seat opposite you in your secluded corner in the library one snowy tuesday evening, “what the fuck is a movie?” Taken aback by his sudden arrival, you did a double take and quickly cleared the desk of your schoolwork to make space for his books and parchment as well. As he spread them out, your eyes got stuck on a few splatters of blood on his white shirt and you frowned. He, of course, didn't miss it, you saw it in the way he shifted his jacket to cover the stains, but didn't mention it further.

“Harry or Ron?” you asked, as you knew him well enough by now to know that the only instance in which he wouldn't brag about his brawls to you was when your friends were involved. He looked almost guilty when he glanced up at you. Almost.

“Both”

Rolling your eyes, you put your books aside and crossed your arms over the table. “So, movies, huh? Where might that word come from, ‘movies’?”

“Come on, princess, you know I hate word definitions,” he whined, resting his head on the propped up palm of his hand and making his best puppy eyes at you.

You chuckled about his behavior and gave a light slap to his forehead that made the curls fall into his eyes in the most irresistible fashion. “It's supposed to come from 'moving pictures’”

“But muggle pictures don't move,” Mattheo frowned, seemingly recalling what you'd taught him just last week.

You nodded. “No, they don't. You see, when muggle pictures move, they don't call them pictures, they call them videos. And they don't move in their own, but because muggles line up an unbelievably high number of pictures and then play them in order, so they look like they're moving. Of course, today, the technology is a little more advanced. But movies often span one if not several hours and they tell stories, like books. It's kind of… as if books came to life. They have a whole range of other means to archived their ends though, like camera perspective, many also have music that can emphasize moments and influence how you see them, actor's performances, lighting-”

You fell silent suddenly and cleared your throat. As so often when you explained muggle concepts to him, you had started to ramble on with increasing passion. Now, you looked back at Mattheo to apologize, but his gaze was locked on you and a light smile graced his lips. Your heart seemed to skip a beat and you quickly averted your eyes down to your book. “Sorry, that was- I'm rambling again.”

“Do you see me complaining?” Mattheo asked with raised brows and kicked your shin lightly under the table to make you look up at him. “So, what's your favorite of these things? These movies?”

“Impossible to answer,” you laughed outright and ran a hand through your hair. “There's so many that are just so good, I could never pick one.” The smile remained in your lips as you contemplated the movies you'd maybe have chosen, but none of them were better or worse than the next.

“So, you like them? Movies?” he asked, watching your features closely. These last weeks, you'd started exposing more of your emotions to him through free expression more than words, had taken down some of the walls you still had left around him. Though he didn't say it out loud, you could tell he appreciated it, because his eyes studied every change of expression rigorously, as though he'd receive everything you gave to him of yourself with insatiable hunger, though he didn't reciprocate them in the same way.

“Yes,” you replied, fiddling with your quill.

There was a slight furrow of his brows when he locked eyes with you. “But they don't exist in our world. So, you'd give them up?”

“Why would I have to give them up?” you countered and leaned back in your seat. “I think the way we talk about the muggle world and the wizarding world is completely wrong. We talk about them as if they are different universes entirely and not part of the same word, the same country. Look at me!” You performed an awkward motion indicating yourself. “I'm part of both, and I don't feel torn, I feel more complete.”

His eyes flickered between yours as he contemplated your words. In the short silence that followed, you glanced around to make sure no one had taken notice of your little outburst. You hadn't told anyone you were tutoring Mattheo, that you were meeting you-know-who’s son two times a week in one of the more secluded corners of the library. Your friends would freak out if they knew, you could picture their aghast expressions, they wouldn't understand that an irresistible force pulled you towards the boy sitting in front of you. How the tutoring lessons had turned into a game of pretend for you, as you tried to hide your growing fondness for him while opening up parts of yourself for him to see. A fragile balance. And whether intentional or not, you'd seen parts of him you'd never known, or maybe you'd heard them through the tone of his voice or the tapping of his hands.

“There are worlds within worlds,” Mattheo broke the silence, and you frowned. His serious look indicated that he wasn't merely talking about the muggle and the wizarding world. You caught his hands tightening ever so slightly around his book and bit down on your lower lip.

“I’d have to disagree. There are just collectives within collectives. If the limits of different worlds are separating us, we can just make it simple and give each other up.”

You'd made it personal, and you scolded yourself silently, glancing up at the clock despite not really seeing the time. Both you and him knew you had slipped up. When talking about issues slightly more serious than movies or superhero comics, which had amused Mattheo greatly, it was a fine line drawn in the sand neither of you could cross, a silent agreement.

The air felt weirdly tense whenever one of you- more often you than him- threatened to bring up the fact that the unmistakable divide between the two of you went far beyond little house quarrels and teasing. That there was a world behind those protective castle walls both of you drowned out whenever you were in each others presence. The clock showed ten past nine.

“Worried that you're going to break curfew again, princess?” God, how you hated yourself for loving the way he said it, that little nickname that you used to despise, and now it was all his.

“No,” you said, tearing your eyes away from the clock and back to him. Nothing in his sharp features indicated that he recognized the tension that had lingered in the air just moments before, but he was too perceptive of a person to have been unaware. It dawned on you that he was probably trying to make you less uncomfortable and nervously tapped your quill against your lips. Mattheo Riddle being considerate was dangerous, because every time he showed his gentle side, it evoked a hunger in you to see more of it.

“You sure?” he asked, a sly, teasing smile resting comfortably on his soft lips. Only now that you found yourself looking at them closer, you realized there was a cut on them, continuously seeping small drops of blood into the corner of his mouth. You suppressed the sudden and utterly mental urge to lean over and wipe it off with your sleeve. It was not the blood that you minded, though. Maybe his craziness was rubbing off on you, because you abruptly thought that you wouldn't mind having his blood on you. Yep, he was definitely rubbing off.

Then, you realized what you were doing, staring at his lips, and fumbled to answer his question. “We still have enough time until curfew, if we leave in half an hour, we'll still have more than enough time to get back to our dorms.” You realized you were babbling on to avoid his heated stare and looked back at him almost defiantly, daring him to tease you for it.

Mattheo didn't take his eyes off you as the corner of his lips quirked upwards lightly. “Look at you, little miss perfect. I'll bet you’ve never broken a single rule in your life before I came along.”

You shrugged, feigning indifference. “Maybe I don't feel the need to.” The ‘unlike you’ lay on the tip of your tongue, but you didn't need to say it out loud.

Mattheo grinned and shifted in his seat, his knee brushing yours under the table. “You're missing out. Breaking the rules is half the fun. The other half is not getting caught.” He watched you bite your lip, trying to conceal a little smile that threatened to creep onto your face. So, he'd been right, you had enjoyed your more risky encounters. Thinking back to the night in the library when you'd fled from madame pince, he remembered the way your breath had hitched when his hand had touched your neck. The way your soft skin had felt against his rough palms, your doe eyes glittering in the dim light.

Suddenly, there was shuffling in the shelf behind you and you shot around, holding your breath. The place you'd chosen for you tutoring lessons was hidden behind the shelf with the twelfth century economical wizarding records and every single tome in it was layered with a centimeter-thick layer of dust that had allocated there over centuries of disinterest. You'd thought it the perfect hiding spot. But after a few seconds of nervous glancing around and your heart racing as you listened into the silence, one of the school’s cats rounded the shelf and passed by you and Mattheo without a glance.

You breathed a sigh of relief who looked back at Mattheo who was watching you closely. “Dangerous, isn't it? Sitting here with me like this.” He twirled his wand around his fingers and leaned forward subtly, the motion alone making you feel as if he was cornering you against the shelf behind your back. “People would start talking.”

“About what?” you said dismissively and rummaged through your notes, just to have something to do with your hands. This tended to happen once you'd strayed from the topic at hand even slightly. Mattheo starting to tease you out of nowhere, and you struggling to keep up with his quickly changing moods that sometimes threatened to give you whiplash.

Mattheo leaned closer still and propped up his chin on his elbow, still wearing a casual grin. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe about how l've completely corrupted you with my evil charms.”

Your sighed with a mix of exasperation and amusement. Tapping your finger against your chin, you rolled around the words in your head before speaking. “You know I'm not treating this as, I don't know, something forbidden. I'm not scared of, how did you put it last week? Ah, yes, tarnishing my reputation. You're-” you hesitated, but then, your words reached out to him like a welcoming hand through cold and unfeeling fog. “You're not as bad as people think, by a far.”

A dry, almost bitter chuckle fell from his lips as he absentmindedly fiddled with the collar of his blood-stained shirt and bit down on the cut of his lip, drawing drops of red from it that trailed down to his chin without hinderance. This time, you couldn't resist the urge and leaned over the desk, extending a hesitant hand. Mattheo froze, not watching your approaching hand but you, but he didn't recoil either, so you wiped the blood from his chin with the hem of your shirt sleeve. The blood stood out prominently against the white of your shirt.

When you drew back your hand, his shot up like an attacking snake and closed around your wrist. With some sort of morbid fascination, it seemed, he stared at the tiny spot of scarlet, before his eyes snapped back up at you. His tone surprised you, you couldn't really place it, it was a mix of softness and chilling intensity. “You really think there's good in everyone, don't you?” he asked, piercing you with his brown eyes that were so unlike those of his father.

“I try to,” you said, attempting to sound humorous, but the chuckle dried on your lips and your voice swayed to softness as you held his gaze. He didn't have to ask, you could see the question burning in his eyes, so loud as if he'd screamed it. And you didn't even need to nod your head to make him understand that the answer was yes.

The winter holidays came and went. The lesson before departure day, he'd told you he'd stay in Hogwarts over Christmas, and you felt tempted to invite him over to yours for a split second before the cruel claws of reality dug into you and you merely wished him happy holidays.

There was a slight unease in you when you boarded the train, as if something was about to go horribly wrong. But when you arrived after the holidays and left the train alongside Harry, Ron and Hermoine, you spotted his shrouded figure in one corner of Hogsmeade train station, a soft curl of smoke rising from his dark profile. For a split second, you'd locked eyes with him and you couldn't help a smile of relief to see him again.

Because both of your friends started asking questions eventually, you often met up after curfew, though you still hushed around the halls nervously any time you did and earned a great deal of teasing from him for your timidity. From time to time, you managed to break into (you preferred the term sneak into) classrooms at night.

These weeks of sneaking around made you masters of discovering hidden chambers in every corner of the castles, and you were particularly careful and made sure Harry ‘forgot’ the marauders map somewhere in the common room or ‘lost’ it and found it again next morning under his bed. Frequently, you met up in the kitchens and you baked while telling Mattheo all about muggle cellphones, that he understood the concept of surprisingly quickly.

On one occasion, you even demonstrated them to him as you pretended to get lost in the sheer blizzard howling around the houses in Hogsmeade to meet him behind Madam Puddifoots and called your parents, fascinating Mattheo. This night, however, Mattheo had discovered a new room behind the entrance hall. The two of you had cozied up with blankets and candles on the couch, keeping a few inches distance at minimum. The dim candlelight was way too ripe for disaster.

“So, let me get this straight,” Mattheo said an hour and a half into your study session. “Muggles have metal, bird-shaped containers with which they can not only fly, but they actually do it.” You laughed at the incredulity in his voice, though a tad bit distracted by the shape of the record sleeve digging into your back. Because Hogwarts castle only had enchanted record players available, you'd asked your parents to send you one of your vintage vinyls you thought he might like, but you were hesitant, had told yourself that you'd just take it in case there was a record player in the chamber Mattheo had discovered. Well, there was.

“I don't really like planes either,” you said, smiling understandingly, “I even prefer brooms over them and you know how I feel about those.”

He hummed vaguely and glanced over at you. “What's got you so shifty, princess?” A sly grin spread over his features. “You got something hidden behind your back, don't you?” Infuriatingly good at reading you, he was, as ever. With a small sigh, you decided that he'd learned enough about muggle transportation for tonight and pulled the record sleeve out from out of your bag.

“Listen up,” you said, excitement and nervousness coiling in your stomach. “Do you remember when I told you about muggle music?” Though Mattheo had undoubtedly been preoccupied with watching your expression shift with passion and your hands gesticulate, drawing patterns into the air, he nodded. “Okay,” you said, nibbling on your lower lip, and held up the vinyl awkwardly. “I thought I might give you a taste of muggle music, only if you want, of course.”

He could tell you were anxious about playing him the track and raised his brows at your humming and hawing and nervously twitching fingers. “What are you waiting for, princess?” The abashed smile you gave him melted him in ways he'd never be caught admitting out loud.

Sometimes it was quite frightening how you made him feel, and more than once, he'd found himself laying awake at night, not only because of his chronic insomnia and returning nightmares but also torn between the reflexive urge to push away you and how you made him feel so utterly disarmed and vulnerable, and the irresistible desire to see you smile again and let your unconditional kindness wash over him, soothing the dark voices in his head.

By now, you'd walked over to the record player and inserted the vinyl. With a tap of your wand, it started spinning and the sounds of a guitar filled the room. The muggle guitarist played a few chords before starting to sing. When you lowered yourself down on the couch, you didn't bother with putting the usual space between the two of you. No, you seated yourself right beside him, so that he could feel the warmth of your body radiating against his like a hug. As the refrain set in, you put your head on his shoulder.

“And if a double-decker bus

Crashes into us

To die by your side

Is such a heavenly way to die”

Mattheo froze for a moment, his breath caught in his throat as your head gently shifted against his shoulder. The simple, unspoken gesture of affection sent a rush of warmth through him that was both startling and utterly intoxicating. He glanced down at you, his a dark eyes softening as they traced over the curve of your cheek, accentuated by the flickering candlelight, and your lashes resting light as feathers against your skin. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, hesitant at first, afraid to disturb the fragile moment. Slowly, very slowly, his hand shifted, fingers brushing against the fabric of the couch before finding their place beside your arm, just close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of you.

“Take me out tonight

Take me anywhere, I don't care,

I don't care, I don't care”

He felt like one of the mythological figures you'd told him about. Mattheo had scoffed at Icarus' idiocy, but now, he felt like he could understand where he was coming from. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and teasing, betraying none of the blazing storm raging inside him. But even still, it was edged with a sincerity he couldn't quite hide. “Getting comfortable, are we?”

You only shuffled closer in response, but Mattheo had to suppress the urge to pull you in, wrap his arms around you, drag you into his lap for all the pleasure and calm it would give him. He was a selfish creature, but at this moment, he managed to stay perfectly still, safe for his fingers barely brushing over the fabric of your sleeve. Your breathing, having come in small, hasty little puffs before, slowed as you sat in silence, leaning on each other and listening to the lyrics filling up the space in your room you didn't fill with your words, because they would never be sufficient.

“There is a light that never goes out

There is a light that never goes out

There is a light that never goes out”

The song faded into silence and you started to move again. Mattheo hid his disappointment when you stood up from the couch to walk over to the record player. As you put the vinyl back into its sleeve, you turned back to him and for a few seconds, you merely watched each other in silence. Then, Mattheo rose as well and handed you your bag, that you took without looking at it.

Could it be that you felt the same reluctance to leave this room as he did? But you had to, his gaze flickered to the clock. Other than him, you had the chance to get some sleep tonight. So he threw one quick glance around the room, the floating candles, the sleeping portraits, the empty couch, leaned down to your level and pressed the lightest of kisses to your cheek. It was warm and soft under his lips, and he could hear your breath hitch in your throat. Damn little minx you were.

“Good night,” you said, quietly, and he returned your smile before opening the door for you, the feeling of your skin against his still lingering on his lips.

Maybe you both should have known it was going a bit too well. Maybe you'd become too self-assured in your nightly adventures. In any case, neither of you had caught the portrayed woman in the frame above the couch watching you through half-closed eyes, feigning sleep. As you closed the door behind you, she rose from her false slumber with a dirty secret in her hands- and a burning desire to spread it around the castle.

taglist: @aespaslut @kricketwritesstories @catching-fire-in-the-wind @a-little-funny @thejediprincess56 @polireader @voidangxls @artsyle @nkvgt @ashrocker123 @chimchoom @onlytenkos @yvonne-dump @alwayslatetothefandoms @ravisinghs-wife @eneywey @viylikecats @darksss5516 @cocosparkel @stereading @helendeath

#harry potter #harry potter x reader #slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle series #mattheo imagine #mattheo fluff #mattheo x you #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo angst #mattheo

513 notes · View notes

sleepynoons · 3 months ago

Text

And With You Came Summer Thunderstorms

You're dragged back into the very hell that you had escaped from years ago, and this time, there's no way out.

yandere!jing yuan x afab!f!reader, yakuza!au, 18+

word count: ~10,600

cw: explicit language, mentions and descriptions of death/blood/gore/violence/etc., symptoms of severe ptsd + anxiety, stalking, blackmail/manipulation/coercion, kidnapping, suggestive tension, implied age gap, ocs as side characters

notes: i'm surprised this made it out of the wip vault. it's my birthday, so here's my gift to everyone. infinite thank yous to my wonderful betas, @staraxiaa and @pranabefall, because they both read through 4-5 different drafts, and entertained my jy brain worms and gaping plot holes throughout the entire process. i always feel so loved by the two of you. thank you to @lorelune as well for your very informative yandere jy thoughts, which helped form the basis of jy's and reader's characters in this au. this story is likely going to come in 3-4 parts, and each part will be around this length, if not longer, so please be patient with me. thank you for your support, and i will take a shot after i post this.

part i - part ii

LIGHTNING IS electrical discharge that occurs between charges within a thunderstorm cloud or between the cloud and the ground. Thunder is the sound that lightning produces, and depending on the length of silence between seeing a spark and hearing its subsequent boom, you can estimate how far away a strike was from you.

While thunderstorms are not something to worry about, it is necessary to take precautions. As such, safety protocols for when you are outdoors are as follows: seek shelter as soon as possible, such as a car or a building, but if not available, find an open space away from bodies of water and stick as low to the ground without lying down.

You will know if where you are located is in grave danger of a lightning strike if you can see and feel the hairs on your body stick up. Get as far away as possible as soon as you recognize the signs.

–

"Child, haven't your folks ever taught you to not follow strangers?"

There are two people in front of you: a man dressed head to toe in black and a child with dirty blonde hair carrying his backpack on the front. You can't identify the man, thanks to his baseball cap, tinted sunglasses, and mask, and if you weren't trying to intervene in the situation as you are right now, you'd scoff at how stupid the kid is. Speaking of the latter, he looks like an elementary schooler, probably attending the academy two blocks south from here. From what you can recall, the academy is prestigious in the prefecture, so you also pity him because, out of all of the school children who are walking home at the moment, he was picked.

The kidnapper (there's no doubt about that) snarls, and you're grateful he's wearing his mask or else he probably would've spit in your face. "Hey, I'm not a stranger. You know me, right?"

He stretches an arm out to the boy, as if beckoning the two of them to hold hands. It might just be a passionate gesture instead, but you couldn't care less about the difference, so you lean your weight onto one leg and wait for the younger one's reaction.

To your dismay, the kid nods. However, at the same time, his grip on his backpack tightens, pale knuckles and joints pulling taut and red, and as children are, untrained in deception and falsehood, a grimace spreads across his round cheeks.

You glance around. There are a few guardians looking your way, and most of the unaccompanied children have scuttled away at this point. If you don't finish and leave soon, you might be mistaken as an accomplice.

Squatting down, you lower yourself so that you're face to face with the elementary schooler. Someone, a long time ago, said that was the best way to communicate with children without instilling fear or intimidation. With a jut of your chin, in the direction of the kidnapper, you ask, "How do you know this bastard?"

"B-bastard?! You –"

The boy doesn't bat an eye at your crude choice of insult. "He's been following me around after school for the past week."

Clearly, aside from being a kidnapper, this guy also sucks ass at his job.

You decide to not say that thought out loud and proceed asking the boy questions. "So it's your first time speaking to him?"

"Yeah." The child nods, body and backpack jostling in unison. You've always thought those randoserus were too massive.

"Verdict's out, then," you say, holding your forearms up as if in surrender. Then, with a deep sigh, you stand back up and shoot the kidnapper a confrontational glare.

Without a word, the man lurches for the young boy, but having foretold his rashness and stupidity, with a quick duck, a jab of your elbow against his solar plexus, and a swift uppercut to the underside of his jaw, you disable the man's balance enough for him to fall over. Then, with a tug of your phone to release it from your back pocket, you activate an SOS alert.

"Child," you say, not even a beat later, as if nothing had happened, "I've notified the police. Next time, tell someone, before it's too late."

However, instead of relief, which you expected, the child visibly jumps at the word "police," eyes bursting wide open, mouth parting for rapid, shallow inhales, hands tomato red. He's panicking, way more than at any moment throughout his interaction with his almost-kidnapper. You wonder if it's just a delayed response to a traumatic event, but before you can even attempt to calm the kid down, he grabs you by your pants, and with a force that only energetic, tireless children have, he drags you down the block and around the corner.

"What the actual fuck – Stop fucking dragging me – Are you –"

You almost fall over when the kid suddenly lets go, friction and momentum ploughing into one another at your center of balance, and by the time you collect yourself, you've realized he's brought you to a parked car. It reminds you of the man from earlier – dressed and designed to conceal what's inside. The boy has left you to wrap himself around the leg of a man in a pressed suit, who's also wearing sunglasses. You're starting to wonder if you've accidentally stumbled onto a movie set or, worse, isekai-ed into some shitty Western Men in Black alternate universe without having been run over by a truck.

Anywho, you'd like to go home, so you need to extricate yourself from this situation as soon as possible.

Arms out by your side, hands and fingers spread out to show that you're not holding anything, you clear your throat to speak. "Hi, I, uh, helped that child escape from a suspicious person. I also called the police, but, well, um…" You sense two more individuals come up behind you. "It seems like the authorities won't be necessary anymore."

The man that the kid's clinging onto bends down. "Young Master, is that true?"

The boy nods, fiercely rubbing his flushed face into the crisp fabric of who you intuit is his primary bodyguard.

"I see."

With a flick of the primary bodyguard's wrist, the two behind you walk over and open the doors to the back row of the car. It seems like you've done a sufficient job to not be suspected, so with an informal bow, you excuse yourself and begin to turn around to navigate your way back.

“Could you wait for a moment?”

For a minute, the primary bodyguard turns around to face away from you, and from his hand that hovers over his right ear, he's mumbling into his earpiece, likely inquiring for further instructions from his employer or whoever's in charge. After a few minutes, he turns back around, and without making eye contact, you can sense his line of sight trained on the back of your head. In the meantime, you hear the kid shuffle into his seat, a door shutting behind him.

That means the other door remains open. Even with the engine grumbling, the body of the car thrumming for velocity and acceleration, it's clear they're not going to leave without you.

But you have no intention to comply. You fold your arms over your chest, and the space between your eyebrows divots into a frown. You spin back around and, in a firm tone, though without sounding too demanding, you state, "I’m on shift right now. I need to get back to my workplace."

The primary bodyguard doesn’t budge. "The Young Master would like you to accompany him home."

Your face wrinkles even more. The situation's becoming unnecessarily complex, and if you let them sway you now, there's bound to be more problems that'll occur later down the line that will complicate your life in irreversible ways.

You weren't expecting to save a kid that had adults at his beck and call, and even so, there's no reason for them to invite you over. Their stubbornness is problematic, and you want nothing to do with it.

"I really need to head back now. I'm not sure if your Young Master would like a stranger to accompany him, after all that has happened as of late."

The primary bodyguard fishes for something in the inner pocket of his blazer. You watch as he pulls out a pin resting in the curve of his palm, no larger than the pad of your thumb, flashing onyx and gold whenever it catches the trickles of sunlight that manage to seep through the wall of white concertinaed fencing and trimmed leafy hedges lining the road.

You bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to pierce through the uppermost layer of skin. You didn't save a kid from an esteemed household; you saved the next head of a yakuza gang.

Just my fucking luck.

You curse yourself for your impolite behavior, even if it was deserved. At this point, you have no other choice than to comply because you wouldn’t survive a brawl with three trained bodyguards.

I’ll leave as quickly as I can and never bother with them again.

With uneasy steps, you approach the car and slide into the seat next to the young boy. The primary bodyguard also joins, sitting in the front passenger seat.

The kid's strapped into his seat, still hugging his backpack close to his chest. Now you understand why that is the case. From this close of a distance, you can see the thick lining of the backpack more clearly, and the color is more matte compared to the usual shine of a typical randoseru. This boy knows there are numerous targets on his head, and he's making full use of the bag's bulletproof casing, designed to defend him during violent encounters.

"You're coming with?" he asks, voice more placid than before. In fact, you'd even go as far as to say that he's demonstrating interest in a stranger like yourself, but if you were to utter that observation aloud, you'd probably be dead.

"Yeah," you breathe, holding back any snark, and stare out the window, elaborating no further.

Promptly, the car peels away and rolls onto the main road.

The drive doesn't take long. The neighborhood is large, a residential area that spans the cleared side of a sloping mountain, and you watch as the car weaves through local streets before curving onto a private path that leads upwards. You've always been aware that there are filthy rich families settled in this part of town, but you never knew one of these properties belonged to a gang.

Actually, it's more like you had hoped a gang wouldn’t have settled in this city at all. There's that statistic you heard way back in middle school – that, on average, one in seven people are sociopaths –, and from your experience, the sentiment's partially realistic. In any case, the yakuza are more present in normal society than you'd believe.

On that note, not all yakuza gangs are bad. Just like how not every person's born a genius and not every business can succeed, not every band of yakuzas can scale up to become massive syndicates. For that matter, some gangs don't even start off with that goal in mind, and prefer to play vigilante in protecting and guarding their territory. But you can't speak much to these "nicer" groups since you've never mingled with them before.

Regardless, it seems all yakuzas have the same taste in traditional Japanese architecture: aged hinoki and red pine, raked rock gardens of sandy white, ponds with speckled koi fish. The car pulls onto the property through automatic wooden gates and parks on the vast driveway.

You take a deep breath. For the most part, you remember your way back. You can’t help but feel grateful that you know this town so well – worst comes to worst, you can run home through various shortcuts and alleyways.

The driver speaks up, and it’s a little jarring, given that no one had spoken throughout the entire drive. "We have arrived, Young Master. Please let us help you out."

But the boy doesn't wait, already unbuckling his seatbelt and wiggling the handle of the door until his pops open. You, on the other hand, don't move, as you haven't been instructed to do anything yet. You watch as the kid pushes himself out of the car, stumbling over his feet when he initially lands on the concrete, and dashes into the estate as soon as he rights himself, the thumping of the heavy-duty backpack against his chest echoing even when you can't see him anymore. Without a moment to spare, the primary bodyguard paces after him.

"You," the driver grunts, as if you're a chore, "follow me."

As you step out of the car, you note a door to the side that leads out to the main road.

There are men everywhere. They stand uniform along the engawa, and all within your vicinity stare hawkishly at you. Most are in what seems to be the standard suit attire, but there are also those who are less prim and have opted for untucked white shirts and dirty sneakers. But the few deviants don't matter – it's clear this group works like an armed force, militaristic in aura, efficient in behavior, and no doubt merciless in combat. So far, you’ve walked past over a dozen, so it’s best that you don’t engage in any reckless fighting.

Almost instinctively, your nose scrunches in disdain. This atmosphere brings back a flood of unpleasant childhood memories, mainly of where you grew up and the people who raised you. It can't be helped, you suppose, with how eerily familiar everything is, and your expression subsequently smooths out back into one of caution and wariness.

You replace the flashbacks with inane observations, like the driver's habit of pulling his lighter out of his pocket before stowing it away again, almost like he's paranoid it'll be pickpocketed, an area of the mansion that's walled off for renovation, the distant honks of a train chugging by. Objectively, it's a neat and established place, and that makes this syndicate all the more terrifying. Yakuzas are only as rich as the number of lives they take.

You're brought to a grand washitsu, but you don't sit, as there's no one else in the room yet. There are four doors to this room, one at each corner, but they’re all guarded from the outside as well, so you can’t escape. At this rate, you’re going to have to wait for an opening, and that’s entirely out of your control.

Strangely, there's no interior decor, aside from a long floor table and some cushions for seating positioned in the center of the room. You're not sure who you're going to meet, so you brace yourself for the worst.

Someone approaches the guard who led you here. There's a quick exchange of nods in greeting, along with brief whispers, before the former takes his leave immediately. You don't have time to surmise their conversation because the driver tells you.

"Our oyabun will be late. Take a seat first."

You have to pinch the inside of your wrist to prevent yourself from openly rolling your eyes and releasing a strangled groan.

Their boss?! Just! My! Fucking! Luck!

You do as you're told. As you tuck your calves underneath your thighs, the driver-guard shuffles some of the tea ware on the table around and pours your porcelain cup three-quarters full with floral tea. On the outside, the cups are glazed an indigo blue, overlaid with splatters of white and streaks of gray, and the interior is a muted navy, making the tea that reflects transparent chartreuse in open light appear murky and inky inside the cup. The drink itself is hot, tendrils of steam wafting into the air and moistening your fingertips that hover around the rim of the teacup, but you're not a connoisseur by any means, so you can't tell what kind it is by fragrance only. Not that you would drink it to find out, you think, because who the hell would be stupid enough to consume something that's prepared by strangers?

However, your unwillingness to consume the tea must be concealed. Otherwise, these people would take it as a sign of hostility, and then they'd have one more reason to treat you with distrust and suspicion. In times like these, you've learned, you just have to take it in stride.

You roll back your shoulders, stretching out and temporarily easing the knots and strain that are ingrained in your deltoids and trapezius. Then, picking your cup up with one hand wrapped around the side and the other plating the base, you hold the tea up to your nose and breathe the aroma in. It's a soothing scent, one that complements breezy spring afternoons that carry hints of summertime.

Summer… You pause, another flicker of a memory rousing your mind. It will be that time of the year again. You shrug the thought off, though, and go back to enjoying the humid sensation of the steam collecting droplets on the tip of your nose and the familiar, pervading scent of white flowers (is it jasmine? rose? maybe camellia?).

Just as you're tipping back your head, ready to fake a sip of your drink, you hear the collective shuffling of men standing upright, tensing into stillness. At first, you think it's to appear proper and cohesive, but with one look at those nearest to you, you notice their nervous grimaces. You consider the possibility that you're projecting and overanalyzing – Maybe that's how they all look when they're serious –, but again, your trained observations beg to differ. All of them are nervous, arguably intimidated by their approaching boss, and it's like they want to disappear. Even if they're holding you captive, you feel a little sympathy for these subordinates, and you prepare yourself as well.

From around a bend, you hear distant conversation. You can't make anything out, aside from a pitched, affirmative "Yessir!", but there's no time for you to guess because, abruptly, all four doors to the washitsu slide open, the sound of wood zipping against thick rug reverberating through the air and floor. A strong gust from outside spins through the room, which, combined with everything else, startles you. As a result, some of your drink sloshes out and burns your hand. You bite your tongue and place the teacup down onto the table, before turning your head around back and forth to see where the boss could be.

You continue to look around, but after a few circles, you give up, opting to still yourself and look ahead. I have to stay composed, you think. You don't hear any incoming footsteps either, so the oyabun’s probably making a stop elsewhere in the estate first.

Unfortunately, despite your rationale, you can see your quivering hands as they rest on the table. But they feel numb, as if your blood has stopped circulating through the joints and muscle and flesh there, and you take in a shuddering breath, the fresh current of spring air cool and minty against your teeth. You begin to work your hands, hoping light movement will assuage your anxiety.

You also figure that you should finally drink your tea. You take a few more moments to yourself before you reach for your cup.

But you never manage to touch the cup. Because, in a blink of an eye, across from you, sitting with one knee propped up to support an arm, a relaxed posture that either suggests a lack of interest or confidence in his ability or both, is the oyabun of this yakuza gang.

It’s by no means a new sensation, but the last time you felt this way was several summers ago, and it overpowers you instantaneously.

There's a dryness in your throat that no water can satiate, a neverending drop in the pit of your stomach, and a heaviness in your legs that chains you to your seat. And for once, your thoughts are gathered. But they're unanimous and concentrated on a singular definite, horrifying truth, one that weak prey are intimately familiar with when faced with an overpowered predator: you're on the brink of death.

It feels as if your death is guaranteed, and even if it isn’t, it's futile to bet on a yakuza's fickle emotions. Anything you do or say, or the lack thereof, can set them off. This is another lesson you’ve learned, over and over and over.

The oyabun's playful chuckle shakes you out of your shell shock, but it magnifies the fear that controls your entire body.

"Be at ease. You are not in danger."

You're not surprised that he responds so aptly, as if he can read your mind. This man is accustomed to killing, and is well-acquainted with the ghastly, terrified faces of individuals who are aware that they're about to meet their end. And judging by the way he entered this room without even alerting you, if he wanted to, he would’ve finished you before your mind could’ve even begun to process your death.

Even if following his instructions could save your life, you're not exactly sure you can "be at ease." Barely a nod, you dip your chin and avert your eyes, instinctively submitting to his presence.

He laughs again as he pours some tea into his cup. "Well, I understand that that is difficult to do. I know how dangerous it is to lower your guard in unfamiliar territory."

You hear the chalky slide of glazed porcelain against porcelain, followed by his satisfied hum as he takes a sip.

"Do you enjoy tea?" he asks.

Every nerve in your body is screaming at you because surely you're going to lose your life over an untouched cup of tea.

Please – I need my hands to move!

You gulp, though there's no saliva for you to swallow and your throat stings with the contraction, as if you are sick with a cold, as if there are deep cracks and lacerations left behind by the dryness plaguing the length of your esophagus.

"Y-yes…" It's a half-assed response at best. Not that you're lying, but uttering even a single word is difficult for you at the moment. The placement of your tongue, the aperture of your lips, the opening and closing of your mouth have all become unfamiliar, your ability to speak stolen by the spring breeze and the personification of death it has brought along.

"Feel free to help yourself. I am quite a fan of it myself, and throughout all my years here, I have been delighted to enjoy a variety of high-grade teas."

He's foreign?

It's unspeakable for a foreigner, of all people, to be in command of a domestic criminal organization. In fact, due to national pride, foreign members struggle to receive even typical hierarchical promotions in order to give Japanese members priority. The only time you heard of a foreigner coming into power was when you were incredibly young, and everyone was stunned to hear of an ex-Chinese Triad member joining the kanbu of a Japanese syndicate.

You wonder where this person is from, but of course, there's no way you could pry information out of your soon-to-be-murderer. Regardless, your number one priority is to get the fuck out of this place.

"I-I see…" With shaking hands, you manage to pick up your teacup and drink, drink, drink until you've consumed everything, even the last dregs of petal and stem residue. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that he's observing you with an unperturbed smile.

When your cup is placed back onto its matching saucer, which takes an erroneous amount of focus and effort on your end, the oyabun continues talking. "I understand you may be quite confused as to why you are here."

He bows, and you lower yourself as well.

"My men and I want to extend our deepest gratitude to you for saving Yanqing."

"Please," you wheeze, voice wobbling, brain barely capable of a coherent thought, "there is no need. I-I am sure somebody else would ha-have helped."

The yakuza boss, now almost wearing a pained expression, shakes his head. "We cannot always rely on others to save our people. We will pay closer attention to ensure that Yanqing is safe in the future. You will be rewarded handsomely for your kindness."

"N-no, I don't want anything in return."

How do I get out, how do I get out, how –

The boss hums again. This time, it sounds more neutral, lacking the pleasantness from the first time around. It's still rich, a gentle rumbling from deep within his chest, but it's neither reproachful nor approving, and you fear that this impersonal response is leading to a third undesirable outcome.

"Mm, are you sure?" he asks, pressing his cheek deeper into his upturned palm. You didn’t notice earlier, but now, you can't help noting the peculiar silver of his hair and the placement of a mole underneath the outer corner of his left eye. Speaking of which, his eyes aren't even open, but you're sure that he can already see far deep inside of you without even trying. This man has so many unusual characteristics, yet at the same time, either because you're losing it or defenseless or both, they blend together into something familiar.

Truly, it's as if all the fight in you, the resilience and attitude you had earlier when dealing with his subordinates, is rapidly escaping you. Or, it might be more fitting to say that the man in front of you is silencing those parts of you, slowly extinguishing all semblance of hope, leaving you bare and vulnerable and wholly at his mercy. Even your voice of reason has vanished, becoming mute because you don't know what to do in this kind of situation.

"Yes," but it sounds more like a question. You're not sure if you should agree or disagree, acquiesce or refrain, take or pass on his offering. You stand by what you said, but you'd change your answer in a flash if that'd mean saving your life, and after all that you've been through, you need to live.

For once, the oyabun doesn't say anything in turn. Instead, as he straightens out his back and sits upright, several of his men scramble away, leaving only two who stay rooted to their position, likely executives of this gang's kanbu. The doors to the watsushi are not blocked anymore, but as long as you’re in the boss’ vicinity, there is no actual opening that you can take advantage of.

You’ve been ignoring this thought, but with every passing second, it becomes more and more impossible to deny – you’re stuck. Not only did you go into enemy territory on your own with no backup plan, but you also walked straight into the lion’s den. And the lion is simply taunting you, playing with you until he gets bored, after which he’ll promptly dispose of you.

How can I stay alive?

He pours himself another cup as he says, "My apologies, I should have sent them away earlier. I hope you can speak more openly now."

Truthfully, you wish you could ask for permission to leave, but at this point, given how long this conversation has been going on for, you've lost your chance. Inwardly, you bemoan your foolishness and regret not having played the role of a terrorized normal citizen. That way, they probably would've released you to save the hassle of having to deal with a hysterical layperson. Then again, maybe they would’ve killed you on the spot. Regardless, the reality is that your leave will have to wait until the boss decides to let you go, if he wants to at all.

You manage to stammer, "Uh, no worries. Thanks…"

As you trail the end of your sentence, you realize you haven't been addressing him. There's no need for you to call him "boss" as you're not in his gang, and there's no way you can ask for his name either. You ponder, searching for a term that suggests formality and detachment.

In the meantime, it's silent in the watsushi. If he was any less intimidating, you'd think this scene – an objectively attractive man wearing a loose white kimono, his silver hair tied into a ponytail with a striking red cord, sitting motionless and quiet against a backdrop of uniform shoji screens – would seem serene.

Regardless, for better or for worse, it seems your bearings are returning, body and mind growing accustomed to the pressure in the room, so you're more capable of rational thought. Yet again, you urge yourself to keep it together.

It looks like the oyabun has no intention of re-initiating the conversation, so you figure he's gauging your next steps.

Sucking in a deep breath, you speak in your most polite tone. You still have no idea as to how you’re going to survive, but it wouldn’t hurt to buy as much time as you can and pay your respects. "Sir, I appreciate your generosity, and I've given it some thought. I'd be grateful to try any teas that are in season, if you happen to have any on hand."

For the first time, his eyes flutter open, and it feels like you've been struck by a bolt of lightning. Smelted gold, as thick and molten as the ichor of Greek immortals, far more dazzling than beams of sun. Your first thought is one of awe – how is it possible for a human to be capable of such unassailable power and beauty? Your second is one that’s far more bone chilling, an icy jet of adrenaline pumped straight into your veins.

For he is the foreigner in the rumors from your childhood, a cold-blooded man who single-handedly beheaded three dozen associates with ease to earn his role as an executive in his gang. Even if you had never witnessed the slaughtering firsthand, like a deafening clap of thunder that can travel as far as ten to twelve miles away, deep in your rattling skull, you realize that this man kills both with and without purpose. This is no longer about predictability, as there is nothing emotional or practical about this man. Brutality and carnage are intrinsic to his nature, and his carnal desires must be satisfied for his own needs.

You've gotten carried away once more. In fact, the moment your self-assurance came back, you unintentionally downplayed the gravity of your situation. Just because he hasn't done anything yet doesn't mean he won't do anything.

Yet, in spite of your insolence, it seems the oyabun is merciful. He dismisses you with an unreadable stare, along with an understanding hum from his still-smiling lips. One of the two men leaves before returning with a wrapped box that, from the cover reads, is from Hokkaido and contains sachets of plum and cherry green tea. You don’t even remember how you gathered the strength to stand, but you do, and through an alternating series of walkways and right-degree turns, you are brought to the entrance of the estate. Like a habit, like the manners that were beaten into your hands, feet, and back when you were young, you bow at the hips, hold it for three prolonged seconds, and, before you can bid the guards farewell, you sprint down the road that you came up from who knows how long ago.

You run, run, and run, pumping your lungs and legs until they feel as if they are about to rip off, and even then, you push them harder, all the way until you reach the door of your apartment. Relieved to find your keys lodged in your back pocket like they always are, you wrench them out and, after many failed attempts, open the lock to stagger into the entrance of your studio.

You collapse onto the floor. A shoe rack shakes as a corner of it bumps against your elbow as you face plant onto the hardwood floor.

It’s all unbelievable. Your encounter with the ex-Triad member of your childhood nightmares, the long sprint home, the fact that you actually made it out alive and are back home – the past few hours seem surreal. It still feels like you need to keep running away, like they’ll find and catch you if you stop moving.

But you can’t muster any more strength. Your whole body feels sore and on fire, like you've doused yourself with gasoline and self-immolated, like there's electricity coursing through your heart, leaving first-degree burns in its wake.

But you don't believe this pain's solely the result of your mad dash home. Yet there was no static, no crackling sounds, not even a single hair raised.

Lightning can still strike, even if there are no preceding signs.

–

Like all weather events, it takes time for a thunderstorm to develop, and it dispels as soon as it can no longer rage on. Thunderstorms specifically go through four phases: growth, development, electrification, and dissipation.

Growth and development, together known as the developing or building stage, begin when warm, moist air rises in an updraft, and at a certain altitude, combines to form a large cumulus cloud. If the warm air inside the cloud is at a higher temperature than that of the exterior, condensation takes place and droplets form, but rain does not fall.

At this stage, the cumulus is only four to seven kilometres in height and five to eight in length on average, so to any onlooker, it has yet to look like a storm cloud.

–

Your phone buzzes as soon as you drop down onto the couch. While the restaurant owner takes her usual lunch hour nap, you choose to decompress in the backroom that looks more like a senior citizen's living room, no thanks to its old 2000s TV with grainy display, bulkish frames, and broken speakers, an unplugged kotatsu, and a large shelf full of dust-covered books and miscellaneous figurines from grandchildren located a bullet train away in Tokyo. After rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, you check to find a text message notification from your closest friend.

Hana: wanna call

You: aren't u at work

Hana: fck work

She picks up on the first ring of your video call.

"Don't tell me you're in the fucking bathroom again," you groan as you lean further into the deflated back of the couch.

Hana scowls and flips you off. "You know this is the only place at work I can call you from without getting caught."

"Well, you've been caught once before –"

"Only because that blind ass bat decided to use this toilet for, like, the first time ever. Never again since."

You shrug. Your friend's always been spitfire incarnate, tongue a cutting thing, glares yet sharper. You suppose it's her expertise, aggravating others with only her presence. She's also incredibly impatient, and when you don't give her a vocal response, she snaps.

"Say something! I'm getting in trouble because of you!"

You stifle a honk of a laugh by clearing your throat instead. "My most beloved goddess, Hana the Terminator, thank you for bestowing me your time and grace."

"I’m not that unforgiving – you've been watching too many movies again," she spits, along with a slap to her forehead.

Despite all her controversial traits, though, she's your most trusted confidant – the only remnant from your past that you keep in touch with.

Hana quirks her eyebrow, to urge you to speak your mind because she already knows something's plaguing you. After all these years, you're convinced she can read minds.

You sigh. "Hana."

Paying no mind, she presses onward. "What happened? Did a customer throw their plate at you again?"

"No, work's fine."

Her eyes narrow. "Alright. Is it something we can't talk about?"

When you ran away, you made Hana promise that the two of you would never talk about anything of the past or your childhood again. After all, you escaped with the intent to leave everything you knew behind, and one necessary step was to never think about it all anymore. And she's made good on that promise this whole time, so it’s hypocritical that you’re breaking it.

You look away from the screen and mumble, "I know I said I never wanted to talk about it again, but… I was wondering if I could ask you a question."

She snorts. "Sure."

Your eyes flicker back to the screen, and you see that Hana's switched off her camera, most likely so that she can hold the call to her ear and lower the volume to prevent any eavesdropping.

"I think this happened when we were nine? Ten? It definitely happened when we were in the middle of that turf war, and then we suddenly got news that all these guys in the other prefecture got fucking oblitered by an ex-Triad member. Do you remember?"

You hear her suck in a breath through gritted teeth. "Fucking course. Shit – why are you asking about this?"

Hana's harsh whisper sounds… thin, like a leaf shaking in autumn, its stem clinging onto a branch right before it's about to snap and float to the ground, only to be trodden over and torn apart into several pieces, never whole again. After having met the person yourself, you understand why even a mere mention of him can send anyone spiraling.

Ignoring her question, you press, "What was his name?"

It's almost comedic how audible her gulp is – guttural, like she's about to vomit into the toilet bowl that she's sitting on. "Jing Yuan."

"What group –"

Suddenly, there's background noise that interrupts you. There's the clicking of heels, knocks against a bathroom stall, some garbled words made worse by a bad signal.

"Shit," Hana hisses. "That bat's back again – whatever you do, stay away from that motherfucker, alright? I love you."

And the call ends. You didn't even get a chance to parrot "love you" back, but it can't be helped, you think. You’ll call again next month, and there’s no doubt she'll drill you on your questions and the intent behind them. Anyway, for now, your focus is to ensure that your peaceful life won't be disturbed again. Even without Hana's warning, you've already experienced enough to know that you never want to cross paths with Jing Yuan ever again.

Nighttime falls before you know it. After the lunch break, you and the restaurant owner spent the late afternoon prepping for the dinner rush, and ever since the only other apprentice quit three weeks ago, the two of you have been busier than before.

It's not uncommon for young people to go without a college degree, as the national law only requires at minimum a middle school diploma, so when you left home on an arbitrary Tuesday night in the middle of your first year in high school, the only way to support yourself was to get a job. You had enough of an allowance to hop on a random train to a more remote town, and once you arrived here, you rotated between jobs as a cashier at a convenience store, a dishwasher and waitress at multiple diners and izakayas, as well as a librarian. Now that you're in your 20s, you've settled down in this restaurant as an apprentice, and eventually, when the owner decides to step down, you'll take over.

This place has grown on you, and you'd really like to stay.

There are no angry customers or broken dishes throughout the evening, and aside from a few hiccups with the cash register, you get off work without a hitch. On a good day like today, you can leave by 10PM.

Your place is just a five-minute walk away, and upon you return, you're greeted by a dark room that contains nothing except for a kitchen, a mattress, a computer charging in the corner, and a tall stack of borrowed books you plan to finish over the upcoming weekend.

There's also that box of Hokkaido tea sachets that's resting on your kitchen countertop. For some reason, in the month since you received it, you haven't been able to throw it away. You've already discarded the wrapping paper, and the box doesn't look like it's been tampered with. In fact, it looks new, as if Jing Yuan himself received it as a respectable present of sorts, but you never know what it could contain, and you don't intend to find out.

You're just relieved that you haven't been bothered by Jing Yuan or his gang since your encounter. Initially, you were paranoid, so disturbed and worried that they'd come after you to the point that you called in sick and didn't leave your room for a whole week. Then, you had no choice but to do your best to resume work and other parts of your usual routine, but you refused to make any deliveries (and still do, too). After all, the whole reason why you were in the neighborhood where you met Yanqing was because you were on your way back from dropping off an order, and you never want to go back there ever again.

It's a shame, you think, still staring at the large printed words on the cover of the box. I might have to leave this place soon.

–

Weekends are more relaxed because the restaurant’s only open for lunch. The owner reserves her weekend evenings to spend time with her son and granddaughter, and you're not skilled enough to run the establishment on your own yet.

You're awoken by the sound of your doorbell buzzing. Disoriented, you sit up with a jolt, the room spinning a little as you strain to clear your head. It rings again. With a shout – "One moment, please!" –, you roll out of your covers and hobble towards the front door.

From your peephole, you see that a deliveryman is waiting outside your front door with a package in his arms. It's a dark cardboard box with logos dotting the exterior in diagonals, but you don't recognize the design nor are there other legible clues for you to discern.

"Ma'am, I need you to sign this slip," the deliveryman announces.

You furrow your bows and, through your half-conscious daze, struggle to recount if you've ordered anything as of late. Try as you might, nothing comes to mind. You see the worker glancing at his wristwatch, and you feel bad for keeping him waiting. Fueled by guilt, you end up opening the door and signing the slip.

It could be the owner, you think. Sometimes, she likes to send you things without notice, so you figure it might be another load of cherries or a few hand-me-down shirts from her daughter-in-law who she's convinced is around your height. Anyway, with an impatient nod and a snatch of the sheet in your hand, the deliveryman leaves you alone to haul the package back into your apartment.

You heave it over and drop it next to your mattress for a closer inspection. You're almost tempted to look over it later and resume your post-shift nap, but common sense wins, and you need to confirm the nature of this mystery delivery. The packaging label tells you the sender seems to be a store located in Kyoto. More specifically, as you search them up on your phone, it's a pottery shop. By now, it's clear this package isn't something you had bought for yourself, and you doubt it's from the restaurant owner either. For a second, you consider the possibility that the deliveryman made a mistake, misread your apartment number or something, but another glance at the packaging label and your name is legibly printed on it.

You click onto the shop website where you learn that customers can go in to make their own creations, as well as purchase already-made goods, which you check out next. The catalog is a few pages long, but the products are all of the same thing: tea sets.

Struck with a chilling sense of fear and despair, you jump in your skin and choke out a horrified gasp.

How is that possible?

With wide eyes, your neck snaps to the side, towards the kitchen, at the box sitting on the countertop. You're on your feet within a second, and stride over to it. Without a single ounce of care or consideration, you rip the box open, shredding the cover into two uneven halves, and your eyes bore so deeply into the four columns of tea sachets that your vision begins darkening. But still, nothing seems out of place. You then dump all of the tea sachets into the sink, wondering if there's anything hidden beneath them. Yet again, nothing appears, so there's either nothing or a device so small that you can't discern it simply by looking.

Leaving the mess in your kitchen, you stalk back to the delivery you just received, and with sheer brute force that you can only summon when enraged, your nails tear through the packing tape and rip open the flaps of the package. You toss out the top layer of bubble wrap to unveil a white box with a translucent top that has an envelope taped onto it.

At first glance, it seems like an obligatory thank you card that small businesses usually send with every purchase. However, the printed silver cursive reads: "A special gift to a special someone!"

It's tough choosing between laughing in disbelief and yelling disgusted expletives, so you opt to remain silent, a blankness that can mean nothing and everything all at once. You tear off the card and flip it over to find a longer message.

To a dear friend. I hope this present suits your taste, and may we find another time to converse over tea again.

The building stage of a thunderstorm can take as short as an hour. In other words, it's possible for a clear, sunny day to suddenly become overcast, an impending storm ready to unleash, no longer an impossibility beyond the horizon.

Just like how you were able to turn yourself around in one night, it is equally feasible for your current life to be disrupted, uprooted, and made into a hell, all within an afternoon.

–

In the development stage, the air within the stormcloud and between the earth has an insulatory property to combat the mess of swirling particles of both positive and negative charges. The magnetism between the opposite charges is not great enough to cause electrical discharge, so like river water flowing between pieces of driftwood that dream of the whole they've broken off from, the air keeps the particles separate enough to further delay the inevitable sparks and flashes of electricity, of the cloud's heated turmoil.

–

Jing Yuan can be an incredibly talkative person, you learn. From your last meeting, he seemed like someone who wouldn't mind awkward silence, but as you kneel across from him on the other side of the same low-rise table in the same watsushi, with your hands clasped together in your lap, you listen as he explains Yanqing's situation.

His eyes are closed again.

"We managed to apprehend the man. He was a mediocre hitman desperate to pay off a debt he owed to his landlord, so he was by no means difficult to track or dispose of. I apologize, again, for the trouble Yanqing had caused you. I have reminded him to tell us when he is in danger."

Because of how terrified you were before, you couldn't pay much attention to Jing Yuan, other than the grossly intimidating aura he encased the whole estate and everything within it. It's not like you're not scared of him this time, but it's clear that he has no intention of killing you. This, you know for sure, is not based on urges as flimsy as idealized delusion or optimistic preconception, but rather by the fact that Jing Yuan has, like the volume of a speaker, lowered his display of domineering might and is making space for actual conversation.

Listening, you nod once.

He continues, "Yanqing is still exceedingly young, so he may not know what is best for him. He has acute instincts that can alert him of danger, but I am afraid he lacks experience in properly responding and protecting himself."

His voice is smooth, thoughtful, like that of a quiet, concerned father. But there's also an edge of dissatisfaction – a warning, but to whom, you're not sure. Still, it comes off as generally easygoing and warm, a savoring of warm brandy on a full belly, and if you were daringly reckless, you would've suggested he switch careers to become an audiobook narrator instead. In the context of the yakuza world, though, you have no doubt that this soothing, borderline seductive tone of his has drawn out countless dangerous secrets and several pieces of classified information from lustful tongues and fatigued minds. You wonder, then, what he wants from you.

It looks like it's your turn to finally say something. After all, since your arrival 15 minutes ago, you haven't uttered a single word.

"I'm sure he's learning, Sir. He's in good hands."

Not that any of these people are good.

"We will see. He did mention that you advised him to speak up as well, so I figured there was no need for me to repeat myself too many times."

"Ah," your voice cracks as you lower your head, "I overstepped."

"No, it is quite alright. I am not his actual father, so I appreciate help from others. It is important for him to learn from as many adults as he can, from their successes, as well as their silly wiles."

You feel a lurch within your upper body, the familiar emetic sensation from a month ago hitting you again. While you're not an immediate threat, it seems he still has his reservations.

"Anyway," the oyabun transitions, "I wanted to ask. How do you like the gift I mailed to you? I hope the whole set came intact."

Frankly, you haven't spared the tea set another glance. All of your thoughts were ensnared by the laminated note card, and you still can't believe he went so far as to find your address.

The need to escape rests heavily on your mind, but the matter is no longer as simple as leaving the estate. Since he knows where you live, the only option that remains is for you to move away, and it’s not as spontaneously easy to run away as it once was when you were a teenager. You have to communicate and apologize to the restaurant owner, clean out your apartment, and find a new place to start anew – all of which require at least a few hours.

I’ll leave tomorrow night. I just need to play along and not get killed today. By tomorrow night, I’ll be safe.

The thought placates you sufficiently, and you redirect your full attention to Jing Yuan.

With a palm over your heart, you say, "They're beautiful, though I haven't had the chance to use them. Thank you so much for the generous gift."

He chuckles, though they sound more like a lion's heavy purrs. It's a rich sound, as obscene and dense as melted dark chocolate. "No rush, you received it just yesterday. I know they may appear simple, but mashikos are made with stark red clay from the town they are named after and are appreciated for their captivating minimalism. I hope you can find daily use in them."

You nod once more, fully knowing they'll never be touched – just like the torrent of questions swirling around and around in your head.

Jing Yuan speaks, as if aware of the conclusion you've come to. "Initially, I was hesitant in sending you the gift. But I am glad I chose to. While I do not mean to indebt you to us, I was wondering if I could discuss a matter… with you.”

With feigned stoicism, the kind that only years of practice can produce, you acquiesce, "Sure, but I do not know if I can be of much help."

You watch as he picks up a thin folder that’s laid on the ground to his right and sets it on top of the center of the table. He then opens it to reveal a neat pile of glossy photographs bound together by a paper clip.

"I am curious to know if you recognize anything in these photographs," he instructs as he lays four out in a row. "It can be any of the individuals or objects in the background. Anything that can tell you of the general setting."

Your ears begin to drum loudly as your head pounds and pounds with intensifying force and rhythm. It hurts so much that you can't resist the need to wince as beads of sweat form at your temples. It's as if you're the main character of a movie who's suffering from amnesia, and you're experiencing a brief moment of recollection, stabbing prickles of familiarity and bright flashes of images that slip away almost immediately. Except your flashbacks don't slip away. They linger and haunt, meandering and taunting you when you try to make them disappear. Even after all these years, all these kilometers of distance, the regret and guilt hit you with the same brutality, a bone-crushing punch in the stomach that wrecks your organs and renders you helpless and panicked.

Not now, you think, but your internal pleas are futile. You’re utterly helpless, and escape is no longer a priority, the possibility of succeeding having long been impossible.

The first photo, starting from the right, is a scenic snapshot of a hillside overpass. In late elementary school, you frequented this place every night with Hana and her older brother, Haru, demanding that you be brought here to see the sun set before you retreated home for the day.

How does he know?

The second is blurrier, the flash of the camera mostly blinding everything but the edges out. There are several flags with store signs waving out front, and if you're reading them correctly, some of the names are restaurants in the downtown area of your hometown. You never went downtown often as there were always way too many people, but you know all the store owners feared your family.

How does he know?!

You don't recognize the third, which shows a four-story office building.

The fourth, however, causes you to still. Anyone looking at the image would, too, with the amount of blood and specks of flesh smeared against the wall, the emptied shells of bullets lying on the floor, and, in the center of it all, a man's face that’s half-bruised, a disturbing palette of waste green, toxic purple, and old yellow.

But your blood runs cold primarily for another reason. The other half of the man's face is less damaged, features more intact and, therefore, recognizable. You don't know him, per se, in that he doesn't jog any sense of familiarity, doesn't trigger an "aha!" moments where a lightbulb goes off and a new memory plays in your mind's theatre. You can't put a name to his face or pick him out among the crowds in your memories.

What you do recognize is the pin hanging loosely from the lapel of his torn blazer. Despite the camera flash, its reflection is dim, no thanks to the dried blood smeared entirely over it. Though it doesn't matter. Even if that pin was caked in layers of mud or glazed over with pitch black paint to create an opacity so deep it absorbs all light, you're sure you'd still be able to see the pen strokes, the exact points at which they overlap and interstice to form the kanji character that you abandoned at age 20.

HOW DOES HE KNOW WHO I AM.

If you could, you'd snatch the photo to see this man – who is closer than a stranger but too distant to be family – and sob out at once. Your hands would be shaking, one might even come up to cover your gaping mouth, and you'd continue to struggle to see the image clearly enough through your flooding tears.

It takes you a few seconds to realize that your reactions are not figments of your imagination. This battered mess of a man, albeit only a photograph of his aftermath, is pinched between your shaking fingers, your fingerprint smeared against the edges, and painful whimpers escape from under your breath. You don't want to think about how much you're crying.

There are a few moments of heavy silence before Jing Yuan's voice pierces through your grief. "I see you are aware."

Your eyes flicker to him. There's no smile stretching his lips, but he doesn't look like he pities or sympathizes with you. He's just waiting until you are capable of conversation again. You're sure that, internally, he's pleased, at the very least, that you’re finally playing his game.

You should be angry. Furious, even. Of course, you can't rage or else you'll get killed, but still, flames of wrath should be searing the back of your throat and pulsing through your arms, licking at your stone-cold feet to just fucking wake up and Run! – to Jing Yuan, to your apartment, to somewhere far, far away.

But there are no fires. There is no hint of rage. Instead, you ring hollow, outplayed and defeated in a game you never asked to be born into.

With a tumor in your throat, you croak, "How did you find out?"

"I did not."

His answer surprises you, but it withers away into indifference nonetheless. Though, maybe you're misunderstanding him, the oyabun sounds oddly candid.

"In China," he continues, "the people largely believe in this concept called yuan fen. I believe it is called en in Japan, which is very similar to the symbol of yuan. I am not as spiritualistic as I used to be, but I believe, in certain matters, that fate can be a source of interference. And in this case, this relationship between you" – his voice drops and thins out, louder than a whisper, dimmer than his usual speech – "and me may be a result of fate's fickle tricks. It is a result of our yuan fen that we have connected as such."

Your head drops. The photo's crumpled from your unrelenting hold, so you set it on the table to prevent further damage. You've already caused so much harm, not just within this tatami room, so if you can spare anyone any more pain, you'd like to refrain from humiliating yourself further. All you can do is wait for this motherfucker to tell you what's to come next.

"Though, at present, I am sure my words are meaningless and serve barely any comfort," Jing Yuan says.

When you don't respond, he hums. It's a thoughtful rumble, as he ruminates on how he should proceed.

You save him the effort and, through drying, cracked tears, croak, "I grew up in this town. If it is information or connections you want, I can try to help, but just know that I have not been back there in years."

Even though you're no longer looking at him, you can hear the smile – unperturbed, sickeningly mild – on his face. "That sounds like the perfect arrangement."

With a brush of his ponytail behind his shoulder, a subordinate paces over and stands at attention. You wonder how wilted you must look to the guards surrounding your perimeter, how lifeless and placid and bleak you've become within minutes, even if none of them have known you for more than a day.

The oyabun instructs, "Prepare a room for our guest. We will be relying on her, so treat her well. Tell Yanqing, too, that he should be mindful not to disturb her."

Unfazed, you raise your hand, which causes Jing Yuan to turn his attention back to you.

"Yes?"

"How long will I be staying here for?" you ask.

"We would like to move on from this matter within a week. Will that be a problem for you?"

There are no promises of leaving you alone afterwards or compensating you or, at minimum, apologizing for the mental anguish he's inflicted on you from everything that's transpired. Those promises would be empty anyway, but that's not the point. Jing Yuan is demanding because he intends to be. He’s consciously taking full advantage of the fact that you can't refuse even the most outrageous of his requests, while going so far as to sugarcoat his exploitation with a charming voice and an irritating smirk when he doesn't need to. Every single action is premeditated to help you realize how powerless you are.

But you already know. You've always been too weak. You've never let yourself forget.

You shake your head. "Not at all."

One by one, his subordinates take off, until only the two of you remain. You find that a little odd, as to dismiss all of his men means he is exposing himself to being ambushed, but you shrug, figuring that Jing Yuan is more than capable of defending himself. It wouldn't surprise you if he's able to catch a flying bullet and tear apart limbs with his bare hands.

"One last question," Jing Yuan states.

You peer up at him, to find that he has stood up and is rounding around to your side of the table. Naturally, your body tenses up, muscles and joints locking up, and you follow his frame with rapt dread as he makes his way to you.

He sits down right beside you, and with a downward tilt of his chin, opens his eyes to gaze at you. He has only just decided that you are worth being seen, being perceived, and you wish you could spit in his face.

Instead, you bite down on your lower lip with gritted teeth and a jaw so tense it shakes with strain. And when you watch his hand come up to trace the hollows of your cheek, you have to pierce your nails into your palms to prevent the screams bubbling up your throat. Even worse, when he leans closer, enough for his slow, tempered exhales to tickle your forehead, you freeze, body paralyzed from the lightning of his eyes.

"In order for this arrangement to work," Jing Yuan mutters, though with the way he's speaking into your ears, it sounds like a ravenous purr, "we need to be transparent with each other, yes?"

Out of sheer instinct, your hands fly up, about to push the man away. But simultaneously, you have no urge to touch the man, or have him touch you, so they simply pause midair.

Another rumble of amusement resounds from his chest and reverberates through your ears. You can feel his fingers cascade down the side of your face before his hand wraps around to settle at the base of your neck, with his thumb propped underneath your jaw to lift your head up. You want to tear yourself from his hold, but the unwavering steadiness in his hand – not a single tremble, surgical in precision – and the unfamiliar warm touch warn you not to, beckoning you to savor the murky sensations instead.

You're cheek to cheek, so close that you can catch the scent of something green, and musky, then metallic. And, like the final gust of chilling wind right before a storm unleashes, he breathes, deafening and hushed all at once, "Can you promise me your utmost honesty and sincerity?"

There's no air in your lungs. He already knows your answer.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai sr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai sr x reader #jing yuan #honkai star rail jing yuan #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan honkai star rail #jing yuan hsr #jing yuan x reader #carrot cake!

183 notes · View notes

revelboo · 3 months ago

Note

Revelllll! I went to by Walmart on my off day and saw transformers blokees being sold. The minis $4.98 (estimate) each and the bigger ones $9.98 (estimate), and i had to get them. Still build Bumblebee and gonna work on Optimus when I'm not busy with work.

Had to share with ya!

Awesome! I love that they’re getting easier to find and for much cheaper. Though if Walmart gets the Galaxy wave 7 in, I’m probably just going to grab the whole box…

Give Up/Give In Pt 18

ES Megatron x Reader

• Halfway drowsing, your head lifts when he murmurs your name and he was right. With the sky scudded with clouds, the sun falling behind the mountain range bleeds the sky red, gold, and a bruised purple and the sunset is gorgeous. “Oh,” you whisper, sitting up some and he rumbles around you. He’d brought you up here to show you this and it leaves you warm and oddly breathless that he’d share this with you. “It’s lovely.”

• “Yes, lovely,” he murmurs, the sunset forgotten in favor of watching you. Because the wonder on your face? That small smile as you lay a hand on his console? Those mean everything to him. And that growing disquiet inside him spreads a little more, wanting to keep you. To have someone need him, not the warlord, not his strength. Just him. To laugh with him, talk to him. No ulterior motives. What would you say if he asked you to stay. To let him court you as a mate?

• Lingering until the sun is completely gone, he swings back to his hideaway and drops the ramp to let you out before transforming. And immediately bends to offer you his hands. “You’re going to make me lazy if you don’t let me walk some,” you tease, but you slide into his warm hands anyway. Needing the safety of him as the lights set into the walls provide a dim glow to keep the dark at bay, and he carries you to his berth and sits with you cradled against him. Making you wonder what you are to him. A responsibility? A pet? A friend?

• “You could train with me. I could teach you to spar,” he says, the words becoming a deep purr. At a certain point, fighting isn’t so different from dancing. Remembers seeing couples dancing before the war, holding each other so close. Always on the outside, looking in at wealthier Cybertronians, because miners? Who’d want to dance with the labor? Remembers that lonely ache seeing couples swaying together, smiling and the bitterness that had spilled through him because it wasn’t meant for him.

• Laughing as a servo rubs between your shoulder blades, you look up at him. “That would be painfully one-sided, wouldn’t it?” You ask and he smiles slightly. ‘I might let you win once.’ Amused, you lean into his chassis, cheek resting against him as the now familiar thrum of his spark sinks into you. “Just once?” And you wish he was human, because you’re closer to him, feel more at ease, at home, with him than you’ve ever felt with someone before. Aware that you might be falling for him even knowing it’s going to end up hurting you, that it can’t really go anywhere when you’re both so different. And that you’re lying to yourself, because there’s no ‘might be falling for him.’ That you’re already so lost in him he’s going to devastate you when he gets tired of you.

#transformers x reader #megatron x reader #earthspark megatron

189 notes · View notes

literallyjusttoa · 6 months ago

Text

On a quiet night, my lord, my love, you came with tears in your eyes, and told me your son had been slaughtered.

For hours you wept at my side, before sorrow turned to rage and innocents were brought to dust by your bloodied hands.

I held our child close as Olympus shook. I felt his breath, I heard his heartbeat. I held him and watched as the clouds filled with thunder. I imagined our child dead in my arms as your son had been, and it felt like the fates whispering in my ears.

I saw ruin in your eyes that night, love, and I saw it every night after. He was doomed from the start, wasn't he? And we were doomed as well. They'll storm our walls soon, as well. They'll tear us apart before your eyes, as well.

I want to ask why, but I know you don't have an answer either. It's alright love. I can't blame you. The years pass, and the ruin stays in your eyes, in mine, in my husband, in our sons. The Greeks make their way to our Scaian gates.

On a quiet night my lord, my love, I came with tears in my eyes, and told you our son had been slaughtered.

(explanation under the cut!)

Real quick explanation time! Since Asclepius is an Argonaut alongside Nestor, a man who is still alive (though old) by the time of the Iliad, and Asclepius' sons fight in the Trojan War, is seems possible, if not likely, that Asclepius was killed within a decade of the start of the Trojan war. This means that Hector, who was middle aged by the war, had to have been born before Asclepius' death. If you follow the versions of the myth that call Hector Apollo's son, this means that Apollo had already been with Hecuba, and seeing as they had a second son, Troilus, after Asclepius' estimated death date, they were likely still close. How might Hecuba have felt when she heard the news? When Apollo was punished and she could not pray to him? When a man who was her children's half-brother was killed by the king of Olympus? Especially when at this point, multiple prophecies had been made that foretold her kingdom's destruction? Idk I think about her a lot and I think about them a lot and I think about Troy a lot, so I made this.

#apollo #greek mythology #hecuba #iliad #sunny speaks #apollart #asclepius #hector of troy #troilus #idk if I expressed all my ideas right but ahhh troy and them and ahhhhh #also I love Hecuba and Apollo btw #like might be moving up to one of my favorite relationships Apollo has been in I love love them #so fun to post this right after my lester-core post lmao #trials of Apollo #i guess lol

360 notes · View notes

pinkaditty · 7 months ago

Note

UGH I love love love ur Hc’s it like you literally came straight out of the game ^^ although jiro doesn’t get much time to sit down or relax in general sometimes tells me he’d like cockwarming

well yes obviously!!! this way he wouldn't have 2 move around much... ALSO TYYYYY this is the best compliment i could get in reference 2 hcs i think... like it's so good it's like i came out the game fr?!?!? amen!!!!! (hc's are here! unfinished, but being worked on)

a/n: well. im back. i know what i said but... i needed 2 write. the worms are inescapable... im working on a romance fic (sho haizono x reader) in the bg bc I need 2 post something fluffy... just this once... ANYWAYS this is short 4 my own sanity I fear. sorry! ill write more jiro next time I promise. he was gonna be my next smut victim anyway (after haru!). also please let me know if i wrote jiro ooc... i have an odd feeling i may have gotten something wrong here.

summary: jiro's resting. you can't stay put.

cw: cockwarming! and discussion about penis length, i guess? it was funny 2 put that in there. sorry. i love human anatomy i fear it's the coolest thing ever 2 me. ALSO MINORS DNI!!!!!!!

You squirm for the hundredth time, squeezing your walls tight around Jiro's hardened length. He snaps his eyes open and looks down at you sitting in his lap. You can't tell if he's disappointed, tired, or neutral. The only signs he's enjoying himself are his clouded gaze, wavering expression, and cherry red blush across his cheeks. You didn't understand how he was "relaxing" like this, but somehow he made it work. He sighs, a small smile tugging his lips upwards. He reaches for your back and pulls you into his chest, and you shiver from feeling him twitch inside you. "You really should relax." His low voice is as expressionless as ever and masterfully hides the arousal he feels, the evidence of which is plastered all over his face.

"You're... A bit too long for that, Jiro." You try to say it jokingly, but your words are overshadowed by your groan as you try to settle yourself, only to end up spearing yourself further on his impressive length. He's silent for a moment before he strokes your back gently, as though apologizing. You ramble on. "I mean, I knew it was rumored that taller guys had longer dicks, but I didn't know that it was actually true—"

"It's not." Jiro pauses his hand movements, looking down at you again. "It's an unreliable method to use one's height alone to determine length, and the correlation that has been found is too weak to assume accuracy." His smile had faded at some point, returning to his usual stoic expression. His blush has not faded, however, and his pupils were blown wide.

"Okay..." You hold out your words, looking up at him curiously. You pull away from his chest, suppressing a moan as he twitches inside of you again. You grip his shoulders, steadying yourself, and his hands settle on your hips. His lips part as he pants, his breathing quickening. Once the dizzy pleasure in your head fades a bit, you shake your head and look up at him. "So, I'm curious. Is there a way to predict penis length?"

Jiro looks off to the side, in thought, somehow still holding it together better than you were. His cheeks were still flushed, his lips still parted with heavy breaths, but not much past that. He wasn't even sweating, remaining calm despite buried to the hilt inside your cunt. You had to admit, it was impressive. "Yes; if I remember correctly, there's a stronger, more reliable correlation between the respective difference in lengths between your pointer and ring fingers and estimated penis length." He looks back to you, bored voice matching his expression if not for that expressive blush. "It's stronger than both height and shoe size correlation, so it's more likely for someone with a larger difference in the lengths of those fingers to have a larger size."

You hardly even think about it, lifting one of his hands from your hips as he was talking. You analyze the length of his ring finger in comparison to his pointer finger, only to find not much of a difference. You almost feel disappointed for a few moments, before Jiro's laughter shakes you out of your thoughts. He squeezes your hip tighter with his free hand, still laughing. He shakes just slightly as he laughs, causing minor friction of his length against your walls. You let go of his hand and press your palms into his shoulders, suppressing your moans. "Jiro!" You press your palms into his shoulders harder. His laughter slows to a soft chuckle, and he returns his other hand to your hip, steadying you, pressing his hips upwards into you. He huffs out a breath, a slight groan escaping his throat as he does. His eyes darken for a split second as he gazes at where your bodies connect before he lifts his gaze to you again, soft smile on his face.

"You should've seen how disappointed you'd looked." He said, breathy chuckles escaping him as he lifted one of his hands, displaying the minimal difference in length between his pointer and ring finger. "I said it was likely, not that a large difference in length would always be indicative of longer lengths. And, I have long fingers." He returned his hand to your hip again, sounding as bored as ever, but with a small smile stuck on his face.

"There ought to be an easier way to figure this out." You muse, leaning towards him slightly, careful not to cause too much friction.

"There isn't," he states flatly, looking at you with an amused expression. "The best way to predict length would be via a combination of ethnicity, height, shoe size, and the difference between lengths of the pointer and ring fingers. Studies have been tried prior simply by asking, but those values tend to be exaggerated." You notice his voice begins to waver slightly, his lips remaining parted even when he's finished talking. He swallows thickly, leaning back against the chair, gripping your hips a little tighter.

You don't bother suppressing the surge of pride that runs through you as he visibly melts under you, clearly letting the sensation of your walls clinging to his cock get to his mind. "Someone's melting," you say teasingly, pressing a finger to the center of his forehead. He blinks at you a few times, as though attempting to clear the pleasurable haze.

"You squeeze when you're focused or engaged in conversation." He speaks quickly, his breathing getting heavier. He blinks multiple times, staring down at you. "Your squeezing makes it hard to relax."

"Aw, sorry big guy." You huff out a short laugh, leaning towards him, watching his eyes as they cloud further with lust.

He sighs, as though resigning. "Have we talked enough for you to relax?" He sounded like an actual doctor, his voice flat and formal despite his seemingly hazy expression.

You nod, deciding to let him rest, as he'd wanted. He wordlessly moves one of his hands to your back, pushing you towards him. You lay against his chest again, exhaling and melting into his body as he melted into you. You look up, watching as his eyes slide shut again. He rubs gentle circles on your thigh with his thumb, keeping his palm on your hip.

You're comfortable... at least, until his cock twitches again.

a/n: jiro, at last. i am. kind of worried i wrote him a bit ooc and maybe went in too hard with my bio stuff. idk. i hope it's good regardless.

note that i enjoy likes, comments, and reblogs! please, tell me all about how you enjoyed my work!! it keeps me going!

@rottenzombrainz i believe this is ur man unless im mistaken

#tokyo debunker #tkdb #tokyo debunker x reader #minors dni #tkdb smut #tokyo debunker smut #tdb #tokyo debunker mc #jiro kirisaki x mc #jiro kirisaki #jiro kirisaki x reader #jiro kirisaki smut #tokyo debunker jiro #jiro kirisaki x reader smut #jiro kirisaki x mc smut

238 notes · View notes

aneducationofheroes · 1 month ago

Text

Remus had begun to watch for them almost involuntarily. From afar, they appeared ordinary—just another inscrutable Hogwarts clique. But on closer inspection, they became an alluring bouquet of personalities. To Remus, who had spent most of his life peering in through the windows of other people’s lives, they seemed impossibly vivid, curated. Three boys and two girls, each uniquely drawn yet unmistakably a matching set.

The tallest of the boys, a figure of near-mythic proportions—six-foot-five, by Remus’s rough estimate—was immediately conspicuous. He wore round, gold-rimmed spectacles that glinted beneath an unruly tangle of black curls. There was something statuary about him, a Hellenic god; his arrogant mouth sculpted by years of unbroken praise. His clothes alluded to wealth but not vulgarity—loose linen, dark trousers, garments meant to evoke ease while implying considerable cost. “James Potter,” someone had said when Remus pointed him out, lounging regally against a fountain in the courtyard.

He was never seen without the other two boys. The smaller of them was mousy and blond, nearly a foot shorter than James. He should have stood out like a sore thumb, but his unshakable, gum-chewing cheerfulness lent a needed levity to the otherwise sombre group. He wore the same slightly oversized tweed jacket every day and always had a benign smile stretched across his freckled face. His name was Peter, though Remus never heard anyone call him anything but Petie, in the same way one names a lapdog. His laugh, high and insistent, seemed always to follow James’ voice, like a prerecorded audience response.

The third boy was the most captivating—sinuous and feline, soaked in languid charm. His face was soft, almost feminine, with full lips and narrow grey eyes that flashed constant, mocking sarcasm at anyone who dared approach. Remus thought he resembled a fallen prince: long, dark curls tied back carelessly, white cotton shirts once expensive but now rumpled as though slept in, and a fine black leather jacket thrown lazily over a set of broad shoulders. He strutted through the halls in Italian leather boots, a figure seemingly lifted from the stage of The Troubadour or a catwalk in Milan. “Sirius Black,” people whispered when Remus asked, as though the name itself was too exquisite to pronounce without reverence.

Then there were the girls, a striking pair—physically, polar opposites. Marlene stood tall, her figure verging on boyish if not for the deliberate provocation in every hemline: dresses cut just a fraction too short. Pin-straight platinum hair curtained a face that hovered between angelic and disinterested, unreadable—until Sirius leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Then, the mask would fracture into a sudden, radiant smile, like sunlight breaking through heavy grey storm clouds—an augury meant only for him. That narrow strip of skin between stocking and skirt snagged Remus’s attention with maddening regularity, a flash of light he could never quite ignore.

Mary, the other girl, was small and curvy, though she concealed her figure beneath prim jackets and frilly high collars. Her dense black curls were pinned back with a velvet headband, and she carried heavy books like armour, always clutched tightly to her chest. Her face was pretty and birdlike, with large, innocent eyes framed by thick lashes. But her girlish appearance was a calculated misdirection—one that encouraged underestimation until she opened her small pink mouth and dismantled you with withering precision. Remus had never heard insults delivered so elegantly, or so fatally.

Remus observed them with an agonising sort of hunger. They were like characters in a film—perfectly cast, immaculately lit—and he, inevitably, relegated to the role of spectator. He catalogued their movements with quiet devotion, as though someday he might be asked to write their review: James careening into the car park in a sleek red sports car, Sirius windswept beside him; Peter leaning out a classroom window, calling to the girls in the quad below. James was, by all accounts, very wealthy—his family owned a rambling estate in the countryside. Sirius, too, came from money; he was considered a sort of modern aristocrat. His family lived in London and reportedly hosted the Minister of Magic for Sunday dinner at least once a month. Both he and James were regarded as prodigies, already published by the time they were freshmen. Marlene and Mary shared a luxury apartment off-campus, their parents both high up in the Ministry and able to afford their daughters an oasis from campus debauchery. Peter’s background was more obscure: his father worked for Gringotts in some overseas post no one could quite place. He made up for the vagueness with spectacle, regularly unveiling elaborate care packages filled with imported sweets and oddities, which he shared with the others in flashy lunchtime displays.

Had it been any other group, they might have been despised. But their beauty transmuted aloofness into something enviable. The school kept its distance out of obeisance—and so did Remus. Still, he couldn’t deny the intense gravitational pull of their glittering solar system.

#marauders #marauders fandom #dark academia #wolfstar #University AU #marauders fanart #marauders fanfiction #dead gay wizards from the 70s #marauders x the secret history #the secret history

91 notes · View notes

obaex · 2 years ago

Text

untouchable - rafe cameron

summary: when a fight breaks out at midsummers, an unexpected ally reminds you who you are and whose you are

word count: 2k

a/n: set during season 1 midsummers. indulging in all my favorite things about soft + protective rafe ♡

It was the perfect summer night.

Stars twinkled overhead and the deck of the Island Club was awash in the warm glow of hundreds of string lights that swayed gently in the breeze coming off the ocean. The slow, sweet melody that the band was playing swirled through the air and mixed with the chatter and laughter that surrounded Midsummers.

Your arms wrapped around Rafe’s neck, cheek pressed to his as his arms embraced you, his hands resting on your lower back where his fingers traced small circles as you swayed back and forth. Your eyes fluttered closed as you relaxed into him. You could smell his expensive cologne, his signature scent that was so overwhelmingly him it clouded your head. At this distance, you could feel the heat coming off of his body, feel him hum happily against you as you ran your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck.

He shifted slightly, lowering his lips against your ear as he whispered, “You look beautiful tonight.” You smiled widely and laughed quietly as a blush rose to your cheeks. “I know I’ve said it about five times already, but I’m going to keep telling you, gorgeous. You’re the most beautiful girl here, and I’m damn lucky to be by your side. Tonight… always.” You pulled back to look at him, wanting to see his azure blue eyes sparkle, which they did, with love, with admiration, and with a hint of mischief as he took you in. He leaned down to kiss you, letting his lips linger just on top of yours, brushing them agonizingly close, but not letting them touch, teasing you as his lips curled into a smile against yours, knowing how much this drove you crazy, how much he drove you crazy before he relented; he was never one to deny you what you wanted. His lips worked against yours like no one was watching, warm and soft. He tasted sweet like champagne and your head was spinning. You had lost count of the number of times he had kissed you, but you never got tired of the way it made you feel, like you were floating. You nipped his lip lightly, playfully, and you could feel his hands grip the back of your dress as he tried to restrain himself. “Mmpf you have no idea what you do to me. I will throw you over my shoulder right now if you keep that up” he said between the kisses that you continued to press against his lips.

“I’ll just have to save it for later” you said slyly as you looked up at him with your doe eyes.

“I can have you in the car, to Tanneyhill, and in my bed in 15 minutes” he said seriously, even as his signature smirk rested on his lips, and you laughed. “11 actually, final estimate.”

“I’m having fun, Rafe, we can be patient.”

“Patience is not a strength of mine” he replied, chuckling. That much you knew well.

The band switched to a more upbeat song and people began shifting around the dance floor.

“Drink?” Rafe asked.

“Yes, please” you replied.

He pressed another warm, sincere kiss to your lips. “Be right back, pretty girl” he said as he shifted towards the bar.

You scanned the party quickly, eyes landing on Rafe’s sister Sarah and you wandered over to keep her company. “Dare I ask where Topper is?” you said jokingly. She looked over at you and laughed, rolling her eyes. You two had a close relationship; in many ways you were like the older sister she never had, she confided in you more than anyone else, so you knew all about John B at this point. It didn’t surprise you that she had distanced herself from her boyfriend tonight, and it didn’t surprise you when John B’s best friend approached her, casually brandishing a note in her direction.

“I’ve got a uh note from Vlad” he said, eyeing her knowingly. She was grinning from ear to ear as she took it from him and began reading. JJ’s eyes shifted from her to you, recognizing you immediately.

“Future Mrs. Cameron? Lovely to see you here tonight” he said.

Your eyes narrowed slightly at the nickname, knowing he didn’t mean it as a compliment, but you nodded kindly at him in response.

“Aww, what, that’s all I get? Boyfriend won’t let you talk to me? I’m surprised he left your side for more than two minutes.”

Sarah’s head shot up at his mocking tone as she smacked him on the arm, “JJ” she said, “leave her alone.”

“What!” he said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “If I was dating the hottest girl on the island, I wouldn’t let her out of my sight either!”

You rolled your eyes.

“Seriously, sweetheart, when you get tired of the hair gel and inevitably mediocre sex, call me” he said, lifting his fingers to his ear like a phone.

“What? –” you started to say angrily, when JJ glanced over your shoulder, eyes widening as he began to take a couple of steps back.

You felt a warm hand slide around your waist as Rafe appeared by your side, eyes transfixed on the boy in front of him.

“What the fuck did you just say to her?” he said, his voice calm, his tone even, the control he had in the moment somehow more frightening than the alternative.

“Ya know, I’m on the clock right now, I should get back—” JJ said, pointing over his shoulder, quickly trying to backpedal.

“Nah, you know, I really want to know what you said to my girlfriend. I want to know why you thought you could talk to her, or even look at her for that matter?” Rafe continued, his hand slipping off your waist as he walked towards JJ, his imposing figure looming over him.

“My mistake” JJ said, holding his hands out in front of him “thought this was a free country for a second, but I’ll know better next time.”

Rafe laughed and you could tell there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it.

“Next time? Next time. Right, right… There’s not going to be a next time, Maybank. Stay the fuck away from her” he said, the threat lingering in the air, the dancefloor now quiet as people caught on to their argument.

JJ eyed Rafe carefully before nodding, and just as Rafe was ready to bury his anger for the sake of saving your night, just as he was ready to go back to dancing with you, maybe even convince you to leave early with him, JJ said, “But I mean, can you blame me? In a dress like that? She’s practically begging for it.”

Rafe lunged before anyone could grab him and several people near you screamed. He tackled JJ to the ground and landed three solid right-hooks to his face before security arrived and pulled them apart.

“This isn’t over, Maybank!” he shouted as JJ spit blood on the ground at Rafe’s feet, causing him to jerk in the grip of the security guard all over again.

“Sir,” security said, “please follow me” he said, escorting Rafe firmly off the dance floor as JJ was pulled in the opposite direction.

“What!?” Rafe said, “I’m a member here, he was harassing my girlfriend!”

“Sir, please, just follow me” he insisted.

Rafe’s eyes met yours quickly as he was ushered away, afraid that he had ruined your night. “M’sorry baby, m’so sorry” he said quickly.

You tried to reassure him, shaking your head, “It’s okay, Rafe.”

“I’ll be right back, I promise” he said.

You worked your bottom lip nervously back and forth with your teeth as you watched him go before you became all too aware of the silence that surrounded you. As you brought your attention back to the party, you realized nearly every set of eyes was on you, watching you after what had just occurred. You felt the heat of their critical gaze, as every person formed their own thoughts about Rafe, about you, as they whispered amongst themselves. You tried to hold your head high as your chin began to quiver.

“Don’t give them the satisfaction” said a quiet voice over your shoulder. You turned to see Rose walking up beside you, her eyes glaring at the people around you, daring them to say something, to you or to her. One by one as she met their eyes they turned back to their conversations.

You swallowed your emotions. You had never spent much time with Rose, but now you were overwhelmingly grateful for her company, her support.

She turned her gaze on you as she took a sip of her champagne. “They’ll never understand” she said, “they think they do, but they don’t. They think they know everything” she paused, her eyes narrowing at a group of girls who were whispering nearby. They immediately stopped talking under her gaze and shuffled away. She returned her focus to you.

“They think we’re crazy, you and me. To be in love with men with such a capacity for anger, for violence. But what they fail to see is that these are the same men who won’t hesitate to do what needs to be done, for their families, for you, for me. They love and hate in equal measure. And nothing in this world compares to that kind of love, does it?” she asked, sipping her champagne again as she eyed you conspiratorially. You had never spent any time thinking about the fact that Rose Cameron might be the only person who knew exactly what it felt like to be you sometimes.

“Rafe is so much like his father,” she continued, “that’s why they’re always at each other’s throats, that’s why he’s the hardest on him. That’s also why I know exactly what’s going on in that boy’s mind when he looks at you…” she smiled, pausing. “You’ll find out soon enough that being Mrs. Cameron comes with a lot of attention, and a lot of perks” she added, winking. Your eyes widened in surprise as you glanced at her, did she know something you didn’t?

“If it isn’t blatantly obvious to them, it’s blatantly obvious to me that that boy would burn the world to the ground for you” she said shaking her head as she smiled. “Lucky girl” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek as she walked away.

Her words took a moment to sink in, but then you realized how right she was.

With your head held high you made your way past the remaining onlookers, and inside the clubhouse. You followed the reverberating sounds of raised voices to find Rafe arguing vehemently with two security guards. All three turned to look at you as you approached them.

“M’am” said one of the guards, nodding politely.

“Baby…” Rafe said as he looked at you, apology written all over his face. You smiled warmly at him, taking his hand in your own before turning to the security guards.

“We’re leaving” you said resolutely. One of them looked like he wanted to argue with and you put a hand up to stop him, cutting him off before he could start.

“We’re leaving and you better believe you will be hearing from Ward Cameron about how his son, his family was treated on the night dedicated to recognizing his contributions to this community. About how you let a member of the staff harass me and then deigned to humiliate Rafe when he tried to help. And I’m fine by the way, thank you for asking. Oh wait, you didn’t ask, did you? Stellar performance tonight, gentlemen” you said.

With that, you tucked your arm into Rafe’s and the two of you walked confidently through the front doors.

When you had made it outside, Rafe turned to look at you, glancing briefly back inside then to you again. “Holy shit” he said, “where the hell did that come from?” he was smiling widely at you, practically glowing with admiration, “and why was it so fucking hot?”

You shrugged casually before turning to face him, a proud smirk on your lips as you gripped the lapels of his jacket. “Someone reminded me just how lucky I am to have you, Rafe Cameron” you said, pressing a sincere but passionate kiss to his lips before continuing, “It’s not that I needed the reminder… it’s more that I needed to remind myself who I am, what I am when I’m with you.”

“And that is…?” he asked, pulling your body flush against his, his lips hovering just over yours as his eyes twinkled.

“Untouchable” you whispered, pressing your lips to his and squealing when he scooped you into his arms and walked you to his truck.

taglist: @ietss, @gillybear17, @palmwinemami, @sweetestdesire, @softcoremaybank, @diary-of-jj, @m-indkiller, @one-sweet-gubler

#rafe cameron #obx rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #outerbanks rafe #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #obx fanfiction #outer banks rafe

950 notes · View notes

mysticstronomy · 7 months ago

Text

HOW ARE BLACK HOLES CREATED, AND HOW DO THEY GROW??

Blog#461

Wednesday, December 11th, 2024

Welcome back,

In 2017, astronomers started finding monster black holes in the very early universe. Containing roughly a billion times the mass of our Sun, these black holes were surrounded by disks of infalling matter shining so intensely that we can detect them across immense stretches of space and time.

These gravitational giants existed when the universe was only 700 million years old, or 5 percent its current age. At that point in cosmic history, the universe was still a toddler. Gravity was just beginning to rein in clouds of gas and dark matter to form structures that would later evolve into mature spiral and elliptical galaxies. Stars were beginning to pop into being, but they do today.

According to the traditional picture of black hole formation and growth, the universe at this time simply had not existed long enough for black holes to bulk up to a billion solar masses.

So, based on our general understanding of how black holes form and grow, these black holes should not exist.

And yet they do — posing a major challenge that astrophysicists have yet to unravel.

Quasars are brightly shining beacons of light and energy generated by the accretion of material onto supermassive black holes. In the 1990s, astronomers using a combination of ground- and space-based telescopes started to find extremely distant quasars powered by black holes of a billion or more solar masses.

By the mid-2010s, it was no longer a big deal to find quasars dating back to 1 billion or 2 billion years after the Big Bang. But theorists had a difficult time explaining how such massive black holes could have arisen so soon in the universe’s history.

For quasars and other objects that existed many billions of years ago, it’s meaningless to express their distances in terms of light-years. The universe has expanded so much between then and now that astronomers instead refer to an object’s redshift, which is a measurement of how much cosmic expansion has stretched the object’s light toward redder (longer) wavelengths.

For years, astronomers such as the University of Arizona’s Xiaohui Fan have been identifying quasars at redshifts as high as 6, when the universe was about 900 million years old. They’ve even found a few around redshift 7, which corresponds to an era when the universe was about 735 million years old. But in late 2017, an international team led by Eduardo Bañados of the Carnegie Institution for Science announced a quasar at a record-shattering redshift of 7.54. This quasar, designated J1342+0928 (J1342 for short), based on its sky coordinates in Boötes, was radiating 40 trillion Suns’ worth of energy at a time when the universe was only 690 million years old.

The team found J1342 by mining data from NASA’s Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer satellite, the United Kingdom Infrared Telescope Deep Sky Survey Large Area Survey, and the DECam Legacy Survey. They used the 6.5-meter Magellan Telescope in Chile to measure the quasar’s redshift, while observations with the 8-meter Gemini North Telescope in Hawaii enabled the team to estimate the black hole’s mass: around 800 million Suns.

Originally published on https://www.astronomy.com

COMING UP!!

(Saturday, December 14th, 2024)

"HOW BIG CAN 'SUPER MASSIVE BLACK HOLES' GET??"

#astronomy #outer space #alternate universe #astrophysics #universe #spacecraft #white universe #space #parallel universe #astrophotography

83 notes · View notes

literaryvein-reblogs · 7 months ago

Text

Word List: Anne Frank

A List of Beautiful Words used by Anne Frank in "The Diary of a Young Girl"

Cloudless - free from clouds; clear

Conscience - the sense or consciousness of the moral goodness or blameworthiness of one's own conduct, intentions, or character together with a feeling of obligation to do right or be good

Cunning - dexterous or crafty in the use of special resources (such as skill or knowledge) or in attaining an end

Ditchwater - foul stagnant water collected in a ditch; something regarded as typically dull and lifeless

Droop - to hang or incline downward

Impenetrable - incapable of being penetrated or pierced

Impudent - marked by contemptuous or cocky boldness or disregard of others

Insolent - insultingly contemptuous in speech or conduct

Menacing - presenting, suggesting, or constituting a menace or threat; threatening

Musings - meditations (i.e., discourse intended to express its author's reflections or to guide others in contemplation)

Pendulum - a body suspended from a fixed point so as to swing freely to and fro under the action of gravity and commonly used to regulate movements (as of clockwork)

Prestige - standing or estimation in the eyes of people

Reborn - born again; regenerated, revived

Revered - regarded as worthy of great honor and respect

Sauntered - walked about in an idle or leisurely manner; strolled

Songbird - a bird that utters a succession of musical tones

Tirade - a protracted speech usually marked by intemperate, vituperative, or harshly censorious language

Undone - not done; not performed or finished

Vanquished - overcome or defeated in battle, a conflict or contest

Veritable - being in fact the thing named and not false, unreal, or imaginary—often used to stress the aptness of a metaphor

More: Word Lists

#anne frank #word list #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writeblr #langblr #language #words #linguistics #literature #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #writing prompt #poetry #light academia #creative writing #writing resources

120 notes · View notes

nomercymaster11 · 1 year ago

Text

Silent Longings (Chapter 3)

@GOKUJOUNOMAGURO

WC: 3,381 / Law x afab!reader / continuation of Two-way dilemma (Chapter 2)

A/N: Apologies for the delayed update! I had to discard the original idea for this chapter as I aim to avoid extending the series excessively.

DAY 0

The scene unfolds within the cramped confines of the Polar Tang. The air is thick with a mixture of anticipation and tension as the crew gathers for a crucial meeting. The dim lighting casts long shadows across the metal walls, accentuating the seriousness of their situation.

Law sits at the head of a makeshift table, his expression stoic and unwavering. His voice cuts through the silence with authority as he addresses Bepo, his first mate, with a stern tone.

"How long before we could reach the next island?" he demands, his eyes fixed on the map spread out before them.

Bepo studies the map intently before offering his assessment. "I could say, less than a week," he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

Penguin steps forward, laying out the blueprint of the Polar Tang with a sense of urgency. He points to the damaged section of the submarine, where the sea monster had struck them just the other day. His words are measured, each one emphasizing the gravity of their predicament.

"Emergency repairs were implemented," Penguin explains, his tone grave. “However, because of the impact, we are unable to dive deep into the ocean for the time being.”

Shachi adds to the mounting list of concerns, reporting on their dwindling supplies with a sense of grim inevitability.

"Our supplies are running low as well," he interjects, his voice tinged with worry. "I estimate they could last right before we could reach the next island."

Law listens intently, his mind already racing with plans and contingencies calculating their next move. He brushes his chin thoughtfully with his right hand, a gesture that belies the weight of his responsibilities as captain. Nodding in understanding, he acknowledges the reports with a silent resolve.

"Anything else to address?" he asks the crew, his gaze sweeping over each member in turn. After a tense moment of silence, Law takes charge, rolling out different duties to each crewmate with a sense of purpose. With the meeting adjourned, the crew disperses, each member focused on their assigned tasks as they prepare to face the challenges that lie ahead.

Law's sigh reverberated in the quiet room; a heavy exhale laden with the weight of their precarious situation. As he sat at the edge of the table, the coin in his hand danced with the flicker of his thoughts. The room seemed to close in around him, the silence thickening with every passing moment.

“I hope we won't find ourselves on the Navy's radar.” He mused quietly to himself. His mind already preoccupied with the myriad dangers that lurk on the horizon.

Lost in his thoughts, Law was startled when you entered the room. Your presence was unexpected, a break in the solitude he had grown accustomed to. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met his, a silent exchange of acknowledgment before you looked away.

"I'm on cleaning duty today," you announced, your voice cutting through the silence like a lifeline. Law's gaze lingered on you; his scrutiny almost recognizable.

"You're not taking additional duties from anyone, are you?" he asked, his tone laced with a knowing edge that sent a chill down your spine. How did he know? The question hung in the air, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"No, I won't do that again," you replied, the admission weighing heavily on your conscience. There was no point in hiding the truth from him, not when he already knew. You busied yourself with tidying the scattered maps and blueprints, a feeble attempt to distract yourself from his penetrating gaze.

"How are you now?" Law's question caught you off guard, his concern genuine and unexpected. Your heart fluttered in response, uncertainty clouding your thoughts.

"I feel better now. Thank you for the other day," you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Law moves closer, his steps measured and deliberate, prompting a flicker of apprehension within you. You brace yourself, expecting the unexpected, only to be caught off guard as his hand touches your forehead and gently tugging the skin below your eye with his thumb assessing your well-being with clinical precision.

Meeting his gaze, you find yourself caught in the intensity of his scrutiny. His actions, though gentle, carry a weight of concern that resonates deep within you, prompting a surge of conflicting emotions.

"Let me take those." Law's offer is accompanied by a subtle brush of his hand against yours, a fleeting touch that make your heart flutter.

"You're also relieved of your duties for today." His statement is firm, yet beneath the surface lies a genuine desire to ensure your well-being.

"Captain! I told you I'm fine!" You protest, your voice tinged with frustration and defiance, yet it's clear that your resolve is beginning to waver.

"You look pale. Are you going to disobey the doctor's orders too?" Law's question cuts through your protests like a surgeon's scalpel, leaving you momentarily speechless. In his words, there's a blend of concern and authority, a reminder of his role not just as your captain but also as the doctor of the ship.

Faced with his unwavering gaze, you feel a sense of resignation wash over you, the weight of his concern impossible to ignore. In that moment, you realize that resistance is futile, and with a resigned sigh, you reluctantly concede defeat.

With the room finally tidied, Law motioned for you to follow him, his demeanor calm and composed. Unease gnawed at the edges of your consciousness as you trailed behind him, the weight of his sudden kindness lingering like a shadow.

Stopping at his quarters, Law disappeared momentarily before returning with a handful of medicines. He explained their purpose and dosage with the precision of a seasoned doctor.

As he handed you the medicines, a flicker of hope ignited within you, only to be extinguished by the harsh reality of his rejection. He was your captain, your mentor, and nothing more. With a heavy heart, you resigned yourself to your fate. Despite his kindness, you reminded yourself not to read too much into his actions, knowing all too well the boundaries that had been set between you.

Leaving his quarters, the weight of unspoken emotions hung heavy in the air, leaving you to grapple with the conflicting feelings stirred by Law's unexpected care and your own guarded heart. You understood that his kindness was merely a duty, not a sign of affection.

DAY 2

Feeling rejuvenated by the restorative effects of the medicine Law had provided, you greet the day with newfound energy.

Do I still look sick? You stand before the mirror; you notice a lingering hint of paleness in your complexion. With a deft hand, you apply a touch of blush and lipstick, hoping to mask the telltale signs of your weakened state.

Glancing out the window, you're greeted by the sight of a school of fish gracefully swimming past, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the muted tones of the submarine's interior. The muffled voices and footsteps outside your door pull you from your reverie, prompting you to hastily tie your hair back before stepping into the hallway.

There, you find Penguin and Shachi, each carrying buckets and fishing rods, their faces alight with anticipation.

"Hi, <y/n>!" Shachi calls out, waving enthusiastically as you approach.

"Wanna join us?" Penguin chimes in, his smile warm and inviting.

You nod eagerly, grateful for the chance to spend time with your crewmates and catch some fresh food for the journey ahead. United in camaraderie, you stride alongside them, anticipation of adventure gleaming in your eyes as you set sail for another day on the boundless ocean.

Stepping onto the submarine's deck, you're greeted by the soothing embrace of the ocean breeze, the salty air filling your lungs and rejuvenating your spirit. As you approach Bepo, you can't help but marvel at the sight of him effortlessly reeling in yet another fish, the creature flipping and flopping on the fishing rod in a desperate bid for freedom.

"The cooler is almost full, Bepo!" you exclaim, genuinely impressed by the bounty he's managed to capture.

"Someone's having a feast tonight!" Shachi interjects with a mischievous grin, his playful jab aimed at Bepo's undeniable love for fish. A chorus of laughter fills the air as you join in the lighthearted banter, the camaraderie of the moment washing away any lingering traces of worry or doubt.

Penguin extends the fishing rod towards you, his expression eager as he offers to teach you the art of angling.

"Do you know how to use it?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

"I'm afraid not," you admit with a nervous smile, feeling a pang of embarrassment at your lack of expertise.

Without hesitation, Penguin steps forward to demonstrate, guiding you through the process with patience and encouragement. You watch intently as he explains each step, nodding along in understanding as you prepare to cast your line into the depths below.

"Here goes nothing!" you declare with a mixture of excitement and nervousness, casting the reel with a flick of your wrist. Your heart races as you wait with bated breath, the anticipation building with each passing moment.

Before long, you feel a gentle tug on the line, signaling that you've hooked your first catch. With a surge of adrenaline, you begin to reel in your prize, a triumphant grin spreading across your face as you hold up the fish for Penguin to see.

"Look, Penguin!" you exclaim, your voice filled with pride as you display your achievement.

Penguin's reaction is a mix of surprise and delight, his gaze lingering on you with a warmth that sends a flutter of butterflies through your stomach.

"Penguin?" you inquire, noticing the slight flush that colors his cheeks.

"You're doing great!" he assures you with a smile, his attempt to conceal his emotions only serving to endear him to you even more.

“Let me know if you need help.” Penguin offered to give you some space on the other side of the ship. You nod eagerly, feeling a newfound sense of confidence lifting your spirits as you resume fishing with renewed determination. With each cast of your line, you feel a deep connection to the expansive and enigmatic world beneath the surface, grateful for the chance to explore its wonders alongside your crewmates.

You cast your bait once more, anticipation tingles through your veins, mingling with the thrill of the hunt. However, this time, the wait seems to stretch on longer than before, prompting a furrow of confusion to crease your brow. Sensing something amiss, you glance down into the depths of the ocean, your eyes scanning the shimmering expanse for any sign of movement.

Suddenly, a gentle tug on your rod jolts you back to attention, followed by a powerful, relentless pull that sends the reel into a frenzy. With a gasp of surprise, you struggle to maintain your grip as the unseen behemoth beneath the waves puts up a fierce fight, its strength evident in the strain it exerts on the line.

"This is a big one!" you exclaim, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you brace yourself for the battle ahead. With each tug of the rod, you can feel the fish's raw power, its determination matched only by your own resolve to emerge victorious in this exhilarating duel of strength and willpower.

With every ounce of strength you possess, you grapple with the fishing rod, your muscles straining against the relentless pull of the unseen adversary below. Frustration simmers beneath the surface as you struggle to gain the upper hand, your determination matched only by the stubborn resilience of the creature on the other end of the line.

"Why. Can't. You. Just. Give. UP!!!" you grit out through clenched teeth, your frustration boiling over into a fierce battle cry as you pour every ounce of your being into the struggle.

Your foot finds purchase on the rail, anchoring you in place as you muster all your strength for one final pull. But despite your best efforts, the fish proves to be a formidable opponent, its strength far surpassing your own.

With a forceful tug, you lose your balance, teetering dangerously on the edge of the deck as gravity threatens to claim you. But before you can plummet into the churning waters below, a strong arm wraps around your torso, pulling you back from the brink with a jolt.

Your back collides with the solid warmth of Law's chest, his presence a stabilizing force amid chaos. You feel a rush of relief flood through you as his touch grounds you, his left arm seamlessly intertwining with yours as he takes charge of the rod.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice laced with concern as he releases his hold on you, his attention focused solely on the immediate job helping out with catching the elusive fish.

You draw in a ragged breath, your heart pounding in your chest as adrenaline courses through your veins.

"Yes," you manage to gasp out, your voice barely above a whisper as you watch in awe as Law assumes control, his expertise evident in the confident ease.

As you stand side by side, you can't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over you, grateful for the unwavering support of the man who stands beside you. You can't help but feel the surge of admiration for him.

////////

As Penguin rushes to your aid, his heart pounding in his chest, he finds himself frozen in place at the sight of you enveloped in Law's embrace. A knot forms in his stomach, a mixture of concern and uncertainty swirling within him as he watches from a distance, waiting for the opportune moment to intervene.

As Law releases you, Penguin steps forward, his expression a mask of concern as he moves to stand beside you. Shachi and Bepo follow suit, their eyes wide with astonishment at the spectacle unfolding before them.

"What happened?" Penguin inquires, his voice laced with worry as he surveys the scene before him.

With each passing moment, the tension mounts as Law continues to battle against the powerful sea creature, his movements precise and calculated as he strives to overcome the obstacle in front of him. And as the struggle reaches its climax, you find yourself holding your breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you wait with bated breath for the moment of victory.

The surface of the water erupts in a tumultuous display of raw power, the massive fish that had eluded you moments before breaching the surface with a deafening roar. Gasps of awe escape the lips of the onlookers as they bear witness to the sheer size and strength of the creature, their senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of its presence.

But the awe is short-lived as an even larger sea creature emerges from the depths, its colossal form eclipsing everything in its wake. With a mighty crash, it engulfs the elusive fish whole, sending shockwaves rippling through the water, making the submarine rock precariously.

"Shit!" Shachi curses under his breath, his eyes wide with fear as he watches the colossal creature disappear back into the depths from whence it came.

With a sense of urgency, you and your companions waste no time in making your way to the safety of the ship's main entrance, the adrenaline-fueled rush of fear propelling you forward as you seek refuge from the unpredictable chaos of the ocean.

"Keep watch and be ready to act at a moment's notice." Law steps forward, his voice steady and commanding. His hand already on the hilt of his sword. The crew nods in agreement, their resolve strengthened by Law's unwavering leadership.

As the moments tick by intense anticipation, the crew holds their breath, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the colossal sea creature that had sent shockwaves through their midst. With each passing second, the tension mounts, the air thick with uncertainty as they brace themselves for whatever may come.

But as the minutes stretch into eternity, the ocean remains eerily calm, its surface undisturbed by the presence of the elusive behemoth. A collective sigh of relief escapes from the lips of the crew, the tension slowly dissipating as they realize that the danger has passed, at least for now.

The silence is broken by the sound of your laughter, the unexpected release of tension sparking a wave of amusement that washes over you and your companions alike. Your laughter rings out across the deck, a melodic symphony of relief and nervous energy that fills the air with warmth and camaraderie.

Law's gaze softens as he turns to look at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. In that moment, the weight of the world seems to lift from his shoulders, replaced by a sense of lightheartedness and joy at the sight of your infectious laughter.

"I'm sorry! I just can't!" you gasp between fits of laughter, wiping the tears from your eyes as you struggle to regain your composure.

A smile spreads across Penguin's face as he watches you, his own amusement mirroring yours.

"You sure had fun!" he remarks, his voice warm with affection as he joins in the chorus of laughter that echoes across the deck.

/////////

As you and the rest of the crew gather around the coolers filled with the day's bounty, Bepo's eyes sparkle with delight at the sight of the freshly caught fish, his enthusiasm infectious as he eagerly examines each specimen with childlike wonder.

"It's a shame we weren't able to catch the big fish earlier," you remark with a hint of disappointment, a wistful sigh escaping your lips as you glance at the smaller catches nestled within the cool confines of the containers.

"Haha! At least we don't have to deal with that sea creature. You hooked its prey!" Penguin chimes in with a laugh, his playful tone easing the tension and drawing a chuckle from the rest of the crew. Absentmindedly, he places his left arm around your shoulder, offering a comforting squeeze that sends a warm flutter through your chest.

"It's not my fault though!" you protest with a playful bump of your elbow, the camaraderie of the moment dispelling any lingering traces of unease.

Unbeknownst to you, Law watches from a distance, his expression unreadable as he observes the interaction between you and Penguin. A flicker of something crosses his features, too fleeting to decipher. He grips his sword tightly, a silent sentinel standing watch over the scene before him.

For a moment, he considers intervening, of asserting his presence and reclaiming your attention. But the weight of his responsibilities as captain holds him back, anchoring him in place like an invisible tether.

In the end, he knows that now is not the time nor the place for such confrontations. With a sigh of resignation, Law turns away, his footsteps silent against the metal deck as he retreats back inside the submarine, unnoticed by the crew.

Still on the deck, you contemplate the portions to be set aside for future consumption and plan out the evening's dinner menu, various fish recipes dance through your mind, each one more tantalizing than the last.

"Let's cook grilled fish!" Bepo exclaims, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "It's the captain's favorite too," he adds, a note of excitement in his tone.

"Ok! then that's settled!" you reply with a smile, your enthusiasm matching his own as you eagerly agree to his suggestion. You turn around to share the news with the rest of the crew, your smile faltering slightly as you realize that Law is nowhere to be found.

For a moment, a pang of disappointment washes over you, the absence of Law's familiar presence casting a shadow over the excitement of the evening.

Why am I even looking for him? you wonder to yourself, shaking off the fleeting sense of longing as you focus on your task. With a renewed sense of purpose, you join the rest of the crew in preparing for the evening's festivities, determined to make the most of the time you have together, even in Law's absence.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3.5

#one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgardwaterlaw #trafalgar one piece #law one piece #heart pirates #law x you #bepo one piece #law x reader #law x female reader #law x y/n #shachi one piece #penguin one piece #polar tang

200 notes · View notes

writeforfandoms · 2 years ago

Text

Born for Greatness 8

Find the series masterlist

Well here we are! This is the last official chapter of the story. I do have one short bonus chapter written that is Price and Logan, and I’m open to doing more! I may try to revisit this pack again. If you have ideas/requests, feel free to let me know!

In which we finally get answers. All of us.

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, pack cuddles, the boys are too cute, brief mention of drugs (from last chapter), I finally get to make the joke

John Price x f!reader

Word count: 3.1k

Four days after the forced shift incident, you had been gently but firmly shooed out of the investigation. Which was fine by you - you were not an investigator. You’d handed everything over to John and wiped your hands clean of the mess.

But it had put some things into perspective for you.

“Finally made up your mind?” Logan dropped down next to you, leaning back to join you laying on the grass.

“Mmhm.” You smiled up at the sky, oddly peaceful despite the butterflies in your tummy.

“And?” Logan nudged you, clearly not patient enough to wait you out this time.

You breathed in, slow and deep. You hadn’t quite told John your plans yet, but he’d been busy trying to figure out who’d sent the letter. So. You’d update him as soon as he came up for air.

“I’ve got a moving company lined up to take care of my apartment,” you told him, still looking up at the clouds. “I was gonna ask you to supervise. You’ll know what’s important and what can get shoved in storage.”

“Storage.” Logan snorted. “Send it to my place, I’ve got room.”

“Have I told you lately that you’re the best?”

“Don’t push it, kid.”

You laughed, quiet but sincere. “I figured you’ll have to send me a few more things, but we can figure that out when you’re at the apartment. I still have no idea what all is damaged.”

“Not botherin’ you?” Logan glanced at you, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s just stuff.” You shrugged. “I keep the irreplaceable things with me.”

“Smart kid.” Logan chuckled. “And the pack?”

You hesitated for a moment. You hadn’t said the words out loud yet, despite knowing what you wanted. You swallowed and tipped your head to look at him. “I’m staying here.”

Logan chuckled. “Atta girl.”

“Oh shut up.” But you were grinning, relaxing under his clear approval.

“Figured that out, have you?”

“Eh.” You wiggled one hand back and forth in a so-so motion. “I know I want to stay. They want me to stay. We haven’t actually discussed the details of it, but… I trust they’ll figure it out.”

Logan smiled. “Well. That’s a change from your normal.”

“It is.” You swallowed, glancing over at him. “Figured I’d actually listen to you for once.”

He snorted. “Had to happen eventually.”

The two of you lapsed into silence for a few minutes, both enjoying the gentle warmth of the sunshine.

“This doesn’t mean I won’t see you anymore, or anything,” you suddenly pointed out. Because that was something you’d thought about before.

“Course not,” Logan agreed. “Else I’d come kidnap you.”

You snorted. He would, too, if he felt he had to. “Figured when they’re gone doing their thing, I can fly out and stay with you, at least some of the time.”

“That would be good.” He spoke slowly, but he couldn’t hide the emotion in his voice.

“What?” You rolled onto your side, alarmed, looking him over quickly.

But Logan smiled and shook his head. “Not a bad thing,” he muttered, waving you off. “Just. You finally stopped running.”

You warmed and ducked your head, rolling back onto your back. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You side-eyed him. “But if you throw me into the pond again, I’ll get Ghost to throw you in for me.”

“Fair,” Logan allowed. The two of you lapsed into quiet again, comfortable and easy.

At least until Logan stretched. “When is the moving company set to start?”

“They estimated in three days, but I told them I’d get back to them for sure after I talked to you.”

He grunted. “That’s fine. Better go book a ticket.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind doing this for me?”

“Kid, it’s going through your crap. How hard can it be?” Logan smirked, getting to his feet and holding a hand down to you. “I’ll just annoy the crap outta you until you give me all the answers.”

You laughed, taking his hand and letting him haul you up. “You’re an ass.”

“I’d say you volunteered, but you didn’t.” He smirked at you, easy and amused.

You both turned when you heard a woof, and Soap attempted to tackle you. Attempted, because you stepped out of the way. His paws hit the ground and he huffed at you.

“Nuh uh,” you scolded gently. “No tackling.”

“You’ll have your hands full with that one,” Logan muttered, grinning like the little shit he clearly was. “Payback.”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes, and only realized a moment too late what he’d done. Soap jumped up on his hind legs, front paws balanced against your stomach, tail wagging about a mile a minute. “Uh. You didn’t hear anything, Soap. I have to talk to John first.”

He barked and ran off a few steps before running back to circle you and run away again.

“I think I’m being herded,” you told Logan, voice dry.

“You better go before he starts nipping,” Logan agreed, just as dry. “I’ll find you later.”

You nodded and hesitated a moment before you darted in to hug him, tight. Just for a moment. Then you backed off and walked away.

Soap boofed at you, tail still wagging, high-stepping through the grass.

“Oh hush. You menace.”

Soap just wagged his tail before running ahead of you. You opened the door into the building for him, and he trotted straight to John’s office and sat.

“Alright, thanks. Now shoo.”

His ears lowered and he hunched a little, looking up at you with big sad eyes.

“No, I don’t care. Do not give me those eyes. This is a private conversation and you’re not invited.”

Soap huffed but slunk off down the corridor. Shaking your head, you knocked on the door.

“Come in,” John called.

He was seated behind his desk, paperwork spread in front of him, though he was looking at you. His lips twitched in a soft little smile.

“You busy?” You closed the door gently behind you.

“Not for you.” He pushed back from his desk, though he let you decide where you wanted to be. You settled on the couch, because at the very least you wanted to be comfortable for this discussion.

“So. Never got to answer your question the other day.”

John joined you on the couch, though he did leave a bit of space between you. Likely for your comfort, because you saw him start to reach for you and pull back. “We got interrupted.”

“We did.” You took a deep breath, reaching over to take his hand. He watched you but he didn’t push, giving you time. “I was going to tell you yes. I want to stay.”

The smile that inspired was warm and big and possibly one of your new favorite things. “Yeah?”

“Yes, John.” You couldn’t help but laugh a little, squeezing his hand.

“I’ve got a follow up question, then.” He shifted closer to you, eyes bright.

“Okay.” You smiled, watching him.

“Would you allow me to court you?” He took your free hand as well, dipping his head a little to hold your gaze. “Properly.”

You warmed under his gaze but nodded. “I’d like that very much,” you agreed, soft and almost shy.

There was a whoop from outside the door, almost immediately muffled, followed by a thump. Then another thump.

John sighed, his head dropping forward, even as your shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Fuckin’ muppets.”

“They’re yours,” you pointed out, extremely unhelpfully.

“They will be yours too, soon.” John released your hands and stood, marching over to the door and yanking it open. “Sergeants!”

Leaving Soap to sputter through an explanation, Gaz darted around him and straight to you, nearly bowling you over in his excitement.

“You’re a menace,” you muttered, unable to keep the affection from your tone.

“Only a bit.” Gaz deliberately met your gaze, beaming, held it for a count of three, and then dropped his gaze. This was much more intentional than the last time he’d done it, a very clear showing that you were higher ranked in the pack than he was. And, as if that wasn’t enough, he squirmed in until he could tuck his head under your chin.

You melted. Just a little. Sure, this was a grown-ass man who was taller than you, but he was just. Too damn cute.

“Not at all excited, huh?” you couldn’t help but tease, turning your head to rest your cheek on top of his head.

“Just a bit,” he muttered back, arms tight around your waist. “I’m just… You’re good for him. For us. I’m happy you’re staying.”

You smiled, rubbing your cheek on top of his head, even though it didn’t quite work the same way as it would from a shifter. He still shivered and melted into you, totally relaxed.

“You’re still in trouble,” John grumbled, even as his weight dropped down next to you. “Even if you are being cute.”

“Yes sir,” Gaz muttered, grin clear in his voice.

“Sure you wanna deal with these muppets?” John asked, curling one arm around your shoulders.

“I think they’ll give me less of a hard time than they do you.” You couldn’t help but slant an amused smirk at him.

“Probably right.”

“We’ll behave,” Soap added, as he popped up on your free side and very nearly gave you a heart attack with how stealthy he’d been.

“Bells,” you grumbled, tightening your grip on Gaz. “I’m putting bells on all of you.”

“Sounds distracting.” Ghost lounged in the doorway, smirking.

“Hopefully.” You raised an eyebrow at him, waiting to see if he’d come closer.

He didn’t. “Johnny, move your arse.”

Soap grumbled but got up again, tapping Gaz on the shoulder. Gaz sighed against your shoulder, squeezed you one more time, and then released you. Ghost shut the door after them.

“Now,” John murmured, a teasing little smile on his lips, “where were we…?”

“Something about courting,” you teased right back, though you did shift to face him on the couch.

“Mm, yes.” His hands settled on your waist, pulling you slowly but inexorably closer. “And you said yes.”

“Did I?” You feigned surprise. “Hmm. Sounds reasonable.”

John chuckled. “Tease,” he murmured, the word soaked in soft affection.

This time, he didn’t give you a chance to respond. He just kissed you, slow and sweet and exploratory. He pulled back, but you didn’t give him a lot of space, dipping your head to kiss the corner of his lips. His jaw. The underside of his chin. His soft groan rumbled through the air between his chest and yours, and you hummed a satisfied note.

“You are gonna be a handful,” he murmured, hands tightening around you.

“Only if I’m doing this right.” You smiled against his skin, pressing one last kiss to his throat.

“What do you need from me? To help you settle in more permanently.” One big hand left your waist, rubbing up your back to settle at the nape of your neck.

You shrugged. “Logan is going to pack up my apartment, so he’ll send me a few more things. Other than that… I don’t really need much.”

“Think about it,” he encouraged. “And tell me what you think.”

“Alright.” You didn’t think you’d come up with much, but he was the alpha. It was his job to make sure everyone had what they needed.

“When is Logan leaving?”

“Not sure. He had to go get tickets, said he’d update me when he had them.”

John grunted softly, leaning back and pulling you with him until you were cuddled against his chest, your cheek against his shoulder. You could definitely get used to this.

“There’s one more thing I need to do,” you murmured into the gentle, quiet space between you two. “It won’t be the only time, but it’s tradition.”

“What’s that?” John asked softly, his nose nudging your temple.

“Cook dinner for you. I always cook dinner for packs, usually right at the end of the job.”

“You haven’t officially finished yet?” But John didn’t sound upset, just mildly surprised.

“The letter incident pushed back the completion of the job.”

“Hm.” John nudged your temple again. “You’ll let me know what you need?”

“Yes but only because that was a question.”

John snorted, squeezing the back of your neck gently. “I should get back to work.”

“Five more minutes?”

He acquiesced with a little sigh, holding you close.

It took you until the next day to get everything taken care of. The last of the paperwork had been signed. Your final check had been deposited in your account.

You were truly free and clear of any work.

So, naturally, you were making more food than you needed. But with five shifters to feed, you figured that would do just about right.

“Need any help?”

You didn’t jump only because you’d heard Logan coming. He didn’t bother to sneak much of anywhere.

“No, I got it.” You looked at him and then did a double take. “I thought your flight wasn’t leaving until the morning?”

“Got a call from an old friend,” he murmured, stepping closer and setting his duffel bag down momentarily. “Gonna go visit them for the night before I head back.”

“Oh.” You couldn’t help the way your chest clenched at that. You knew you’d see him again, probably sooner than later, but still. You’d thought you’d have a little more time.

“Sorry, kid.” He stopped in front of you. “Especially sorry to miss out on this.”

That got you to snort. “Next time.”

“Next time,” he agreed softly. He pulled you into a hug, tight and warm and familiar. You relaxed into him with a little hum, holding him tight.

When he pulled back, you let him go. “Safe trip and all that.”

“Thanks,” he drawled, stepping back and picking up his duffel bag again. “Don’t burn anything.”

“Ass,” you grumbled as you turned back to the stove. “Say hi to Charles for me.”

“I’m not visiting him,” Logan called back, only a little annoyed.

You smirked. “Say hi to Erik for me.”

“Definitely not that asshole,” Logan shouted back from the hall. And then he was gone, leaving you to cackle to yourself. Sometimes it was just too easy to rile him up.

You didn’t bother to plate things up in any fancy way, just laying out the selection for the pack and then stepping out of the way so you’d have a good view when they came in.

Which you did. And you took in the awed expressions with absolute glee.

“Christ, love.” John walked over to you first, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “Trying to spoil us?”

“Maybe a little.” You shrugged, unrepentant. “Sit.”

You let them settle first, though you kept half your attention on Ghost, figuring he’d want some privacy.

But he surprised you, meeting your eyes for a split second before he nodded to the chair left open on John’s left. Across from him. You raised one eyebrow but moved to the chair and sat, curious.

“Don’t need to be so cautious,” Ghost grumbled, passing a dish to John.

“You like your privacy.” You shrugged. It wasn’t a big deal, not to you.

He huffed something like a laugh, folding the bottom of his mask up to just above his nose. Scars gone silvery with age marked his skin in the brief glimpse you allowed yourself before you returned your gaze to his forehead.

“You’re pack now,” was all he said before he took a bite of food. You had the pleasure of watching his eyes widen, just a little.

Your satisfied smile didn’t go unnoticed, but John only chuckled at you and put more food on your plate. You weren’t surprised - that was very much courting behavior for a shifter.

“Forgot to mention, love.” John glanced at you. “Figured out who sent that letter.”

“Yeah?” You tipped your head, curious.

“Keyes.”

“That’s disappointing but not surprising. I’m sure he’s got the contacts to get that kind of drug.” You shrugged. “I trust he’s being handled?”

“Thoroughly.” John’s smirk was small but satisfied.

“Oi.” Gaz huffed at the both of you. “Stop talking shop and eat.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. Oh yeah. Life was definitely not going to be boring with this pack.

To say that dinner was a success was putting it mildly. Most of the food was demolished. Soap and Gaz both ate too much and groaned their way to the couch to collapse.

“Your emotional support dog abandoned you,” you drawled to Ghost.

“What?” He blinked, startled.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those videos.” You perked up, a grin slowly stretching your lips.

“What videos?” He narrowed his eyes at you.

Holding back your evil cackles, you turned on the TV and quickly navigated to your favorite zoo. “In zoos, cheetahs are like balls of anxiety, right? So this one zoo started pairing a cheetah with an emotional support dog, letting the dog be the more dominant partner. Which allowed them to do things like take their cheetahs on walks and show off their speed and stuff, because if the dog is relaxed, the cheetah is relaxed.” You pointed at the screen where a dog and a cheetah were walking calmly together. “It’s you and Soap.”

For a moment there was silence before Gaz burst out laughing.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost sighed, dropping his head. “I’ll remember this.”

“Oh I know.” Far too smug, you grinned and settled on the couch, totally unsurprised when Soap immediately used your thigh as a pillow.

“Where is this?” he asked, grinning up at you.

“The San Diego Zoo was the first to do it, but I believe the practice has been adopted by several zoos now.” You paused for dramatic effect. “And one task force.”

Gaz rolled onto his stomach to muffle his giggling into the couch, while Soap just covered his face with one hand, laughing so hard he was actually nearly silent.

“Stop pokin’ fun at him.” John dropped down next to you, arm settling across your shoulders.

“He’ll get his revenge eventually.” You leaned a little into him, fingers carding idly through Soap’s hair.

“When did you get so snarky?” Ghost grumbled even as he settled in his normal seat.

“When this stopped being a job.” You grinned, unrepentant, even as you switched away from the zoo video and over to some sci-fi movie you’d been meaning to rewatch. “Now I wanna see how confused you all get with this.”

“Mean.” But John was smiling as he said it, tugging you closer until you were cuddled in against his side, Soap still using your thigh as a pillow.

You knew things wouldn’t always be this easy, this lighthearted. But for once you were prepared to work for it. For them. To keep them. The way they were clearly willing to work to keep you. And that was enough.

#born for greatness #john price x reader #john price x you #shifter au #f!reader

599 notes · View notes

myfandomrealitea · 8 months ago

Text

I'm fully prepared to get crucified for this, but the current situation with Liam Payne and by extension his son Bear is actually a really, really good live example case of misguided activism.

On every single post about Liam or One Direction I'm seeing people encouraging others to stream music because "the proceeds go towards Bear!"

And its a lovely, genuine sentiment, but I also need people to understand something.

That child is already now, legally, a multi-millionaire. That child now has stocks and royalties in a band which revenue-wise will never die. That child has four other multi-millionaire Uncles who will ensure that he never goes without so much as tissue to wipe his nose.

"We need to stream Liam's music 24/7 to raise funds for his son!" is both the loveliest and stupidest activism I have seen in a while. And its an amazing example of wasted activism. That child already has more funds in his name than the vast majority of us will ever see in our lifetime.

At the time of his death, it was (loosely) estimated that Liam Payne left a net worth inheritance of around $70,000,000 to his son. Seventy. Million. And that's not counting the uptick in royalties over the next 1-2 years as 1D and Liam merchandise and streams soar.

Seventy. Million.

And my point is, its such a classic example of how people allow emotional investment and assumptions to cloud proper judgement and consideration. Nobody is thinking beyond "child has tragically lost a parent" and nobody who has wants to be seen as the asshole who points out that the child doesn't actually need any of this good-faith effort and that actually, it would be far better to dedicate your activism toward mental health, drug and alcohol recovery.

Bear Payne does not need your activism or your money.

But the people who have suffered like Liam Payne did do. If you genuinely think what happened to Liam is so tragic, aim your activism at actual avenues that can help prevent other children losing parents. Other families losing loved ones. Other people mourning preventable losses.

#myfandomrealitea #sephiroth speaks #fandom #proship #proshipping

49 notes · View notes

nonbinairyboi · 5 months ago

Text

Nothing Left: Chapter 6

Chapter Summary: Eugene comes over to help with pain relief.

Pairing: Joel Miller x nonbinary!Reader/OC (afab, dimples, has multiple nicknames but none are their name)

Word Count: ~2.3k

A/N: The poll on whether I should do a masterlist or chapter by chapter of ASL signs or a combo was mixed, so I think I'll do a combo! I am hoping to work on that this week and also going back and editing some small mistakes in previous chapters as well. I really appreciate the comments and interactions I have been getting. It really motivates me, so thank you!

Series Masterlist (w/ASL) | Read on AO3 | Playlist

Chapter Warnings: Talk of injuries. Concussion recovery. Weed use

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter 6

When you woke up next you were alone. You could hear someone moving around the kitchen, pots clanging in that way that you were sure only happens when someone is trying to be quiet and the cutlery refuses.

The sunlight streaming through the window was slightly dimmer than before. Sitting up, you grabbed onto the furniture as you made your way to the window. Clouds that foretold rain soon hung in the sky, partially obscuring the sun. You gave up trying to estimate what time of day it was and began the walk out of the room.

As if the creaking of your door was as loud as a car alarm, startled steps quickly made their way to you. Maria rounded the corner and looked about to scold you for being up without help. You quickly raised your hands in surrender, pointed toward the bathroom and signed ‘bathroom’ for good measure. Maria didn’t speak despite looking like she wanted to, and nodded for you to continue, retreating again around the corner.

You resisted the urge this time to look in the mirror as you washed your hands. Your vision felt a little blurrier than normal and you knew that if you looked now, your brain would fill in the blanks of your eyes with more gruesome images than were truly there. Opening the door, you jumped a bit at Maria’s figure outside of the door. You hadn’t heard her come back.

”You aren’t getting off that easily. You need to let us help you.” Maria said disapprovingly. “Ask next time.”

You raised your eyebrows in a light challenge and signed ‘how?’ with a deadpan look.

Maria let out a puff of laughter and said “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll find you a cowbell to hang around your neck.”

Laughing in surprise, you let Maria help you towards the kitchen.

“I was just heating up a little of the soup I made the other day,” Maria explained. “Could I get you to eat a little? I could make you some more tea as well.”

You nodded in reply as you were helped into your seat. You could hear babbling coming from the living room and Maria excused herself, coming back with Benjamin on her hip.

You spent the next twenty minutes slowly taking spoonfuls of soup in between sips of tea and trying to keep it down as you smiled at the baby who was slowly becoming ‘milk drunk’. Maria took the baby to put him down for a nap and you cupped your hands around the new cup of tea that Maria had given you, warming your hands by curling them around the mug.

You wondered how different life would have been if you had somehow been able to have been pregnant in Jackson now instead of Illinois back then. Would the birth have been easier? Would people have searched for and made you supplies as they had for Maria? Would Grace have liked it here?

Your nose burned as you tried to keep back the tears that threatened to show themselves in the gloomy afternoon. If Grace was here, if the baby was here, you would have chosen a different home. A bigger one. And in your daydream, the vastness didn’t scare you. A different timeline. A different universe. Quantum Mechanics and string theory and all that jazz.

You inhaled through your nose in surprise as a knocking sounded at the door.

You heard a muffled, sing-song ”Don’t you dare get it! I am on my way!” from Maria and laughed to yourself, pulling yourself back to the current place and timeline you resided in.

The door creaked open and you heard Maria say “Eugene! …What a lovely smell… Follow me.”

Chuckling, you turned in your chair so you were facing the entrance, smiling as wide as you could without hurting yourself as Eugene came into view.

Maria stood between the two of you with her hands on her hips.

”I’m not going to say anything,” She began. “But please only outside. And be discreet if you could. I have no problems with what you do, but I don’t want it getting around to the teenagers. I have enough on my hands when the parents complain about contraband liquor as it is.”

”Yes ma’am.” Eugene said, saluting her and making her crack a smile.

“And if Tommy comes home, don’t let him have too much. I need help around here.” Maria comments.

You smirked as Maria helped you up and into your coat before handing you over to Eugene.

“I gotcha, never fear old grasshopper.” Eugene mumbled to you as you went out back, causing you to smack him across the chest with the back of your arm. “I know, I know, I’m older, but for once I feel like the younger one with how wobbly you are. Oof-” You smacked him again as he helped you onto the bench on the back deck.

Once settled, you closed your eyes and took a breath in to try to keep on top of the pain coursing through you. You heard the clink of metal and glass and looked over to see Eugene packing a bowl next to you.

“Still don’t look like you’re feeling great.” Eugene commented. “I was hoping you’d be in better shape after you rested, but no offense, you look worse now.”

You scoffed in reply, focusing your eyes to the backyard. Playfully, you signed ‘same’ back at him.

“Touché.” Eugene said, holding up the now packed bowl to you. You took it and inhaled as he lit a match and lit the bowl for you. Taking a few deep inhales, you passed it back to him and, after a moment, exhaled.

It was silent for a few minutes as you passed it back and forth. You were grateful at how content Eugene was in silence, despite his talkative nature. He never made you feel pressured to communicate, but he had also tried harder than anyone else to learn as many signs as possible. Because of this, he knew more about you personally than you had communicated with any other person since you stopped talking, though he only shared it with your permission. He had built it naturally, asking how to do basic signs that would be helpful on patrol and around town before moving to more personal signs about family and locations. At this point, he could hold conversations with you, but he never pressured you to hold up your end. He seemed to understand that communication in general was vulnerable, even though it was helpful.

“They might pair me with Joel while you heal. Won’t be the same on patrol.” Eugene noted. “I’ll have to see how easily he can be persuaded to stop by my garden on the way so I can check up on my babies. Otherwise, we might find ourselves in a situation with this” Eugene indicated the weed that he was grinding for a second bowl. “Maybe if I mention that it would be helpful to you he would give in easier” Eugene said, wiggling his eyebrows.

You were puzzled by his meaning and tapped him, asking ‘what?’.

“Could be nothing. Never you mind” Eugene muttered, focused on his task. As he packed the second bowl, you leaned on his shoulder, needing support for a moment. Eugene was kind enough not to draw attention to it and simply kept going with his work. “I brought some brownies too so you can have them when I’m not here. They taste like shit but they’ll do the job.”

You were both startled by the creaking of a door behind you and whipped your heads around, with some pain on your part, to see a surly-looking Joel step outside.

After glancing between the two of you for a moment, he asked “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.” Eugene expressed at the same time as you signed ‘of course.’

Joel pulled up a deck chair a little closer to where the two of you were huddled.

”We were just talking about you actually. But now that you are joining, I feel more confident that you’ll let me take care of my flowers out on patrol while Charlie heals.” Eugene said.

Joel glanced your way before he said “As long as it don’t take too long. I don’t like being late back since I’ve got Ellie.”

”I wouldn’t dream of putting you behind schedule,” Eugene said, winking and lighting the bowl and inhaling before passing it to Joel.

Joel was silent as he smoked before meeting your eyes purposefully and handing you the bowl. You nodded in thanks and savored the burn on your inhale.You continued passing it around in relative silence.

“How’s the headache?” Joel asked.

You signed ‘a little better now’ and pointed to the weed. Eugene interpreted what you had said to Joel.

“How did you learn that?” Joel inquired a few moments later.

“They were close with their cousin growing up, who was Deaf.” Eugene replied for you, having learned a while ago.

Joel nodded in acknowledgment and turned to Eugene. “How’d you learn?”

“Patience, time, and lots of questions.” Eugene replied.

You let out an involuntary giggle, thinking about how awkward it had been at first at times. Both men turned their eyes to you.

“Looks like the meds may be working, Doctor.” Joel drawled, causing both you and Eugene to start laughing.

Eugene stared at Joel for a moment after everyone got themselves under control.

“I didn’t take you for a smoker.” Eugene said.

“You don’t know me very well.” A more relaxed Joel replied.

“Guess that’s true.”

“So, can you teach me some basics?” Joel asked.

You nodded your head a little more enthusiastically than you had intended and ended up clutching your head in regret.

“Easy, tiger!” Eugene exclaimed as you waved him off. “Why don’t we start with ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to prevent further injury?”

You turned to Joel slowly and demonstrated ‘yes’ and ‘no’ a few times, urging him to mimic you as he said the words aloud. You realized that you were a little higher than you would have liked for this endeavor when Eugene asked “What next?” and you signed ‘weed’ in reply, making even Joel chuckle, the meaning being obvious.

You spent the next 15 minutes laughing as you tried to think of more useful signs to teach Joel, with Eugene chiming in with a few phrases and words he felt were important, notably ‘bar’ ‘beer’ and ‘whiskey’. Joel couldn’t quite get ‘whiskey’ as you generally finger spelled it and it was clear the alphabet would take him a while.

The fall chill had started to set in and when a few drops started to fall from the sky, you all moved inside, Eugene grabbing your arm and moving you inside to the couch, where you continued to try to teach the alphabet to Joel despite how high you were. Joel sat on the chair to your left and Eugene sat on the couch facing yours. Forgetting your normal boundaries when it came to touch, you reached out and grabbed Joel’s hand, helping him form ‘g’ and then ‘h’. Realizing what you had done, you glanced up and met Joel’s eyes, scared that you had overstepped. He looked surprised, but not angry or annoyed. You slowly smiled at him while retracting your hands, glancing at Eugene for support, who looked like he was holding back a laugh.

You drew your brows together in question, but before Eugene could reply or Joel could turn to see what you were looking at, the sound of the front door opening drew all of your attention. You turned to see a slightly soggy Ellie slamming the door shut, at which Joel exclaimed “Hey! Don’t slam the door. The baby could have been sleeping!”

Ellie paused for dramatic affect and looked around before replying “Doesn’t sound like I woke him up. Also, why are you here?”

Eugene chuckled and patted Joel’s back. “Hand’s full with that one, huh?”

Joel grunted his assent as Ellie plopped down beside you and then sniffed you.

“You smell weird.” She said, wrinkling her nose.

Joel coughed. “Ellie, it ain’t kind to comment on how people smell.”

Ellie raised her eyebrows and all three adults in the room tried in vain to hold back smiles. Ellie looked confused and said “Adults are so weird.”

Joel went back to staring at his hands, trying to go through signs he remembered.

“Hey! Did you get to start learning without me? No fair!” Ellie exclaimed once she noticed Joel’s movements.

Eugene chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll teach you both. They usually start with a spiel about how they don’t know everything and their grammar isn’t perfect, but I’ll save you guys the time and tell you now.” Eugene then turned to you. “How’d I do?”

You playfully glared at him before signing ‘fine’ with a smile.

Joel and Eugene went through some of the basics with Ellie that they had been over already, skipping over ‘bar’ and ‘weed’ for now, before turning to you for the alphabet.

You were starting to get tired again by the time everyone was getting to the letter ‘f’.

‘I’m tired, I’m sorry’ you signed and Eugene interpreted. You noticed both Joel and Ellie slowly copying those signs as well.

“Of course. We’ll get out of your hair.” Joel replied, standing up.

“Wait!” Ellie said “Do you have pictures anywhere? I don’t know how I’m going to remember all of these without you.”

‘I have a book.’ You signed ‘Only 1.’

Once Eugene had loosely translated what you had signed, Ellie perked up.

“I like drawing.” She said timidly. “Maybe you could help me and I could draw some from the book too? I could make some extra copies in case anyone else wants to learn.”

Ellie’s words touched you deeply and you felt your eyes well up. You took a moment to breathe to stop yourself from openly crying, especially since Ellie seemed to be turning red already in embarrassment.

‘Yes’ you signed. ‘I’d like that.’

Next Chapter

Taglist:

@powellssaturn

@silas-aeiou

30 notes · View notes