#it’s okay though i love him …. for some reason …..

[mrs-kmikaelson]

The Truth²

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: Aaron had always valued the truth above all else. But sometimes the truth isn't enough. Warnings: home invasion, murder (self-defence), cm-typical cases, references to foyet arc and haley's death, aaron was mean, grovelling, complicated relationships, lots of angst Words: 4.7K

Masterlist | Part 1

a/n: omg, i'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging! i genuinely forgot ab this with exams and everything. but thank you so much for all the love! it means the world. lmk if you want a part 3!

Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

"Hotch."

Aaron looked from the papers haphazardly placed across the table, seeing Morgan standing in the threshold. "Yes?"

Derek nodded his head outward. "Garcia's on the line. We've got a lead."

He was up before Derek could finish his sentence, following him out of the makeshift office and into the conference room where the rest of the team sat. 

"Go ahead, babygirl."

Garcia's voice crackled to life from the receiver on the table. "Okay, so after some deep, deep sleuthing, I have found that the victims do all indeed have something in common. Each of them has been involved in a court case, specifically domestic disputes, that kind of thing. Andrew Sykes was a character witness in a rape trial, Maya Zhao the plaintiff in another, and Carson Williams the accused. The only reason Carson's name didn't come up immediately is because his record was expunged—he was a minor at the time."

Emily raised her hand into the air, her eyebrows scrunching together. "Wait, wait, wait. So the unsub is targeting just random people who've been involved in rape cases?"

Reid tilted his head. "Garcia, what was the outcome of each case?"

"Um..." she paused, her keyboard clacking. "The first case with Sykes was dismissed, Maya's rapist was found guily, and Carson was found... not guilty."

"Guys, what if the unsub doesn't just choose his targets because they're involved? What if he's choosing them because he thinks they're lying?"

JJ raised a brow. "Lying about the crime?"

"Yes! What if that's the link? Not because of the lives they lead but the choices they made?"

"That would explain the overkill," Rossi added. "If the unsub believes the victims are disingenuous, ruining people's lives, then that may be his justification for taking them."

Hotch nodded, going over the details in his head before he agreed. "We're ready to give the profile. Thank you, Garcia."

"You got it." A click resounded, signalling the call was over. Similarly, everyone cleared the room, slowly filtering out. 

Emily was the last one in the room, appearing to be grabbing her files before setting them down on the table once everyone was gone. "Hotch."

He stopped turning halfway through, turning to give her his attention. While he expected curiosity on her face, what he didn't expect was the pure inquisitiveness, if not interrogation, that he saw.

"What's going on with Y/N?" 

He had to stop himself from intaking a breath, but he knew even that was futile. Emily was nothing if not a great profiler, and she had taken to profiling him very well. When he saw the curiosity on her face start to resemble accusation, he knew that he gave something away, anyway.

Before he could even think of anything to say, she continued, "She hasn't been to work in days. She says she's sick, but... you haven't called her once to check in on her. And normally you call her all the time when she's in perfect health." She tilted her head in a way that felt like a challenge and then repeated herself. "What's going on?"

Hotch's first instinct was to defend himself, even though Emily didn't know anything about what happened. He could explain it, but then what would he say? That he told you that you weren't Jack's mother? That he called you an accessory? That he was cruel?

He implied that you weren't a member of this team. But the way Emily was searching for information told him otherwise.

This wasn't a case. He couldn't lay out all the facts and present it to jury. And he couldn't coldly tear you down like you were a defendant in need of prosecution.

But you did, his mind echoed. You already did that.

He wished he didn't.

He stopped avoiding Emily's eyes, and he told the best truth he could tell at that moment. "We got into an argument," No, he berated you. "and we haven't spoken since. I've been... trying to give her space."

Emily looked as though she were mentally calculating what he could've said to warrant so much space. But if he told the full truth, the honest truth, then she would know that he created a distance between you that he didn't know how to bridge.

"Hotch—" she paused like she was debating whether or not to speak her mind. "Don't take this the wrong way, because I'm saying this with the utmost respect. But you have a great thing with a great person." She let her words soak in before delivering the final blow. "Don't mess it up."

Hotch didn't need to respond to that, and Emily didn't need to say anything else, leaving the room right after. He already messed up a marriage, and she knew that. She was there when he received the divorce papers. So were you. Yet you let him fall in love with you anyway, and you loved him back with everything you had.

But at that moment, he felt like he didn't deserve any of it.

— 

Standing in the police station's bullpen, Aaron's fingers hovered over his keyboard, twitching with uncertainty. He didn't know what to type.

He was good with words. He sent people to prison with compelling arguments. He co-wrote the textbook on hostage negotiation. He didn't need Reid's lexicon to know he was good with words. But maybe it would help with knowing what to say to you.

There were too many things to apologize for, and not enough variations of the word sorry to account for any of it. Sorry didn't hold enough weight.

But it was all he could think of that was acceptable to say over text, and Emily was right: he couldn't afford to mess this up.

So he started typing, starting with an absolute truth before he said anything else.

I love yo— 

Garcia's contact filled his screen, interrupting his message. He sighed, and then immediately felt guilty about it. He had three victims and the potential for more. The case had to be his focus, not his wrongdoings, no matter how wrong they were.

He accepted the call, pressing the phone to his ear and getting straight to the point. "Have you found anyone in connection with the three court cases?

"No! Well, yes, but no, that's not what I'm calling about. Sir—" Garcia cut herself off with something that sounded like a sob.

Hotch furrowed his brows. "Garcia?"

"Hotch. Some— something happened." Garcia took a deep breath. "It's Y/N."

Hotch felt his world stop. All time and reason and logic ceased to exist. All he could hear were Penelope's words, playing on a loop like a broken record he never wanted to hear.

It's Y/N. 

Just like that, the earth started spinning again, making bile rise in the back of his throat. "What happened?"

From the corner of his eye, he could just barely see the team looking up at him. He couldn't really pay attention to it.

When the silence went on too long, he repeated himself. Sharply. "Garcia. What happened?"

"There— there was a break-in at— at your house." Hotch's heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach. No. No, no, no— "Jack is fine, he's completely unharmed, but Y/N—" Garcia's sobbing cut her off once more.

"Where is she?"

"Bethesda, at Suburban Hospital."

"I'm on my way there right now." Hotch immediately hung up. When he looked up, he found expectant faces staring back at him.

Rossi broke the silence. "Aaron?"

Hotch didn't waste another second. "My house was broken into. Y/N's been—" He didn't even know. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know. "Y/N's in the hospital. I need to leave."

Everyone was quick to rise to their feet. "What?" Morgan's voice cut through the air. "Hotch, we can't just stay here. This is Y/N we're talking about."

Hotch had completely forgotten about the case, but it was brought right back to his mind. "No, you have to. This is still an active case—"

"Your house was broken into. You don't call that an active case?"

"It is. But we can't all leave. Garcia has another update, call her back and find out what it was." He didn't stay any longer than that, leaving the room without another word.

He stormed past officers gazing at him curiously. He couldn't bring himself to care about any of it.

He threw open the door to the SUV, the keys nearly falling out of his hands for how badly they were shaking.

You aren't needed.

"Aaron!"

Hotch wouldn't have heard the calling of his own name if the car door hadn't opened, startling him. He looked over, seeing Rossi get in the passenger seat.

"Dave—"

Rossi appeased, "It's alright. I left Morgan in charge. Told the others to update me and I'd update them. Now, let's go."

If Hotch had the will or the energy to argue, he would've. But all he could think about was you. The same you he callously tore down without care for your feelings. The same you who said yes without thinking twice when he proposed. The same you who could be in any condition right now, not knowing how much he loved you.

So, he just nodded. He started the car, squeezing the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white to stop his hands from shaking, praying that you were okay.

He prayed that you knew the truth. Unsent messages and unsaid words. 

I love you.

—

When Aaron got some of his wits back, he realized he had to call Garcia. It was stupid to sit on the jet without knowing how you were.

You were shot. While protecting his son.

Your son.

Sharp words echoed through his head, words he knew would cut deep and said them anyway. Now you were the one bleeding in an operating room while he was still hours away, and the distance between you had never been so large.

You are not his mother!

"Aaron."

Hotch looked up, finding Rossi staring at him with concern swirling in his eyes. Whatever he was going to say to comfort him wouldn't work. This wasn't something Hotch could be consoled over.

"She's going to okay," Dave reassured. He looked like he truly believed it, but Aaron knew the importance in not making promises you couldn't keep. "She shot the guy back—put a bullet right between his eyes. Whose influence do you think she got that from?"

Aaron sighed. He taught you how to shoot a gun. But he may as well have been the one to pull the trigger. "It's my fault, Dave. If I had never left her there—"

"She still would've gone home, Aaron."

"No, you don't understand. I left her." Aaron met his eyes, even though Rossi's figure started to blur. "I left her, and I—" he cut himself off, swallowing harshly.

He couldn't even believe that he said it. Before this, he couldn't have imagined a world where he said any of it.

You were his world. You and Jack were his family. But he made you feel like you weren't part of it at all.

Dave cocked his head. "Something happened between you two," he stated. Not a question.

Aaron swallowed a second time. "Yes."

He almost thought Rossi would ask him what happened, but he did the opposite. He only sighed. "Look, Aaron. I don't know what happened between you, or what you said that has you ruminating so deeply. But whatever happened, you have to know that it is not your fault that this happened to her."

"Dave—"

Rossi waved his hands in the air. "No, I don't really care for whatever illogical, self-deprecating argument you have right now. She wouldn't, either." He sat up straighter in the seat across from him, leaning forward. "What you need to think about right now is the fact that she's okay. That is what you need to believe. She shot this asshole, and we'll figure out who he is as soon as we touch down. You can apologize later. But she is okay, Aaron."

Were you, though? Even if you were physically okay—which he had no way of knowing—were you okay mentally? What about your relationship?

Another lifetime ago, Hotch could remember a relationship with a wife who grew to resent him. The image of her body sprawled across the ground was etched into his memory.

He closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, he was blinking tears away. "This has happened before, Dave."

Rossi didn't have any real response. Quietly, he said, "I know." He remembered just as well as Aaron, just as well as everyone else.

No one had ever forgotten.

— 

By the time Hotch and Rossi got to the hospital, it was already dark out. Rossi insisted that he be the one to drive. Hotch was getting out of the car before it'd even fully stopped.

Garcia already told him what floor to go to. She was there when he came running out of the elevator.

She quickly stood up. "Sir—"

"How is she?" He was out of breath.

"I-I don't know. She's still in the OR. They— they've been in there a while, but no one has been out to update me yet— oh, God. Oh, God, I hope she's okay."

Hotch ran a hand through his hair. You were still in surgery. He didn't know what that meant.

He couldn't think about it. If he thought about it, then—

"Jack?"

"Oh! Yes, um, he's with Jessica. They were here but I told them to head home. I'm so sorry, I didn't even think— of course, you would want to see him. I can—"

"No, that's okay," he assured, even though it looked more like he was assuring himself. "He should be in a place that's familiar to him right now." Oh, his poor boy. His poor, sweet boy had seen enough blood to last a lifetime. Hotch couldn't help but think that Jack already lost a mother once; he couldn't lose one again.

You are not his mother.

He released a shaky breath, then tried to school his expression. "Okay, what do we know about the unsub?"

Garcia's eyes widened. "Everything! I have him dead to rights, Sir." Without reading from a screen, she recited, "Forensics ID'd him as Joshua Lawrence—"

Hotch cut her off, recognition flashing in his brain. "Lawrence?"

"Yes, Sir. Lawrence was the unsub in a murder case you prosecuted back in '94. Went to prison for life after being charged with second degree murder of his girlfriend when he was 16. He was just released on good behaviour 2 days ago."

The pit in Hotch's stomach deepened. His voice was grave. "And so he wanted to punish me by going after my family."

Penelope winced, not for the first time since their conversation started. "Yes, Sir. And he's dead now." For some reason, that didn't make Hotch feel all that better. His family was still paying for his sins. Jobs he had. Deals he didn't take.

Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

"For Y/N Y/L/N?"

Both Aaron and Penelope turned around in quick speed. A doctor in blue scrubs stood before them, a scrub cap still sitting atop her head. Aaron stopped breathing. He barely even noticed Rossi coming to stand beside him.

But he was the head of the BAU, and he could spot the doctor's cool expression a mile away. So the weight on his chest felt lighter before she even said a word.

"I'm Dr. Reyes. Ms. Y/L/N is stable. We removed the bullet, and she should make a full recovery. There were some complications during surgery. The bullet knicked a major artery, but we were able to replace the area with a graft. She is incredibly lucky," she emphasized. "If the police hadn't been called at the time they were, the outcome could have been entirely different."

Aaron let out a breath of relief while Rossi asked the questions he didn't have the mind to ask. "How long will she be in recovery?"

"I'd like to monitor her here for about a week," Reyes replied. "She's resting right now in room 305, but I can allow one of you in there."

Finally, Aaron could speak. "Thank you, Dr. Reyes." He couldn't truly put his appreciation into words.

Reyes nodded, and then she turned and walked away. Rossi and Garcia immediately turned back to him. "Well? What are you waiting for? Go see her," the former urged.

Hotch hesitated, much unlike the man his team was used to and much unlike the man he was used to. He masked it with careful redirection. Turning to Garcia, he asked, "Where are we with the case?"

The blonde was wiping mascara from beneath her eyes, looking confused for half a second before realization dawned on her. "Oh, um, the case has been solved, Sir. Stenographer Albert Brown was the culprit; Morgan et al. pursued him just an hour ago. They should be wrapping up at the station now."

Hotch nodded. "Good."

Tiredly, she added, "Would've found him sooner if we'd made the connection between the cases earlier. Y/N/N had a hard time with that one record since it was expunged and all—"

Hotch's brows furrowed. "Y/N? She hasn't been to work."

Garcia's glasses suddenly fell back to her nose, her eyes widening in a way that told them both she'd said more than she meant to. "Right," she whispered. "Right, she hasn't. Except— she has. She comes in right after dropping off Jack and leaves when it's time to pick him up." 

Despite the way the words rapidly tumbled out of her mouth, Aaron understood every word. You were still coming into work. Doing the job without receiving any credit for it. Even after what he said to you. Not only that, but you were staying with Jack like it was your top priority, even though you were working.

If Aaron hadn't felt sick before, he surely felt sick now.

Rossi was looking at him like he was a ticking time bomb set to explode, Garcia bracing herself for the impact. 

Hotch cleared his throat. "I'm going to see her now," he informed them. Neither of them said another thing as he walked in your direction.

But deep down, he didn't feel like he deserve to see you at all.

—

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you did was close them again. The light was too much, and your eyelids felt as though they were being weighed down.

The dull throbbing in your abdomen made you open your eyes again, looking down to see your body covered in a hospital gown atop a hospital bed. For a second, you were confused, until the memories hit you like a train.

Doorknob. Gun. Man. Blood.

You took in a sharp breath, which made the pain worse. As if the noise had triggered it, movement started to your left.

You turned your head, seeing a man in a suit sitting in the chair beside your bed. Light streamed in from the curtains, highlighting his brown hair. And although you couldn't see his face right away, you only knew one man who would sleep in an uncomfortable chair in a suit.

Aaron.

He rubbed at his eyes, and you deduced that he must've been there for a while. When his eyes were no longer obscured by his hands, they locked with yours. You watched them soften in real time. 

Quietly, he said, "Hi."

Your heart squeezed. "Hi—" your voice broke into a cough. Aaron was quick to grab the water at the side table, guiding the straw into your mouth. The water felt cool travelling down your throat, but you couldn't stop the way your face warmed.

Aaron put the water back when you signalled you were done, and then he stood there awkwardly. Under different circumstances, you would've found it cute. But how could soft eyes and gestures mean anything to you when you could still remember the hardened scowl on his face before he left?

You don't know how long the silence lasted before he spoke. "Y/N—"

"Can I see Jack?" You didn't mean to cut him off, not really, but it was instinctual. You didn't know what Aaron was going to say, but you knew you didn't want to hear it yet.

Aaron's shoulders deflated, but he didn't say anything in protest. "Yes, of course." He nodded—to you or himself, you weren't sure. "I'll go call Jessica now."

Aaron left the room, phone in hand. As soon as he was out of the room, you sighed to yourself. At the sight of your engagement ring glinting in the light, you screwed your eyes shut once more.

Not a mother. Not a team-member.

Were you still a fiancé?

—

"Y/N!"

At the sight of a blonde flurry of hair rushing your way, you smiled wider than you'd smiled in days. You laughed, despite the fact that it made your stomach hurt. "Jackers."

Jack rushed the side of your bed, only stopped by his father's voice. "Easy, Jack." The smile on your face faltered slightly at the sound, glancing at Aaron standing in the doorway. His eyes were fixed on his son. "Remember what we said, okay? Y/N's been hurt, so you have to be gentle." He glanced at you momentarily during the explanation, looking strained. 

"Yes, Daddy. I know." After his confirmation, Jack's attention was back on you, concern colouring his features. "Are you okay, Y/N?"

You softened at the serious look on his face. Aaron used to joke that he was all Haley, but that look was purely him. "Yes, I'm fine, buddy," you lied. "Don't worry about me."

Jack didn't look like he believed you. You didn't blame him. "Are you sure? There was a lot of blood."

You took a deep breath. In your peripheral vision, you could see Aaron take a step forward, but you collected yourself before he could say anything. "I know. And I'm really sorry you had to see that." You blinked away the tears welling in your eyes. "You did very good, Jack. Listening to me and calling the police."

Jack's grin stretched from ear to ear. "I did?" he echoed.

You nodded, smiling back at him. "You did. Thank you."

"I'm just glad you're okay, Mommy." Your breath hitched, but Jack looked none the wiser. If you dared to glance at Aaron, you would see him in the same speechless state. As if he didn't just turn your world upside down, Jack followed up, "Can I come lay with you?"

This time, Aaron intervened. "Jack—"

"Of course, sweetheart. You can come sit right here." You moved over on the bed, ignoring the ache altogether. And for the first time since Jack entered the room, you looked directly at Aaron, silently asking him with your eyes to help him onto the bed.

The cautious look in his eyes told you he disagreed with you, but he still walked over and helped Jack up, anyway, carefully placing him on the bed. You immediately wrapped your arm around him as he settled into your side. The feeling calmed you down more than the morphine pumping through your veins.

Jack yawned, prompting you to ask, "Do you want a bedtime story?" He nodded fervently, despite whining that he was 'too old' for that now, causing you to giggle. Running a hand through his hair, you started, "Okay. Once upon a time, there was a princess, hiding away in a tower. You see, it wasn't safe outside. Someone had captured the sun and made it so dark outside that she couldn't leave. So she waited, and waited, and waited for the day the sun would return. And one day, her saviour came. A knight arrived, and he courageously fought the sun thief. He was scared, too, but he was brave enough to do what was right. And so, the next day, the princess watched the sun rise for the first time after so much darkness." Your voice lowered as Jack's eyes fluttered closed. "She thanked the knight for bringing her light back to her, and everyone in the land lived happily ever after."

You caressed Jack's hair as he fell asleep, smiling at the sight, even as your eyes burned. You didn't know if this story would have the happily ever after you wanted it to.

Aaron's voice penetrated the silence, reminding you that he was there. "I told the team to come back tomorrow once you've gotten more rest." He was quiet, mindful of Jack.

"That's good," you responded.

"They were really worried about you." Pause. "I was really worried about you."

You sighed. "Aaron—"

"I'm sorry." He sat down in the chair beside you, desperately trying to meet your eyes. "I was spiteful and purposelessly cruel. I had no right to be angry, and I should not have said any of the things I did."

When you finally met his eyes, a tear fell down your cheek. "But you said them."

"I didn't mean them," he disputed, begging you to believe him. "Everything I said was untrue."

"No." A humourless chuckle left you. "I'm an accessory. Garcia doesn't need me to excel at her job, and the BAU certainly doesn't need me for anything she can't already do." Aaron opened his mouth to protest, but you continued, more tears falling from your eyes. "And I'm not Jack's mother. He's tired, and he slipped earlier, but that doesn't make me his mom."

"Y/N—"

"But Aaron," your voice cracked. "Even though I am not Jack's mother, he is my son. And you have to know that."

"Y/N." Aaron reached out for your left hand, engulfing it in both of his. If your eyes weren't so blurry, you would've seen the tears in his eyes, too. "You have raised Jack for over half of his life. You are his mother. I wouldn't take that from either of you. I'm sorry for ever implying otherwise. And I'm sorry for implying that you weren't a part of the team. Garcia told me how you linked the victims together while only being there 6 hours out of the day. You are the reason that case was just solved. You are an integral member of the BAU, and I took that for granted."

"No, Hotch, you don't get it." Hurt flashed across his face at the name, but you held your resolve. "You didn't just imply that I wasn't a part of the team. You implied that we weren't a team, and that is what killed me inside." You ripped your hand from his, but it didn't escape either of you that you then used your other hand to wipe away your tears.

Aaron swallowed, letting his hand fall to the mattress. "We are a team. You're the love of my life." Even he could hear how he was grasping at straws.

Lightly, you shook your head, staring back at him with a pitiful smile. Pity for him. Pity for yourself. "You didn't make me feel that way."

A sense of inevitability settled over the room. Aaron's gaze was drawn to the ring on your finger before he looked back up at you. "I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you let me," he promised. You both understood it for what it was: a plea.

"I know." No tears fell this time, despite the lump lodged in your throat. Just above a whisper, you put forward, "Just give me time, okay?"

Aaron didn't respond immediately, but you could see the shift in his eyes. Not quite the look of a man who lost, but not quite the look of a man who won. 

"Okay," he whispered back. 

You thanked him, going back to caressing Jack's hair. The silence was less loud now, punctuated by the truth.

Your story with Aaron didn't start with Once Upon a Time. And it didn't end with Happily Ever After.

But you ended with the truth. And that's all you asked of him.

taglist: @hotchnerave @cantbecreative @holmesry @amber97 @queenofvelaris @midnghtprentiss @deeninadream @michasia24 @donttrustlove @sjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj @allysunny @jessjessmarvelandhp @burkayyy @mrsxyz480 @loki101 @athanasia-day @mischiefmanaged71 @beardedhotchner @doe-eyed-diva @witchcraftandwit @diabolichii @vivs30 @burrithorr @racoonkitty @gemininormouzz @wallowingselfpity @singlepringle4you @pillkits @alice07ea @storiesbynova @mmmunson @rannifer @dedicatedfangirl2001 @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @jencole214 @ssa-danhotchner @kcch-ns @cultish-corner @fckgrier @aasmalfoy @cocopuff213 @axionn @ponyosmom35 @phaedrashafiq @planetsnshit @laufeysvalentine @anthropsych @thatkidofwarandpeace @cassiesversion @person-005 @wilmalovegood @leclercprettyeyes @esw1012 @lafrone @elliewhite-123 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @rethasavedlives @anninhaaagomes16 @doyoulovemenough @yousigned-upforthis @msfreedom @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrywoods1245 @nessjo @wh0rezs @messageforthesmallestman @thecutestaaakawaii @starrynightsil @redama @batmanunicorns523 @spideyreid @sillymuffintrashflap @bennetbreakdown @girl-who-loves-books @onedgirl10 @fallen-angels2213 @aaaaau @notsochillnerd @swag13r @rousethemouse @cumuluscranium @maximoffwitch @youunravemerblgs @tearykth @sexlapis @guilty-cheese @rauspberries @kaetastic @dakotapaigelove @softtdaisy @fanfareofafangirl @love-dray @elyjellybelly @rivaiken @softlyspencer @chill-out-imqueen-persephone @spideystar @siampie @ssa-writerminds @kouibin

additional a/n: thank u all for ur kind words! i basically tagged u if u commented or reblogged (tysm for supporting!). lmk if you'd like to be removed from the taglist for this series! also, many of ur tags aren't working, and i don't know why! they're underlined on my screen, but when i leave edit mode, half the tags aren't working anymore. if anyone has any insight, pls let me know.

[hyacinthleaves]

hello hello!!! may I request fluff relationship headcanons with eddie and volt? need to see more of my husbands and I plan on making another seperate request for two more characters so this wont be my last :)

also if its okay may I be referred to as 🌙 anon? :3

yeah bet. trying so hard not to write smut rn you can see it while i was writing. its like having a really funny joke that you cant say cuz everyones talking

Eddie and Volt:

I'm trying so hard not to be biased but this is actually one of, if not the most rewarding relationship to be in. Like, in comparison to all the other objects in the house, you are getting the most princess treatment from these two

It's def because they were so grateful for your help and not just because they're attracted to you. Because originally that wasn't their thing so the fact that your relationship literally went from 1 to 100 is one of the reasons why being with them is deadass all fun and vibes for the most part

Also I think it would be so fun to date them because unlike some other pairings in the house (cough cough curt and rod, harper and dirk, and maybe timmy/timothy if I can count them) there's no tension between one and the other where you're forced to come between them really

I feel like interactions with them heavily depend on how you're feeling towards them or what side you decide to show to them

Like I can see a more sassy/teasing s/o talking to Volt a lot and poking fun at Eddie (in a flustering way) because of how much he blushes around them

Just getting Eddie flustered has got to feel like the greatest thing ever. Keep reminding him how much he wanted nothing to do with you when you first met. Make him feel how thankful he is to have you by his side. Volt supports this and actually thinks its so funny. Eddie is getting you back for this. Don't think you can just get away with this

But I can also see a more kind and affectionate s/o being more clingy to Volt (which he loves and will accept all of it, despite how busy he is) and Eddie jokingly poking fun at you

Volt makes it very clear to everyone that you're his partner. PDA shakes in the presence of Volt. I swear he gets worse with every interaction with you

In fact I feel like he has to hold himself back a lot. You make him lose his composure so easily and he has to remember he's on the clock

If you ever give him a reason to, he wouldn't be too upset if he had to close the Breaker Box early. He would find the perfect time to do it though so it doesn't seem like anything TOO bad is happening

But his patience is pretty high so usually there's no need for it to get to that point...don't test him too much though. Or do. You're well aware where that will get you

You literally cannot get bored around them I'm so serious like 10/10 relationship

[solargeist]

Would.... would tegg call scar by parental honorifics.... I'm assuming she would with grian, since you already have xelqua who sorta calls him papa

(Ganted scarian isn't together in the tegg au grian was just nest brained so I guess it wouldn't make sense but yk)

Also I think they're ssoso cute their the dads ever , I love tegg <33

The reason why Xelqua switches between "grian" and "papa" is just bc he was technically adopted, and old enough to be aware of it and feel embarrassed sometimes ! As he ages, he gradually calls him papa more often. He feels more comfortable and secure ! Grian also makes it pretty clear to him that its okay. I think at some point he'd also go to Grian and ask if its okay to call Scar something parental too, so sweet.

As for Tegg, she's a baby, so she'll grow up used to using honorifics. Tho I do imagine it'll be a little difficult since everyone else around her would be calling Grian by his name, and thats what she'll hear a lot lmao (theres a brief period of time where she's calling him "G")

But by time she starts saying her first words, Grian and Scar would've already talked abt this. Scar wants to stay involved, he knows Grian was just bird brained, but they're both clear headed right now, and he wants this. The baby looks exactly like him, it's eaten his code to grow, Scar just can't let that go so easily ! All of Boatem have already stated that Tegg is Boatem's baby, anyway.

She'd grow up calling them both the same titles that Xelqua does, even though they're from different AUs--I'm picky with parental titles--Papa et Pa !

[huntrcssqueen]

❝ I also just know you all too well. ❞ Not that she was complaining. She loved knowing him, he was the reason she was free after all. He gave her a real life, not really normal but a life she wouldn't change if he wasn't in it. Taking in a sharp breathe of air, she tried to calm her body down. ❝ Okay. ❞ She spoke softly, keeping herself there for a moment as she brought her hand to stroke his cheek, she couldn't keep herself there as she brought her hand to her mouth, moving back into the bathroom to puke some more. She hoped that this didn't last too long, the feeling of nausea, the feeling of wanting to throw up every other second or smells making her sick. Gage's scent though.. that still gave her a high.

He knew better than to hide something from her. She always had ways of finding out whether it was the shift in his tone, the way he avoided eye contact, or how his body tensed even when he tried to seem relaxed."Yes, wifey." Leaning his head towards her. "I still want that. Your vampire senses are sharp, you know that?" Eyes grazed to her hand holding onto him then back to her. "I'm not leaving you, okay?...I promise."

[sadboyeddie]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐨𝐛: 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

Summary: Things escalate and reader faces moral dilemmas.

Warnings: (MDNI 18+) Fem!Reader, No Use Of Y/N, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Dirty Talk, CNC, Non-Con Maybe

A/N: Wheeeeew between my Lee fic and this one I’ve written 13k words. It’s also 7am and I have yet to sleep, but I suffer for my craft. Please forgive any mistakes I am le tired. Thank you to @dandydilfdiddler for some inspo 🩵

WC: 8.9k

After cleaning yourself up you stared at your reflection in the mirror for a good 10 minutes, contemplating how this could all possibly end.

Would Bob find out? How will he react if/when he does?

He’s been a lot better in the months that followed the Voidout but he can still be fragile, vulnerable.

You love and care for him too much to destroy your friendship but every time you even think about stopping this or coming clean there’s a dark part inside of you that stops you.

Like a tight hand wrapped around your throat, sending a shock wave of heat straight to your core. Something deep within you wants this. Craves this.

You had let out a sigh and switched the bathroom light off as you came back in the room, steps quiet as to not wake Bob but a voice from the darkness startles you in your place.

“Are you okay?” his voice is sleepy and full of concern and once again a wave of guilt crashes against your resolve.

“Yeah,” you correct your breathing, still a little surprised at him being awake; praying he didn’t hear you earlier, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“The bed was empty,” his unsure reply sends a pang of an unspoken emotion through your heart as you slide into bed next to him.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” you lay back against the pillows and open your arms, Bob already eagerly settling his head against your chest before you have the chance to get comfortable yourself.

“S’nice,” his voice is muffled against your chest, “play with my hair.”

You can hear the pout in his voice; making you huff a laugh as you bring one hand to run through his unruly curls, the other you use to rub soothing circles on his back.

Maybe tomorrow you can worry about the consequences but for now you’re gonna be selfish and enjoy having Bob in your arms.

—

Once again the blinding light from the morning sun wakes you up, though this time it’s entirely your fault as you didn’t close the shutters last night.

The empty space next to you; the bed now cold causes a small sense of disappointment to fill your chest.

Bob never really wakes up first and if he does he never leaves the bed until you do.

Before you can overthink the meaning behind it you hear a muffled cough coming from your bathroom.

You sit up on the side of the bed and listen to the stream of the shower and the soft hum of a deep voice as you allow yourself to calm down.

He’s in your shower.

Wait, why is he in your shower?

He usually likes his own shower.

Stop saying shower. 

You continue to listen to the spray of the water as your mind fills with reason he’s in your bathroom.

In all fairness you don’t even know it’s Bob, it could be Bucky. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Bucky’s things constantly break, some of the team thinks it because Bucky keeps forgetting his arm strength, but he believes Val is sabotaging his stuff as a sort of ‘fuck you’ for him trying to get her arrested.

Either way your room was close enough to his he often pops in to use your bathroom.

Apparently your room is very communal.

Even Yelena and Ava like to have the bi-weekly sleepover in your room.

A loud clang of a bottle falling and hitting the tiles draws your attention back to the closed bathroom door, slightly curious as to what Bob is doing in there.

If he’s in there.

Doesn’t matter because you’re not gonna check.

You’re gonna give Bob, or whomever, their privacy.

You’re gonna get dressed and go make breakfast.

You’re gonna stand up and get dressed.  

You stand from your spot and go to walk around your bed to the dresser, coming close to the bathroom door.

Good, now get dressed.

Your voice is loud in your head but you can’t take your eyes off of the door.

Your mind filling with images and sounds of Bob fucking your mouth a few days ago, the wet squelching of him coming down your throat.

It couldn’t hurt just to take a peak, right?

You’ve done worse.

You step towards the door but a voice of reason holds you back.

No, no, no! Stop taking advantage!

Another bottle hits the ground once again grabbing your attention.

What is he doing in there?

He could be dying and you’re just standing here, or maybe he’s being attacked? Maybe it’s not Bob but a creepy intruder.

It is your job as a Thunderbolt to investigate and make sure everyone in the team is safe.

Yeah. Safe.

It’s okay to take a peek for safety reasons. That’s all.

You roll your eyes at your own reasoning but don’t stop yourself this time as you make your way to the door.

You place your palm against the cold brass of the handle before taking a deep breath and slowly opening the door; just a crack.

The image before you makes you bite back a groan as you clench your thighs together, opening the door a little wider.

Bobs left side is facing you but from what you can make out his eyes are shut tight, his head rests against the cool tile, one hand flat beside his head and the other tightly wrapped around his cock.

Now with no door to obstruct the sound you can clearly hear the small groans falling from Bobs soft lips, his hair is plastered to his face as water cascades down his body.

You can’t really tell if he’s dribbling pre cum or if the slick glide of his hand is all from the spray of the shower, but you remember how much he leaks.

His hand is going a mile a minute, desperation clear in his movements as he thrusts his hips to meet his hand.

You can’t make out the word he’s saying but every now and again you can faintly hear a curse slip through.

It takes you less than 10 seconds to argue with yourself about what you’re going to do, you’ll feel ashamed later.

You slip your hands into your underwear and gather some of the slick from where it’s started to drip down your legs before rubbing your fingers over your throbbing clit.

You shove your hand in your mouth and bite down hard to stop the whimper clawing from the back of your throat, praying that the stream of water muffles anything that slips out.

Bob, to your relief, seems to be so caught up in his own pleasure that he has no idea you’re even there.

His cursing gets louder as he fucks his fist, his face scrunching up the same way it does when he groans out ‘cucumber cucumber cucumber’ when he’s trying to hold back a sneeze.

Maybe that’s what he’s mumbling to himself.

With how wet you are, and with your pussy still aching from last night, you have no issue slipping two fingers inside your slick heat, biting your cheek as the hand that was in your mouth replaces the one that was playing with your clit.

You have to be quick, Bob could open his eyes any moment and see you and this whole thing could come crashing down.

A blessing and a curse.

But you don’t want that. Right now you just want to come.

You vigorously plunge your fingers inside while pressing down on your clit, the pressure causing you to briefly see stars behind your vision — or maybe that’s just the vanity lights?

You’re close, and you hope Bob is too. You know it’s risky but you’re desperate to come at the same time as Bob.

His whimpers and moans get louder as he speeds up his thrusts, you take a moment to appreciate the round globes of his ass, the muscle clenching every time he ruts forward.

“Fuck!” his voice rings out around the room followed but by a straining cry of your name as he comes, his seed painting ropes across the shower tile.

You bite back a whine as you clench hard around your fingers and pinch your clit between your thumb and forefinger, your orgasm hitting you like a truck.

You fall slightly into the door frame, your legs almost buckling at the force behind it. You close your eyes and grind against your fingers, taking a few risky seconds to come down from your high.

Bob eyes slip open with a knowing smile as he watches your face contort in pleasure, he could feel your inner struggle while waiting for you to come in.

He was running out of items to drop on the floor to get your attention.

When your breathing has slowed your eyes snap open in panic, gaze immediately darting to Bob.

Your relief floods through you; his eyes are still closed as he pants hard against the tiles. If you weren’t so dizzy and blissed out you might have noticed the parallels.

You were standing in the exact same spot, exact same position, doing the exact same thing yesterday morning.

You allow yourself to watch Bob for just a moment longer, which does nothing to quell your arousal because before you even have a chance to turn away Bob swipes up some of his seed that’s slowly dripping down the wall and brings it to his mouth, he lets out a debauched groan at the taste.

You feel the heat return as you see his tongue poke out from between his lips, doing a thorough job of cleaning his fingers.

You force yourself to close the door and step into your room. Your heart rate is going so fast your smartwatch sends you notification asking if you’re okay.

No, no you’re not. Thank you for asking.

You rush around the room grabbing some clothes, you’ll shower in the gym, not trusting yourself. Christ, with how hot and desperate you are you just might get on your knees and lick the tile completely clean of Bobs come.

What is wrong with you.

No time for that. You hear the shower shut off so you just start grabbing random items, hoping it's an appropriate outfit.

That is until your eyes fall onto a pair of your panties lying on the ground close to your bed. The ones you were wearing last night.

Though this time you notice they’re a little stiff?

You kick them with your toe before the realisation hits you.

Bob came in your underwear??

Before you have time to freak out and overthink you hear movement behind the bathroom door. You slip on your shoes and haul ass out of the room towards the gym, clothes bunched up in your arms.

You’re so unfocused that you don’t notice the person standing in the walk way.

You collide with a thud, becoming slightly unsteady on your feet as you drop your clothes to the ground.

A hand reaches out and grabs you before you stumble back but you swat it away.

“Move out of the way, you big tree,” you know you have no right to snap at John but it comes naturally.

“You ran into me, dumbass,” he chuckles.

“I know you are but what am I?” you childishly mumble as you lean down and gather your belongings.

“Wow, good one,” Walker watches as you pick up your things, not offering to help.

“Shut up,” you groan.

“Laundry day?” his question is harmless but you’re in no mood to stand around.

“I can’t talk, Walker,” you push past him, which is quite difficult with this extra serum strength. Plus you swear he’s deliberately fucking with you.

“Oh no, does that mean our chat is over?” he feigns sadness.

You throw the finger at him over your shoulder as you make your way to the elevator. The sound of his smooth laugh filling the hallway.

—

You don’t see Bob until lunch time; against your will, you know it’s childish but you can’t focus around him at the moment.

After your morning workout you snuck back to your room, hiding in the shadows like an assassin in case Bob was in the halls, to your relief your room and ensuite were empty.

You ditched your clothes and made your way to the kitchen but the sight of Bob in his usual spot eating a bowl of cereal was too much, the little friendly wave he sent your way almost made you vomit so you spin on your heels wordlessly and went to a separate area of the Tower.

Bobs suspicious gaze never leaving your back as you walked out of sight.

There were a few more run ins throughout the day, Bob in the bar area, Bob in Ava’s lab, Bob was even down in the gym.

It’s like he knew where you were gonna be before you did and got there before you.

Each time instead of saying anything you just acted like you forgot something and fucked off.

Once again unaware of the look Bob and Yelena shared.

You normally eat lunch at 12:30, you and Bob have a routine; you have a stack of takeout menus: you randomly chose one and then you each chose one dish you’ve never had before. You also usually pick a dish you both enjoyed just in case the meals you ordered weren’t nice.

Before Bob came to the Tower he used to survive on cheap gas station food and literal garbage, his palate very basic.

So you decided a few months ago that you both would broaden your culinary horizons so to speak.

You were a picky eater so this benefited you also.

You entered the kitchen at 1:30, an hour late so you hoped Bob would be gone back to his nook to read.

No such luck.

There Bob sat at the kitchen island, three meals placed in front of him.

When he saw you his small smile turned into a large grin which once again caused conflicting emotions.

“I know you wanted to try that Thai place,” he smiles as he pats your seat, “you had mentioned the meal you wanted to try so I went ahead and ordered it for you.”

You look at the window, wondering if you could make it through before Bob grabs you but the insistent look on the man’s face made you second guess your suicide plans.

Maybe you should speak to a therapist about why you want to jump out a window so bad.

“Thanks, Bob,” your smile is forced making Bob tip his head to the side, studying your face.

You sit beside him and you’re immediately hit with a familiar smell, your body wash, and you bet if you shoved your nose into his hair you’d smell your conditioner too. The thought makes you press your thighs together and pray Bob is more focused on the food.

“You okay,” the timber of his voice is soothing in a way you never truly realised before.

“F’course,” you nod and turn to the food, already set out and ready to eat, “are you okay?”

“I missed you,” his admission caught you slightly off guard as you turn your head to look at him.

“I’m right here, Bob,” you reassure, “I haven’t left the Tower all day.”

He grabs your hand earnestly and holds it tight like he’s afraid you’re gonna run away.

Maybe you were.

“Seems like you’ve been avoiding me,” he doesn’t make eye contact and the sadness in his voice kills you.

You can never resist Bob when he gets like this. It awakens your protective, possessive, side and you would do anything to make Bob feel better.

If you were a better spy you might have realised that Bob sometimes uses this as manipulation tactic.

But as pre established you’re not a good spy.

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” you brush his hair out of his face and he practically preens at the treatment, “I’ll do better.”

“Good,” he squeezes your hand and turns his attention to the food, “let’s eat.”

Not once through the entire meal does Bob let go of your hand, you can’t say you blame him and the warmth he radiates does feel nice, even though it makes eating difficult.

You engage in small talk between bites, it starts off a smidge awkward but like always you slip into your usual banter.

You swap food and share utensils, face heating up when the fork that was just in Bobs mouth is now in yours, or when Bobs tongue darts out to clean your fork of all the food.

You blame the spice in the food for why your hands suddenly go clammy or why your face heats up, Bob seems to buy it, thankfully.

When lunch is over Bob finally releases your hand as he goes to tidy up the mess of takeout containers. You stand and help him, tensions are rising and you desperately need to leave.

But before you can make an excuse to dip out Bob grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours.

“I got you something,” his voice is warm and filled with excitement and you can’t help but smile at his boyish grin.

“Yeah?” you let Bob lead you out of the kitchen, growing slightly nervous as he makes his way to his room.

When you enter you’re surprised with how dark it is, his shutters closed and only one lamp on by his bed.

He has piles of books lined up neatly on his shelves, clothes an organised chaos on his desk chair and bed neatly made.

It doesn’t even look like he’s spent any time in it. Probably cause he spends all his time in yours.

He reluctantly lets go of your hand to rummage around in some shopping bags he has by the foot of his bed. You try to peak around his broad back to see what he has but no luck.

He turns suddenly and proudly holds up the dark crimson red fabric, your eyes taking a second to adjust and take in the item of clothing.

You reach out and let the lace material run through your fingers, noting how small the flowy skirt seems to be.

“It’s beautiful, sweetheart,” you praise, smiling softly at the red that starts to fill Bobs cheeks.

“You like it?” he asks, nervous and hopeful.

“Of course,” you promise, skirts weren’t exactly your favourite item of clothing but you didn’t hate to wear them.

“When did you get this?” you look between Bob and the skirt.

“Yesterday,” he shrugs. “Wanted to get you something nice.”

“Bob,” you playfully scold, “you know you don’t have to do that!”

“I wanted to,” he reassures.

A few seconds of silence pass between you as you continue to observe the piece of clothing. You didn’t even know he went out yesterday.

“Try it on for me,” Bob all but pleads, breaking the silence, “wanna see how you look.”

“N-Now?” you can’t help the small stutter, he’s usually not so insistent to have you wear the clothes straight away.

“Yeah,” he nods earnestly, “please, honey.”

You take the item gently from his hands like it’s a fragile treasure and head towards his bathroom.

“You can change in here,” his voice comes out rushed, rooting you in place, “I’ll turn around.”

Before you have time to protest he spins in place giving you a false sense of privacy.

You let out a small breath as you unbutton your pants; quickly sliding them down your legs, you kick your shoes off as you start to pull the fabric from your body. If you were smarter you would have put the skirt on first.

But no one has ever accused you of being smart.

While you’re preoccupied with pulling your legs through the pants you miss Bob peaking back and watching you with a heated stare.

Once you finally get the offending material off your legs you step into the skirt; pleased to find it’s a perfect fit. You had never told Bob your clothing sizes but he always knows. He must have looked at your clothes tags.

You’re happy to see the skirt is high waisted, preferring that over the low cut.

You go to tell Bob he could turn around but are shocked to noticed he’s already turned fully towards you and is staring intensely at the skirt.

“Bo-“ you start to scold but he cuts you off.

“You look good,” his eyes trail up to your face as he moves closer to you, “do you like it? Did I do good?”

“Uh, y-yeah,” you stutter out, not entirely used to this side of Bob. The openly desperate.

He pushes another boundary as he runs his hand over the material on your hip.

“It’s soft,” he smiles, “so soft.” He mumbles the last part mainly to himself.

“It is,” you speak slowly, voice coming out quiet.

You swear you can hear both your hearts beating. Bob continues to play with the material of your skirt and you can feel your fingers twitching at your sides, desperately wanting to grab him.

But before you can there’s a knock at his door, you step back as Yelena enters without waiting for permission.

“C’mon, Bob,” she ushers him out of the room, “you have your therapist appointment in 20 minutes.”

“Oh! Yeah,” he springs into action, changing his sweater into something more appropriate for leaving the Tower.

You take in a sharp breath when his shirt catches on his sweater; riding up and exposing his taught stomach.

The sound of Yelena clearing her throat beside you makes you snap out of your trance and you glance at her, her eyes filled with a knowing look.

Your face heats up in embarrassment and you lean down to grab your pants and slip on your shoes, desperate to leave.

“Thanks for the skirt, Bob,” you all but shout as you make your way out the door, “good luck with therapy!”

As you power walk to your room you miss the small conversation between Bob and Yelena.

“You’re going to kill her, Bob,” Yelena’s laugh is soft as she teases her friend.

He gives Yelena a cheeky smile as he makes his way towards the door.

“Not before I’ve had my fun.”

—

It’s a few hours until Bob returns and you’re thankful for the peace.

You had to go back to your room after he left and switch out new underwear, yet again.

At this rate it might be laundry day.

You had heard that sitting on top of a washing machine can feel very pleasurable.

You’re hanging out in the common room, a shitty reality tv show playing in the background as you dissociate.

Ava is lying on her couch tinkering with something and Alexei is on the recliner, thoroughly enjoying trash tv.

You don’t know when it happened but sometime in the span of the months you’ve shared this Tower with the Thunderbolts you’ve become sort of reliant on Bob.

Thinking back a lot of the time you were bored and not on missions, in briefing and meetings or training you were with him.

You’ve become codependent.

Oh lord.

Although that thought doesn't scare you as much as it probably should.

A person falling unceremoniously onto the cushion beside you brings you back to the present, you send a soft glare over to Walker but he smirks it away.

“Are you right?” you huff.

“Yep,” he reaches forward and grabs a handful of m&ms out of the bowl on the coffee table.

He pops some in his mouth before offering some to you. You look at his slightly sweaty hand in disgust, the colour from the chocolate already starting to stain his fingers.

“Ew,” you emphasise the word, although that doesn’t stop you from grabbing a few off the top.

You sit in relative silence, Alexei’s booming laughter filling the space before Walker brings his now empty hand down to the material on your legs.

“New skirt?” he asks as he runs the fabric through his fingers.

“Yeah,” you nod, only half paying attention to him.

“It’s short,” he comments, when you look over there’s a slight crease in his eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you turn your attention to him fully, “and?”

“And nothing,” he laughs holding up his hands in defeat, “just an observation.”

Throughout the conversation with John you failed to see Bob standing a few feet near the door, a dark look on his face as he watches Walker touch your skirt, touch you.

Before Bob can come in and drag Walker away from you the man jumps up on his own, Bob feels lighter as a sudden relief fills his chest.

“Where’re you going,” you halfheartedly asks, eyes still on the tv.

“Training with Bucky,” he grabs a handful of chocolate to take with him.

“Tell Bucky I hope he wins,” you smirk.

“Fuck off,” he tosses a m&m at you a leaves before you can retaliate, “hey Bobby, good session today?”

Walker slaps Bob on the shoulder and just like that all the previous anguish he was feeling falls away. He doesn’t have to worry about you and John.

“Yeah,” his smile is easy, “it was pretty good.”

“That's good to hear,” John taps him one last time on the back as he makes his way to the gym.

Your posture is relaxed with your eyes are trained on the tv, you’re currently eating m&ms out of your hand.

No one has noticed his return and he’s grateful, he slips into the room with practiced silence and sits down gently beside you, the complete opposite of Walker.

“Hey, Bob,” you greet him with a light tone of voice but you can't stop your shoulders from tensing slightly.

“Hey, honey,” he leans back into the couch, his side pressed up against yours.

“Feeling good,” you ask, trying not to pry.

“Feeling great,” he reaches over and snags a few chocolates out of your hands and pops them into his mouth.

“That’s great,” your smile is genuine now as you gently nudge his shoulder.

As nervous as he’s currently making you, you’re glad he’s back.

You fall into a comfortable silence for about an hour, forcing yourself not to tense every time Bob reaches down and plays with the hem of your skirt.

At one point he just decides to leave his hand there. On your thigh. Material pinched between his fingers.

Thankfully it’s not long before the grumbling of his stomach draws the attention of everyone in the room.

“Oh no! Raccoon is back!” Alexei suddenly stands and pulls out a gun.

“Hey, woah!” Ava shouts as she sits up.

“Raccoon?” You ask the wild man as he looks around the room.

“He stole my bagel!” Alexei grumbles as he looks behind the tv, “Bucky don’t believe me but I seen him come inside!”

“It was Bobs stomach,” Ava lets out an exasperated sigh and points at the aforementioned man sitting beside you, hiding a sheepish grin behind his hand.

“Oh, Bob!” Alexei smiles, previous grumbling forgotten, “when did you get here!”

You roll your eyes playfully as a conversation starts around you and pull out your phone before bringing up the pizza app.

It’s close enough to dinner that you can get away with ordering food now and you already have everyone’s preferred toppings saved in your phone.

25 minutes later everyone is sitting around the kitchen island pulling slices of pizza onto their plates, Walker playfully grumbling when Yelena and Ava both snatch a piece of his out of the box.

You take in the conversations around you, allowing yourself to feel serenity for a while.

Alexei is explaining in great detail the raccoon thing, Bucky has a mischievous look on his face. Maybe he’s the raccoon?

Yelena and Ava are talking about a new fight tactic they saw online and would like to try, John interjecting and sayings it was probably more theatrical than practical.

Meanwhile Bob was sitting next to you, his feet tangled with yours under the counter as he pleasantly hums around a bite of pizza, smiling happily at the conversations happening all around him.

Bob truly seems at peace.

—

After dinner you tidy the garbage off the counter while Bob washes the plates, the whole thing seeming far too domestic.

You slip into a comfortable silence once again as you spray the kitchen island with a disinfectant and scrub it down.

You don’t trust any of the germs that these people track in.

Cough, Alexei. 

You bite back small gasps every time Bob walks past, fingers grazing against the skin just below the hem of the skirt, offering a polite, “excuse me,” as he makes a show of moving past you.

You’re starting to get used to his little touches but that doesn’t do much for the heat that grows with each graze of his fingers.

You’re pulled out of your pleasant trance by the alarm of a phone ringing through the kitchen, and a part of you is shocked to find it coming from Bob.

“Bedtime?” you joke as you throw the now soggy paper towel in the bin.

He lets out a little laugh before slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“No, uh, I’m going out tonight,” he pulls out the plug and waits for the sink to empty before rinsing out the last of the soap suds.

Your eyes glance to the clock on the microwave and it all clicks.

It’s 7:30. It’s Thursday.

Bob goes to the club on Thursdays.

You try to mask your hurt, you’re glad Bob is turned away from you because you’re failing miserably.

You know you shouldn’t be upset. You’re not dating and whatever this is between you is creepy and unnatural for two friends, but part of you was hoping Bob would rather spend the night slowly encroaching into your personal space then go out to a club and have sex with a woman who looks just like you.

You let out a small sigh at how ridiculous you’re being. You don’t control Bob and until you strap on a pair and tell him how you feel you have no right to demand his time.

Even though he does it to you.

“Oh, okay,” you cringe at how hopeless your voice has become, “have fun.”

“Yeah, I will,” there’s a perk in his voice and a pep in his step and you swear he might be doing this on purpose.

But that’s not how your Bob acts.

“Don’t wait up,” he calls over his shoulder as he makes his way to the elevator.

You let out a frustrated sigh as you make the decision to follow him again. You weren’t going to, you were just gonna spend time in your room wallowing in self pity but he just had to throw that remark back. Like he was goading you.

Since you already knew the location of the club you don’t have to follow Bob through the streets like an unhinged stalker. You can just wait 20 minutes and head down.

But as it turns out those 20 minutes are the longest of your life. You swear all the clocks have stopped in some weird global phenomenon. It’s probably the sun… or magnets.

You hold out for as long as you can, which turns out to be 12 minutes; good enough, as you make your way to the elevator.

When you’re on the street you take care to look around and make sure you don’t see any familiar faces, you remember how popular this club seemed to be with other members of your team.

When you make it to the alleyway you’re filled to the brim with nerves, what if this goes worse than last time?

You have no idea what he’s going to do tonight so what if you walk in and he’s out on the main floor in a sandwich between a big hunky guy and the Replicant.

Actually that might not be so bad. 

But only if you were in place instead of the Replicant.

You bang the secret knock on the door and it opens with a small creak. The same man from two nights ago ushers you in.

You walk through the semi familiar hallway and see a different attendant at the curtain, they smile lightly as they pull the curtain to the side and wait for you to walk in.

You side step away from the door and behind some tables as you take in the room, searching for the floppy head of curls. You let out a relieved breath as you see him at the bar, only feeling slightly jealous when you see who he’s with.

Other you.

You follow the 5 D’s of Dodgeball as you make your way covertly to the bar, through the see of naked bodies: dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge.

You’re pleasantly surprised when you were only groped twice, and that was probably people trying to help you, cause you no doubt looked like you were having a stroke with all the dipping and dodging you were doing.

You slide up the end of the bar a little breathless, a few seats away from Bob, who thankfully has his back turned to you.

What you fail to realise though is that there is a mirror behind the bar, a mirror that has given him a perfect view of your ridiculous covert antics.

Bob smiles into his drink as he half listens to what his companion is saying.

Thankfully you’re not too far away from them that you can’t pick up the conversations, you can’t hear it entirely though as it seems when one person in the orgy has an orgasm it creates some sort of domino effect and all of a sudden everyone is having an orgasm.

It’s very distracting.

“Are we playing tonight, Robert,” the overly fake sultry voice the Replicant uses makes you want to gag.

“Not tonight,” his voice comes out easy. You let out a pleased sound at his admission.

“Oh, what a shame,” she pouts and places her hand on his thigh, far too close to his crotch.

Your skin starts to prickle with heat and jealousy and you swear you can hear the wood of the counter starting to split under your hardened grip.

“I might go in the glory holes again,” he pays no mind to her hand; not reacting but not removing it either.

“What side,” your eye twitches as her hand drags up and down his thigh.

“The left,” he takes a sip of his drink, “I was on the right side last time.”

You think back to the signs above the doors, the left was the one with the bigger hole and the legs and the oh.

“What booth, I might see you there,” she winks.

Like hell you will.

“Five,” he finishes his drink and orders another one.

You slip from the chair and make a quick decision to throw all caution to the wind.

You are wearing a skirt after all.

Easier to navigate.

Before you can step away into the second hallway you’re stopped by someone standing in your path.

“Hi again,” you step back and look up at the handsome stranger from last time.

He’s naked again but this time you’re more prepared. And perhaps a little desensitised to the constant nudity.

“Oh, hi,” you smile, not wanting to be rude, “you live here?” you joke.

He lets out a smooth chuckle, a very pleasant sound before answering, “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Just visiting,” you nod, anxiously moving from side to side slightly.

“Ready to take me up on my offer?” he asks, a little hopeful.

“Not this time,” you give a small apologetic smile, but he takes it in stride like he the did last time.

While you’re talking to the Handsome Stranger you can’t help but feel a heat in the back of your neck, like someone is staring daggers into you, you look around slightly panicked that Bob found you out but he’s smiling along to whatever the Replicant is saying.

On closer look only the Handsome Stranger is paying attention to you. Must be nerves.

You continue to idly chit chat, eyes falling to Bob every few seconds in case he gets up and you have to dive over a couch.

The Handsome Stranger cracks a joke and you can’t help the laugh that slips out, unfortunately you’re not able to enjoy it much longer as a shattering sound comes from over near the bar.

Your eyes snap over and you notice the bartender looking around the floor in total confusion, you faintly hear them say something along the lines of “it just exploded”.

There’s no time to pay it any mind as you notice Bob put some money on the counter and go to stand. You rush out a goodbye to the Stranger who offers you a smile before retreating.

You run into the hallway, in a totally normal and subtle way, and quickly make your way to the last door on the left.

You thank your lucky stars that the rooms were vacant before stepping in. You allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief as you lock the door and hop up onto the black bench, which is covered in a plush leather top layer.

You’re not given much chance to breathe as you hear the door open on the other side before a lock clicks into place and the small light above the door changes colour.

You take a breath and muster up all the courage you can as you find a comfortable position, you notice there's a very detailed diagram on the wall of how to use the booth.

The hole is just large enough where you can either put the lower half of your body out and dangle your legs over the side, lie on your stomach with your legs out like your bent over the bench, or you can rest your legs against the wall near the hole, two comfy looking leather straps are there to help tie you in.

You decide on the third option for now, you don’t think you have any recognising marks on your lower half… like a frog perhaps, but you’d rather not risk it at this point.

You hear shuffling coming from the other side and quickly get into position, you lie back and rest your legs against the wall and strap them in, pleasantly surprised with how comfortable this is.

You bunch your skirt up around your waist so Bob, oh god you hope it’s Bob, doesn’t recognise it.

You decided to leave your underwear on, a little too nervous to bare it all. You're sure Bob can’t recognise you from just your underwear.

Bob, or whomever, is taking a little long and you start to once again second guess yourself, but like the many other times in the past before you can run away; the little door the that covers the hole and keeps the two rooms separate suddenly opens.

You let out a small sigh of relief when you hear the familiar groan falling from Bobs lips.

When were you able to recognise that?

“Fuck, honey,” Bobs deep whine sends a thrill to your core, “this all for me?”

You try to disguise your voice like you did last time, making sure to keep it a low mumble to a whisper.

“Yes, sweetheart,” you writhe a bit as you feel the heat of his stare.

“It’s you,” his voice perks up, “I was hoping I’d get to have you again.”

You let out a soft moan at his words, “I’m all yours.”

Bob lets out a string of curses as places his hands on the meat of your thighs.

“You’ve soaked through your panties,” he moans, “so wet for me.”

You let out a debauched whimper as Bob blows over the wet patch, making you twitch.

“Gonna eat her, honey,” he promises, “gonna show her how good I can be.”

You hear a soft creaking coming from the other side and assume he’s kneeling on some sort of stool, that thought leaves your head as quickly as it comes though.

You jolt in place and let out a small cry as Bob starts to lick over your covered clit, sucking the material of your panties into his mouth, trying desperately to get all of you into his mouth.

While he pays attention to your clit his fingers slip under the damp fabric and rub slowly against your glistening folds. You arch your back and pull up your shirt, tearing your bra out of the way, hastily pinching at your hardening nipples as Bob continues to mouth at your pussy like you’re his last meal.

“You taste so fucking good,” his voice is muffled against you, “wanna spend my whole day between these legs.”

He slides a finger between your folds, not slipping inside just putting it there as he plays with your slick, the action has you grinding down, unsuccessfully, to try and get more.

“Patience, honey,” he playfully scolds, “you’ll get it.”

“Wanna come,” your voice is breathless and you’re shocked at how close you are already.

Although to be fair Bob has been teasing you all day.

“You can come as many times as you want,” he promises.

He leans back down and groans against your swollen bud, the action driving you wild and closer to the edge. He continues to trace his fingers through your slick and just as he teases your hole with the tip you throw your head back and let out a pleasured cry as you hit your peak.

You feel Bobs moan more than you hear it as it vibrates against your sensitive nub.

“Oh fuck, honey,” his voice slightly breaks as he calls you your pet name, “you’ve soaked right through.”

Your whole body is shaking against the bench as you come down from your high.

Bob eases you through it as he pushes the damp material to the side and starts lapping up your slick.

The moment his tongue hits your folds you grab the bunched up fabric of your skirt, needing something in your hands as you try to buck against his warm mouth.

His tongue swipes through your warm center, collecting copious amounts of your come, groaning every few seconds like he’s drinking his favourite beverage.

“P-Please,” you whine, voice slightly high, “hurts.”

“M’sorry, honey,” he apologises against your folds, “I-I can’t stop, not now that I finally get to taste you from the source.”

You gasp as he picks up the pace, his tongue dipping deeper inside you with each swipe. With an action that has you mewling against your fist, Bob tears away your ruined underwear before diving back in with a renowned vigour.

“Need you to come again,” he pleads, voice muffled and filled with desperation, “I promise I’ll be good, just want your come.”

You grab the side of the bench for dear life as you slightly gyrate your hips against his face, you choke out a sob when he thrusts his tongue inside your wet heat.

His nose bumps against your clit with enough pressure to have you keening on the other side of the booth.

Within minutes of his treatment you’re now desperate to come a second time.

You clench around his tongue and the action causes him to grip your thighs in a bruising hold, the pain adds to the pleasure as you scratch at the leather.

“Please,” you beg, “please I wanna come.”

Your voice is slowly starting to lose the disguise but you couldn’t care less at the moment. Too focused on the pleasure between your legs.

Bob brings a hand down and pinches your clit between his fingers as his thrusts his tongue in and out, fucking your pussy with his face.

With one last slap of the leather you’re once again careening over the edge, electricity pulsing through your veins as Bob continues to lavish your pussy with attention.

“Please,” your voice is weak, “hurts.”

This time Bob pulls away, though reluctantly.

“You did so well for me, honey,” he praises, making you preen slightly, “told you I’d be good to you.”

“So good,” you agree, breathlessly, “so good, sweetheart.”

Bob peppers small kisses around the backs of your thighs while he waits for you to come down, you let out a soft whine whenever he gets too close to your abused clit.

“Can I fuck her,” Bobs voice is filled with impatience and desperation and he speaks his words against the skin of your thigh, “been so good waiting, please.”

You let out a small breathless chuckle, ever the impatient menace.

“Want you to fuck me,” you moan, “please.”

Bob lets out an eager sound as he stands to his feet, the sound of something clattering against the floor brings you further out of your foggy haze.

“Sorry,” he chuckles apologetically, noticing your small twitch at the noise, “had to get the stool out of the way.”

You let out a hum of acknowledgment as you wait with bated breath for him to continue.

Bobs gonna fuck you.

Robert Reynolds is going to fuck you.

You let out a trembling breath that Bob misconstrues as eagerness.

“S’okay, baby,” he playfully huffs, “gonna fuck her now.”

The new pet name distracts you for a few seconds but the light touch of Bobs fingers spreading your folds and exposing your entrance brings you back to the moment.

You clench around nothing and Bob lets out a keening groan.

You hear a wet sound coming from the other side of the booth and you jump in place as you feel something wet hit your clit and slowly dribble down towards your hole.

“So pretty,” Bob rubs his saliva more against you, dipping his fingers inside, “gotta make sure you're stretched enough to take me,” he sounds wrecked, “don’t wanna hurt you.”

You sharply inhale as he gently fucks you open, adding a second finger in and scissoring them. Your walls flutter against the intruding digits making Bob bite back a growl.

“So eager,” he compliments, “my pussy.”

The last part was meant just for him but you heard him loud and clear.

Without warning he removes his fingers and lines his cock up with your leaking entrance.

“She’s drooling for me,” Bob whines, sounding more like he’s in a trance, he’s completely drunk on your pussy.

He snaps his hips forward and you let out a pained cry, no amount of preparation could have prepared you for that.

There’s a bit of a burning as he stretches you out around him, plunging himself all the way in until he’s entirely sheathed inside you.

You feel a slight stinging behind your eyes, the pain slightly overwhelms the pleasure and as if Bob can sense it he starts babbling out apologies.

“M’so sorry, honey, you just looked so warm and inviting,” the words come out all rushed and jumbled, “couldn’t help myself, I t-tried. Y’just so warm, so so warm.”

To his credit he doesn’t move, but judging by the twitching of his cock snug against your walls he’s fighting a losing battle.

“Please d-don’t be mad, needed to be inside you for so long,” he whimpers, “needed this, so did you.”

You don’t pick up on the meaning behind his words, too focused on the slowly receding pain between your legs.

“M-Move,” you sniffle, “fuck, please move.”

Bob abides instantly, pulling his cock slowly back before grinding it forward.

You let out a chocked moan but thankfully the burn has gone from pain to pleasure.

“Harder, sweetheart,” you beg, the pleasure hitting you like a truck, “fuck me.”

Bob doesn’t need to be told twice, he pulls himself back until only his tip is nestled between your folds before driving his cock back deep inside.

You lets out desperate groans that end in a whine as he ruts against you, there must be handles on his side of the booth because as he continues his brutal pace you swear you can see the wood starting to shift from his strength.

A tremor runs through your lower half as he brings his hand down to thumb at your oversensitive clit.

His babbles out incoherent praises and curses, he words jumbling together as his pace starts to falter.

“Need to come,” he all but weeps against the wood, forehead resting against the cool wood, “please! C-Can I come?”

You nod your head a few times before realising he can’t see you, “yes, baby,” you moan, “you can come.”

��Inside,” his voice cracking as a desperate moan crawls up his throat, “I wanna come inside.”

His begging takes on an anguished whine as he repeats the plea over and over.

“Come in me, sweetheart,” you give him permission, although part of you feels like even without it he’d still come inside you.

“Thank you!” he wails against the wood, pace picking up with a renowned vigour, “thank you, t-thank you.”

As he hammers a bruising pace into you he hits something inside that has you crying out as your vision go momentarily white.

“There she is,” he’s breathless but sounds slightly proud as he continues to spear his cock into the spot repeatedly.

You’re so overwhelmed from the white hot pleasure that you start to claw at the leather, trying to get away but Bob grabs your thigh with a punishing grip and holds you in place as he grinds into you with a new velocity.

“Come with me!” he desperately begs, “please!”

With a few well placed hits from the tip of his cock against the soft spongy spot inside you, you practically shriek out in blissful agony, the pleasure completely consuming you.

You hear the blood pumping in your ears, and you’re breathing so fast you think you might pass out.

You’re so hazy and blissed out you unfortunately miss the way Bob cries out your name as he empties himself inside you.

Only whimpers are falling from your mouth as you try to regain so semblance of control, but it’s no use.

Bob hasn’t stopped grinding his hips against yours; he has slowed down significantly, but you’re so incredibly fucked out you can’t seem to care about how sensitive and abused your pussy feels.

You catch parts of his sentences, a small fire returning to the pit of your stomach.

“Gotta push it all the way in,” he sounds like you feel, “make sure you carry me around for days.”

Before you can answer he pulls out suddenly, a small yelp rips from your lips.

The sound is replaced with something pleasurable as he swipes his finger through your combined mess, bringing the mixture of you both to his lips.

“So good,” he pants desperately.

You have no idea how much time has passed, being fucked so good you’ve forgotten the concept of time entirely, but a small tap to your thighs tells you it may have been a while.

“We should do this again,” Bobs voice is rough and you have to force yourself to calm down.

“Yeah,” you agree softly, “we should.”

With that he closes the small metal door and allows you some privacy. You unstrap your legs and go to sit up, your body feels weak but you feel so good.

Hope that’s lasts.

It takes you a few minutes to find the strength to straighten yourself up, and you’re pleased to find a wooden box screwed to the wall with wet wipes inside.

How thoughtful.

It takes you a little longer to clean yourself and fix your disheveled clothing, at one point you heard Bob leave, thankfully that should give you enough time to sneak out.

You go, on instinct, to pull up your underwear but slightly panic when you can’t find them, only to realise Bob had torn them from your body.

You brush away the uncomfortable feeling as you step out of the booth, only wiping away the wetness that pooled around your thighs, Bobs come was pushed in far too deep for it to start leaking out yet.

You look around to make sure the coast is clear before looking in to Bobs booth, you take note of the loose handles on the wall and the slightly cracked wood.

When did he do that?

You open the small trash can hoping to find the remnants of your underwear but finding it, thankfully, empty.

You really didn’t want to see used tissues and whatever other horrors.

The thought of Bob walking around with a pair of your panties sends a thrill through you.

And you’re sure he has no idea they're yours.

—

Bob rubs the damp material of your panties through his fingers, the item of clothing hidden away by his pocket. But he doesn’t need to see them.

He was, after all, the one who bought them for you.

You’ve become so complacent and trusting of Bob you’ve never really caught on to how perverted he can be.

For the past few months he has been slowly adding new pairs of panties to your rotation while taking out some older ones and you have never seemed to noticed.

He lets out a pleased hum as he makes he way back to the Tower, mind already coming up with new ways he can make you completely his — mind, body, and soul.

Tag List Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list @stars4birdie @gabrielchanel5 @alltimelowsuckedmydick @msfirth @deadpoolgirl23 @horrorbloodhound @dandydilfdiddler @ryswritingrecord @my-name-is-baby @magicwithaknife @lewispullsman @silvershadow1711 @chimchoom

[neilsbeloved]

party on u

summary: another party invitation has you torn between going and not going. clark, who’s been there to pick you up every time you’re left in a party all drunk and alone, tells you to do the latter. you don’t agree.

pairing: clark kent x fem!popular!reader

tags: angst / established relationship / underage drinking / rocky relationships / arguments / mentions of puking / hotheads / silence treatments / subtle tones of bullying / reader is a people-pleaser

"Is puking your entire face out at the side of the road not enough reason to pass on this party?" The voice of reason—Clark Kent—rings in your ear. Standing above you with his arms crossed on his chest.

"Clark, I was invited, I can't turn down an invitation," you reason out.

He shakes his head, "That's not even an excuse. You're just scared that they'll get mad when you pass on some random person's birthday party."

"Fine—I'm going just because my friends asked me to. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that?" he inhales, "Those same friends that invited you, they were also the ones that left you to fend for yourself in a stranger's house all drunk and alone." Clark's voice strains, though he did try to keep his gentle, it was hard when you've been arguing with him about the topic for an hour now. "God knows what could've happened if I didn't saw you at the cornfield puking."

His little outburst has you sitting in silence like a scolded child. Your head hanging low, lips pursing into a thin line.

Clark paces around the loft, arms still crossed, visibly frustrated at the situation. On any other day, he wouldn't even worry about what—or whose—party you're going to. He doesn't care about what you do with your personal life because he trusts you that much.

The only difference was he didn't have the same trust for your friends… and not to mention, he would be driving with his parents for a quick stop to Metropolis. He wouldn't be as quick as he always is to pick you up from the party.

"Just… think about this for a second, okay?" Clark's voice softens, walking over to you. "You don't have to do this just to please your friends. If they really are your friends, they'd be fine with you missing a party."

He bends down to take a seat beside you, already reaching out but then you pull away. Standing up abruptly as you walk to the side of the loft. Your features were firm, eyes unreadable and glaring at him.

"Don't be a hypocrite, Clark," you start, your jaw clenching as every part of you just screamed. "You please your friends just as much as I do mine and you don't see me calling you out on it. Why are you calling me out?"

"What? I'm not—"

You stop him from standing up, holding a hand towards him. "Every time you missed out on our date, you always say you were caught up doing something with Chloe—with Pete—With Lana—Hell, with everyone!" Your voice dials down, a sigh leaving your lips. "Everyone except me."

"Babe, this isn't even relevant to the argument—we're talking about you potentially being in danger because your friends couldn't be bothered to care for anyone other than themselves. Not even for the person they call their best friend." Clark's words hit a mark in your heart. The words you've dreaded to hear about your relationship with your friends were now out in the open.

Clark swallows the guilt in his throat, feeling his insides come on fire because of the look of hurt on your eyes. He never wanted to see those kinds of emotions in them, not when he knows they hold so much love.

After staring at each other for what seemed to be hours, letting the weight of both of your words hang in the air, you finally speak.

"We need to take a break, Clark."

His face drops, "No, we don't."

"Yes, we do." You say with finality, wiping the lone tear that fell from your eye as you grab your bag on his couch.

Clark grabs your hand, holding it tightly, refusing to let you go with a hot head. "No, we'll talk about this properly, Y/N. You can't just demand a break every time we argue."

"If I demanded for a break every time we argued, Clark, we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now." You shrug off his hand roughly. Ignoring that way his eyebrows knitted in confusion.

You take one more look at him. "I hope your parents get to Metropolis safely. Don't bother to text me when you get there."

Whoever said that parties can't make you feel better was stupid. You're feeling way better than you've ever felt before.

Or maybe that's the alcohol in your system.

Either way, the music's pumping that desperately needed faux happiness you needed so much. Your friends jumping with you in the middle of the house, drinks in hand, laughing and singing over each other's voices.

"I thought you would've flaked out on us!" Your friend says, sipping her drink.

Another agrees, "Yeah! I was starting to worry—is she really going to miss Lily's birthday?"

"Oh please, I wouldn't miss it even if my legs were cut off," you laugh, not enough to reach your eyes though. But you're sure none of them would notice it.

"Good," one says, "Because we wouldn't talk to you if you did."

You had hoped that they were only joking, that they were simply teasing you for arriving late, but the lack of chuckles or laughters that follow their words says otherwise. The space suddenly feeling tight as you try to laugh it off, continuing on dancing around despite the immediate change of air.

You try to ignore that twist in your stomach, unfortunately as much as the alcohol amplifies that tiny bit of happiness you have, it also increases the ache in your heart.

Desperate to escape, you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

"Oh, it's upstairs, don't worry I'll take you there," one of your guy friend says, handing over his cup to one of your friends before jerking his head at you.

He was one of the closest friends you hand in your friend group and so you didn't really question it when he practically split the red sea of people just to get you to the stairs.

"I'll wait here," he says, leaning on the wall across from the bathroom after taking a quick peek through the shower curtains in the bathroom.

"You sure?" You say, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Uh-huh, door's busted. I'll keep watch here."

You nod, heading inside, locking the door and doing your business.

As you sat on the toilet, you pulled out your phone and stared at the blank screen in silence.

There wasn't any new texts from your boyfriend.

Right. You asked for a break. How stupid of you to think he'd actually text you.

You turned off your cell, slipping it back inside your pocket before you fixed yourself in front of the mirror. You pull your lips into a smile, watching the way the skin of your lips cracked with the stretch. You take one deep breath, locking eyes with yourself.

"I'll be fine," you whisper, nodding silently as you head back out.

Three days since the party, three days since you've put a break on yours and Clark's relationship.

You're not sure if you can last any longer.

Before you ponder on the chances though, your friends are pulling you into another party.

"C'mon, please! I'll be the designated driver, I swear," a friend shakes your arm, convincing you for the past two minutes to come with them to this party at the edge of town.

You laugh dryly, staying firm with your prior answer—No.

That same friend rolls her eyes, roughly dropping your arm. You looked at her confusedly. The behavior didn't really surprise you, it's just the quickness of her mood to change.

"Dinah, you literally were the drunkest one out of all of us the last time we partied. Don't expect me to believe you'll be sober for this one, it's your boyfriend's party." You try to reason out, maintaining a neutral tone.

"Okay so? Johnny can drive you home," she turns to the man beside you, "You were with her last night, right? When she went to the bathroom?"

You shake your head with a soft scoff, "He left me in the bathroom. Went after you guys after you called him to head to some arcade in town."

Dinah and Johnny shares a look, one you knew very well. The friend in front of you—Alex— turns around, shaking his head at your words before he bumps with someone.

"Watch where you're going," Alex spits, throwing over a dirty look at someone you make to be Chloe Sullivan. Clark's friend.

"Oh wow, should I have made way for you, your highness?" Chloe laughs back, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

Clark appears from behind her, locking eyes with you.

He had his jaw clenched, eyes indescribable, visibly tensed at the sight of you.

Alex doesn't rebut, simply throwing the duo a dirty look before he grabs your shoulder and pulls you and Dinah to where your lockers were.

"That Sullivan's getting over her head," Alex scoffs, glaring at the blonde again.

"Yeah… maybe all that computer radiation's getting into her head," Dinah says, "That explains that wretched hairstyle, gosh, talk about a birds nest."

You inhale sharply, the constant mockery pounding in your ears until you just slam your lockers shut. The sound echoing so loudly throughout the hallways that it makes everyone pause for a second.

Clark's head snaps to you, eyes searching yours for any explanation.

When you glance at him, you speak: "Changed my mind, I'll come to the party later. I'll just come by Dinah's house and get ready there."

The exact moment you say that, your friends cheer. Patting you on the shoulder as a wild smile comes on their lips.

"I knew I could count on you," Dinah says, tightening her hold on her bag before grabbing Alex's hand. "We'll head to class, see you there!"

"Talk about friendship forever," Chloe snorts, glancing at you from the side as she sees the surprised look on your face.

Clark gives her a look. "Don't do that, Chloe."

When he turns back to your locker, you've left too.

This party is way different from the first one; there were more unfamiliar faces, more drinks, and definitely more trouble.

Your friends had all convinced you to wear something more… airy, something a lot more fun than the usual tank top and pants you wear to house birthday parties you come to. And so there you are, sitting in a circle of friends and strangers, in Dinah's bralette and skirt.

The bottle lands at you, and you sigh out relievedly when it's not that traditional spin the bottle game.

"Okay beautiful, truth or dare."

"Truth." You answer without a second thought.

The one asking you expected that already, and so his question hits you somewhere troubled. "Which one in the circle do you want to kiss right now?"

"Nobody," you scoff, glancing at every person.

They make a sound of disappointment at your answer. With the way the bottle was still being pointed at you, you're guessing they're not taking that answer no matter how much you say it.

The alcohol's pumping through your system, yes, but you know better.

—and so you know it's time to head home.

"What? We just got here and you're being asked a question, don't try to dodge it," Dinah says, shaking her head at you while another chorus of disappointed chatters rang through.

"What? I'm not trying to dodge it. I literally said nobody," you answer exasperatedly, arms crossing on your chest.

"That's not an answer, beautiful," the game moderator says, looking at you like you owed him something. "Just give us an answer and we'll let you go."

You've been to enough parties to know that this is more than just a question. In partygoers' head, this is an invitation to make out.

"Dinah, I don't want to answer the question," you tell her, doing your best to send her a telepathic message to just get you out of there.

Instead she looks at you with disgust. "Dude, just answer the damn question. Pick a random person and call them upstairs."

"Excuse me?"

The game moderator comes in between you and Dinah, holding up two hands. "Okay, okay, let's keep calm… we just need an answer. Y'know, just a name."

"Nobody. I want to kiss nobody," you take another look around the circle, taking a longer second to stare at Dinah from your position.

This time the sneer that comes on your lips is barely kept away as you notice dirty looks from your circle of friends—and from Dinah, of all people. "I'm going home. Make sure this one doesn't drive her car into a ditch."

You drink the last of your drink before leaving the circle, rushing outside into the front porch as a breeze of fresh air hits you in the face.

Your world spinning on its axis the moment the alcohol reaches your head, everything appearing in doubles as you grip the wooden rails. You gulp, tasting the foul taste of alcohol on your tongue again.

You breathe deeply, shoving your hand in your pockets to grab your phone.

There weren't any new texts or calls or anything, but Clark's name in your contacts is making it really tempting to do something.

A loud cheer comes from in front of the house, somewhere on the front lawn. You watch as a group of five people jump around in a circle, smiles on their faces as they cheered. Hands interlaced with one another before they break apart and come into one big hug.

Damn, You thought. Must be nice.

A part of your head pulses, the group of five now turning into a group of ten as you feel your knees buckle.

In a turn of moments, you click the green button on your phone, lips muttering only one name—Clark.

Before the line even starts to ring, you feel a surge of wind behind you. A familiar set of arms coming around your body as you give out, head falling back to see your boyfriend's face.

"I haven't even called you…?" You raise your hand to look at your phone.

Clark offers you a small and gentle smile, "You didn't have to."

hearts, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! xoxo

[clairewritesfanfics]

Villain Creation System Chapter 10

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

CHAPTER 9: Just Spit It Out! Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

Markus Sebastian Grayson <markbassy@yodel.com>  to you <ln.yfn44@upstateu.edu.us>  Subject: Date

*When: meetup at 13:00 ends at 17:00

Where: Hutt Aquarium

Dress Code: Casual (comfortable shoes for walking are highly recommended)

*I’ll pick you up in front of your building and the date may conclude earlier or later depending on the state of things; ideally, dinner will be had at the Hungry Hippo. 

I also attached a copy of the aquarium pamphlet and of the most recent Hungry Hippo menu. (But I advise not reading the pamphlet for maximum fun.) Don’t worry about the expenses. My friend broke up with his girlfriend and gave me the aquarium tickets for free, and the restaurant has an affordability rating of $$ out of $$$$$ according to the Let’s Dine app. 2 attachments

huttaqua.pdf  hippomenu.pdf

I can’t wait.

Mark regretted that last sentence the instant his finger clicked send, but the wifi was stupidly fast tonight and the panic slowed his brain cells. The email was sent with a swoosh before he could even think about unplugging the wifi.

He reclined on his chair, rolling it backwards until the back hit the edge of his bed.

He agonized for several nights over what to do for his first date. He had dates before, but let’s face it, they were just an extension of foreplay. Dinners and drinks were a mere prelude to sex. Mark knew what to expect, his dates knew what to expect, everything was easy. 

You tried to make things easy for him. After he confessed his true feelings–the very memory burned his soul with the desire to drill into the core of the Earth–he hadn’t known what to expect. He knew that you liked him, you did tell him, but the moment that “I like you” left his tongue, a question popped up in his head, various questions, actually: what if you didn’t mean it the way he did? Thinking back at it now, the word you used was interest; he was the one who asked if you liked Mark Grayson. Saint Aquinas claimed that people can only love what they know, that love follows knowledge, so what did you mean by “vice versa”? What did love mean in the context of our conversation? What does love even mean to you? 

All those pesky questions had him spiraling, but you didn’t giggle or smile or mock him after he told you. It was like his confession rebooted you, erased your annoyance and disappointment, and you regarded him with a detached, but pensive expression, the face of a scientist looking through a microscope or a glass window. Before he could embarrass himself any further, you posed a simple question: Should we go on a date then?

He remembered his head nodding and mouth answering on their own. You offered to plan the date and that was when he actually regained control. More or less. “I’ll do it!”

“Good, but I’d like to offer some suggestions.”

“Sure!”

“Please stop yelling.”

“Okay!”

“...hm.”

You then gave him a clear and concise set of conditions: public places only, nothing that requires formal clothes, and if they were to dine together, the eatery should be within a reasonable price. You specifically told him to keep the expenses as low as possible, even giving an upper limit of 30 dollars. He appreciated it. He liked a woman who knew what she wanted, and more importantly, he liked someone considerate. It was sweet that you factored in his financial wellbeing when setting the rules, though ultimately unnecessary. Mark had relatively expensive hobbies for someone his age, he spent a fortune on his bass and didn’t mind spending his savings on his bandmates and friends, but the GDA paid for everything else, including his mother’s…well, everything. Money was not an issue, but you were so firm with your conditions, so he decided to lie about the tickets. 

He then rolled back to his desk and reread his email.  

My friend broke up with his girlfriend and gave me the aquarium tickets for free. 

Looking at it now, doesn’t this make him look too frugal? Almost cheap, to be honest. That’s not good. Crap. Plus, aren’t you like, superstitious? You believe in ghosts, maybe you believe in bad omens. Wouldn’t you think badly about tickets from someone fresh out of a break up? Sure, Mark made that up, but what if you cancelled on him? Crap,crap,crap. 

Before he could spiral again, his laptop lit up.

Mark didn’t expect to receive an immediate reply, it was two a.m. after all. 

…two a.m.

When he realized what time it was, he covered his face with his hands. Wasn’t sending the invitation past midnight too desperate? Not to mention rude? What if you were sleeping and your phone was right next to your pillow and you didn’t leave it on silent mode and it lit up and dinged right next to your ear and you’ll hate him for waking you up?

He reluctantly opened the email.

You <ln.yfn143@upstateu.edu.us>  to Markus Sebastian Grayson <markbassy_g@yodel.com> 

Email received. Thank you.

Mark tried to scroll down but there was nothing else. 

“That’s it?”

He folded his arms on the desk and buried his head. You weren’t upset, you weren’t going to cancel on him. Considering his near-breakdown minutes ago, this was a good thing. Still, he can’t help but be disappointed. 

Swoosh.

He craned his neck and saw another message. It was short and simple and clear. I can’t wait too.  Those four words pulled on his lips and he typed a reply: You’re still up?

You: No, I’m sleeping, if you can’t tell.

He grinned.

Mark: Busy thinking about me, I hope.

You: That’s right.

His fingers flinched. Blood rushed to his neck and ears and he covered his mouth. He thought he could be safe via email but there goes that tactic.  

You: I’ll be going to bed now. Next time, if you want to chat with me, just use your phone like a normal person. This type of conversation clutters my inbox.

He replied: Good night, princess. Promise you’ll dream of me?

You: Phone. Good night, Bassy.

He chuckled and then flew to his bed, opening his phone to reread the emails.

***

The dormitory elevators had their own rush hours so you prepared in advance and sat down at the lobby before lunchtime. 

The beauty of routine was that it didn’t waste brain power making multiple choices. For example, when it comes to classes, you have a predictable set of clothes ready on rotation. There was no fretting about whether to go cute or sexy or demure or girly or tomboyish or punk. It wasn’t like you hated dressing up, in fact, it was very fun; but in your world, life was formulaic (by design) and there was no need to dress up. Even in the social events you attended, there was a certain dress code. There was no overthinking to be done. 

You didn’t want to overthink your clothes for this date, but you spent a whole night trying on different ensembles and even after you decided on an outfit, you still changed it the following morning. The system didn’t comment, only followed you around with the two status meters. The black bar remained steady at 35%. However, including the minor increase from when you replied to his email, the affection score totaled to 69.2%.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at your own giddiness. You felt silly feeling these butterflies in your stomach, but it couldn’t be helped.

It wasn’t Mark that made you feel this way. Sure, he was physically attractive, easily the most attractive man you’ve ever seen in person, and he was charming and smart and funny in his own Markish way, but this feeling wasn’t because of him. No, you reasoned, the butterflies are because you haven’t had a date in ages. That’s right. You nodded. This excitement was because you were thrilled to experience a date again. Your last one was so long ago, a lifetime even, that this might even be your first date. 

The system, who’d been snooping on your inner thoughts, rolled its eyes and then alerted you.

[Host, your escort is here.]

Your surprise overrode the desire to correct Zero-One as you glanced at your phone. He was thirty minutes too early. 

You hurried towards the entrance, but before you could grab the doorknob, the door swung open, revealing Mark. His normally loose and fluffy hair was combed and parted ¾ to the side. He wore ripped jeans and a white t-shirt under a leather jacket, left completely unzipped. A silver chain hung from neck and he had a silver ring on the thumb wrapped around the doorknob–his other hand wore a similar ring, it glinted under the fluorescent light as Mark held up a mini bouquet towards you.

“Hey, princess.”

“...hi.”

“This is for you. Obviously, haha.” 

You gently took the white and purple flowers from him. It was obvious that they were fake flowers and the bouquet itself was shorter than your forearm.

“I debated whether to ask whether you were okay with flowers or not. I wanted to surprise you, but I was worried that you might be allergic, so I decided to get you a fake bouquet. That way, we won’t end up in an emergency room and you don’t have to worry about carrying a giant bunch of…are you…okay?”

They’re just flowers, you thought. You had no need for flowers. You couldn’t take care of anything other than cacti and these weren’t even real plants so you didn’t understand why you were crying over them.

You raised the bouquet in front of you as you turned your eyes away from him. “I’m–” you hiccuped “–fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “I should’ve asked you–”

“No.” You shook your head, wiping your eyes. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re early.”

“I’m not that early.”

“It’s an hour and a half before one p.m.”

“I–well–I misread the time, no, actually–”

“It’s okay,” you stopped him before smoke could blow out his ears. “I’m the type to prepare early too.” As if on cue, your stomach growled lowly. 

“I haven’t eaten breakfast either.”

An impatient voice spoke behind you: “Well, we want to eat lunch, so can you guys move?” There was a small crowd forming in the lobby, fellow tenants who were on their way to lunch. Some looked bored, some irate like the young woman behind you, but a good deal of the people seemed interested in your conversation with Mark, who grabbed your hand and smiled. “Sorry for the trouble. Have a nice lunch.” You’ve noticed that Mark was capable of a lot of expressions, his smile alone carried variety. This current smile had flowers blooming around him. It felt very fake, though that was because you spent so much time observing and interacting with him. If you hadn’t gone the extra mile to study him, you would have fallen victim to that smile.

The girl’s cheeks turned red, though less out of anger now, and she huffed, “Whatever.” 

Mark led you out the lobby and to a nearby bench outside.

“We can grab something to eat if you want,” he suggested, patting the leaves off the bench. 

“I have a couple of energy bars in my bag. Let’s see… chocolate strawberry, peanut butter and lemon vanilla–you don’t have to do that,” you said as Mark unfolded a blue handkerchief and placed it on the bench.

He ignored your words and motioned for you to take a seat.

Well. The handkerchief was already dirty anyway. Might as well. “Thank you.” You sat down and presented him with the snack bars. 

“That’s what you’re having for breakfast and lunch?”

“I want to save my appetite for when we have dinner,” you muttered, too busy ruminating on which flavor to eat, to notice how Mark covered his mouth.

He gently put his hand over the energy bars.

You finally looked at him, but this time, he wasn’t looking at you. The tips of his ears were pink as he stared at the ground and asked, “Maybe you should save that for when we’re walking in the aquarium. I’m actually really hungry, how about we go to the café?”

“If we do that, won’t that mean less money for dinner?”

Mark’s eyes flickered towards you before he smiled, revealing a canine tooth. That smile meant he was genuinely amused. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s nothing funny about being smart with money.” 

“I know, I know, I swear I’m not laughing at you. You don’t have to worry about the expenses, I have savings especially for this.”

“For girls, you mean?”

The joyous expression left him and it was your turn to laugh, hiding your own smile with the bouquet. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Mark refused to take cash from you and insisted on paying for both your orders. Starving as you were, you weren’t about to bankrupt him and opted for a light (and cheap) meal of black coffee and an eggdesal. 

When Mark returned to your booth, however, his tray carried one eggdesal and a large serving of fluffy waffles topped with whipped cream and blueberries and soaked in maple syrup.

You covered your stomach.

Mark unloaded the plates and cups on the table. “Bon appétit.”

“You’re not eating eggdesal?”

“It’s not the only thing I eat here.”

“I see.” 

You cleaned your hands with wet wipes, offered a piece to Mark, and grabbed your eggdesal. The bread was lightly toasted on the outside and smelled heavenly; between its soft, white inside was cheese and scrambled egg was a cheery yellow–it was neither too runny or overdone. You took a bite. The sandwich was sweet and salty with a bit of tang thanks to the ketchup. 

You washed it all down with fresh hot coffee.

Almost perfect. Your only complaint was that the whole pandesal was tinier than your fist and was gone after three bites.

You glanced over to Mark, who wasn’t even halfway through his waffles. 

Feeling your gaze on him no doubt, he raised his chin and you swiveled your head away, pretending to look out the window. 

[Ding. Affection: 69.3%]

“You know, I think I overestimated myself,” Mark said, cutting the waffles in half. “I don’t think I can finish this alone.”

“You’ve barely started.”

“I know when I’m beat.”

“That’s today’s special right? You should savor it.”

“I’m someone who doesn’t force myself to eat once I’m full, if you won’t eat then I guess we can just leave the rest behind.”

You shoved your empty plate towards his. “Well, if you insist. I hate wasting food.”

He bit down a chuckle and transferred half of the waffles to you, scraping and pushing most of the whipped cream and blueberries on your share. 

You didn’t know what expression you were making but you didn’t bother masking it. You made a quiet vow to treat him to something just as delicious in the future. 

There were blueberries baked into the waffles and the syrup didn’t taste artificial. It was perfect, you moaned.

[Ding. Affection: 69.4%]

“Aren’t you going to eat?” You chomped on a blueberry. 

“I’m getting full just looking at you.”

“Eat. Don’t let your waffles get soggy.”

“Right, right.” 

You two dined silently until you spoke up, “I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“How come you don’t like dining at cafés?”

His fork and knife stilled in the air. You expected the affection level to decrease, but that didn’t happen. 

“I was hoping you’d forget about that,” he joked wryly. 

“Oh. Sorry. You don’t have to answer.”

He ran a hand through his hair before he leaned forward. “Tell you what, princess, I’ll answer if I get to ask you something.”

“Fair enough. What’s your question?”

“What are you expecting from this date?”

You cocked your head to the side. Is that it? “I’m hoping to get to know you better.” What a waste of a question. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. Why else would I ask you out?”

“You didn’t ask me out, I–”

You gave him a look and he backed down. “Okay, yeah, you asked me out.”

“It’s your turn to answer,” you said.

He slumped in his seat. “Right…it’s not a big deal.”

You waited for him to continue.

Mark adjusted his position and plopped his chin on his palm. “Mom likes coffee, so she used to take me to this coffee shop where she would help me with my homework or read to me. It was where I met William, you remember him?”

Your fingers twitched.

[Host, in the canon timeline, William Clockwell is Mark Grayson’s best friend. He is a major supporting character.]

You knew. This brain knew.

You couldn’t meet Mark’s gaze. “Yeah…” you muttered. 

“It’s okay if you don’t, it’s been a while, and I don’t think I even invited you to my ninth birthday, sorry about that, by the way.”

He continued, eyes glazed over, “It was after dad left. Mom would take me to the shop but didn’t stay long, told me she had to work, and she’d pick me up before sunset. But one day she was late. William’s mom offered to walk me home but I didn’t want to bother her, so I went home alone. I had a spare key with me so I didn’t bother ringing the doorbell.”

A shadow fell over his face. “I could hear weird sounds from the kitchen. I was what, eight, nine? I thought I was going to crap my pants, but I went inside anyway. And then, I saw them, my mom and William’s dad.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

“Mom saw me but I ran out the door before anything else could happen. I waited for them outside. Once they were done, mom told me to get back inside the house and you know what she said to me, to her traumatized son that caught her having an affair with his friend’s dad?”

You shook your head.

He rolled back his shoulders and grinned. “She asked me, ‘Did you finish the worksheets I gave you?’”

“...oh.”

He hummed and raised the cup to his lips.

You pondered over what to say next. Would it be wise to offer an “I’m sorry”? You have read your fair share of household scandals, real and fictional, but you were ill-equipped in dealing with this. 

Perhaps sensing your dilemma, or maybe he simply didn’t want to discuss the current topic further, Mark had another question: “What’s your favorite animal?”

“Huh?” You didn’t have one, every species had something to offer, though some were more conventionally adorable than others. “Cats and dogs, I suppose.”

“That’s boring.”

“I–”

“Ask me.”

“Okay, what’s your favorite animal?”

“Hyenas.”

“Huh.”

“They’re cute and over-hated.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“My guess would have been wolves.” 

“Wolves are cool, but they’re no hyenas.”

“Uh-huh.” You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he went on a whole spiel about how cool hyenas were and shared fun facts about them, like how a group of hyenas are called a clan or cackle (‘not packs!’ he insisted). 

When he finished, he puffed his chest, like his mini speech successfully converted you to loving hyenas as much as he did. “Well, what do you think?”

“I was thinking you’d look good in a collar.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know, like a dog collar but for humans.”

“…you mean a choker?”

“No, I mean a collar, the studded kind. You have the neck for it,” you remarked, pointing your knife towards his white neck, “though I guess a choker is aesthetically similar.” A choker would be harder on his throat, you thought, a collar would be less restrictive. 

Mark shook his head and transferred more blueberries on your plate. “You got weird kinks, princess.”

[Ding. Affection: 69.7%]

He seemed to be in a chipper mood.

All righty then.

“We still have some time before we leave for the aquarium.” You dug into your coin purse for a quarter. “Heads or tails?”

“I don’t even know what I’m betting on.”

“We both finished our drinks and I’m not going to spend five minutes arguing over who gets to pay for the second round. So, heads or tails?”

He beamed, showing off his little fangs. “Tails.”

***

The aquarium was flowing with visitors, mostly families and some young pairs of lovers who clung onto each other like newly weds. However, it wasn’t so packed that it made you nauseated. There was a sufficient number of people that added to the hype of it all. It was a lively atmosphere. 

As Mark had suggested in his email, you decided to be spontaneous and didn’t open the pamphlet.

The tour started with a walk through the Freshwater Garden, a collection of fish, frogs, toads, turtles and insects found in rivers and ponds, segregated accordingly. The walls and floor were mostly wood and decorated with stones and green, lit up with soft, warm light. 

A few kiddos strayed from their parents’ sides and bent over the pond in the middle of the main room. They pointed at the log in a corner where a snapping turtle stood. Two other turtles tried to climb on, rolling the stump until the snapping turtle splashed into the water.

“I told you he was going to fall–you owe me a candy bar!”

“Shut up!”

You snickered at their antics. Must be nice to be amused by the smallest thing.

Mark nudged you with his elbow as you two passed by the river section. “Judging by that giant smile on your face I’m guessing the aquarium was the correct choice.”

“I thought you got the tickets because your friend broke up with his girlfriend.”

He blinked.

You guffawed. “I’m kidding. This is great, no offense to your friend, but I’m glad his love life crashed and burned. Museums are one of my favorite places.”

He exhaled. “That’s a relief.”

“I have another question, though.”

“Go ahead.”

“If you had a choice, without worrying about the cost, would you still have chosen an aquarium for our first date?”

He paused, tilting his chin to think. Then he replied, “Yeah, I would have.”

You two passed through another vestibule, creatively labeled Under the Sea. The warm wood was replaced by a deep blue velvet. The glass walls and ceilings curved over you. Gone were the mossy rocks and roots of trees, showing only corals and sand. 

You held yourself back from skipping towards the colossal school of anchovies.

Mark followed your line of sight and strode towards the fish.

You followed suit. 

“Between hiking and scuba diving, which do you prefer?” He asked. 

“I guess it depends on my mood. Both of those things can be expensive and require stamina that I don’t have.”

“Okay, how about this: would you rather have a picnic somewhere on a mountain or at the beach?”

“If I really have to choose, I guess I’d go with the beach. You?”

“It depends on my mood.”

You frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

He then stepped aside, signaling you to go on. You shrugged and made your way deeper into the aquarium with Mark half a step behind you.

You two ambled in silence until you stopped again in front of a tube with a bloom of jellyfish, each one no bigger than your fingernail. “I’d like to change my answer.”

“You prefer the mountains?”

“No, not that. This.” You gestured at the transparent blobs behind the glass. “My favorite animal.”

Mark bent over the tablet standing in front of the tube. “Turritopsis dohrnii, more famously known as ‘the immortal jellyfish.’” 

“Aren’t they cool? I didn’t know they’d be here.” Your shoulder bumped into his as you looked closer at the little miracles. “Once they reach a certain age or as a reaction to certain stimuli, they revert back to being polyps. Can you imagine de-aging like that?”

“I can, actually,” he mumbled.

“If we humans discover a way to replicate their cells’ differentiation process, we’d be able to solve cancer and even replace missing organs! These jellyfish are the future.”

Mark slid his palm over your forehead before it hit the glass. “They’re also aggressive invaders.” 

“They’re cooler than hyenas.”

“Wha–take that back.”

“No, sorry, immortal jellyfish beats a bunch of furballs.”

“Furballs? Furballs?”

You laughed and walked away. 

You two reached the final exhibit, The Deep, and the moment you stepped inside, you were assaulted by a blast of ice-cold air. The tunnel was pitch-black, with only the faintest lights on the floor to line the path forward. Understandably, the place did not house living creatures from the deep sea, rather it projected 3D holograms that floated across the dark tunnel. 

You started shivering, but not from the cold alone. This darkness was too familiar. You’re suddenly brought back to the Void, the Nothingness that waited for you if you failed. 

Perpetual nothingness.

You were starting to get dizzy when something heavy covered your shoulders. It was Mark’s leather jacket. 

“I probably should’ve recommended a sweater, too,” he said.

You grasped the lapels and breathed slowly. “Thank you.”

He offered his hand and you didn’t hesitate to clasp your quivering fingers on his warm palm. 

Mark started walking and he posed another question, “Do you think it’s better to be good or smart?”

“That came out of the blue,” you joked.

“I’ll forgive that horrible pun if you answer honestly.”

An oarfish hovered over you. “So that’s why you asked me whether I preferred the mountains or the beach. You could have just asked me from the start. I don’t like dawdling.”

“Well, I’m sorry I’m not German.” A few crystal jellyfish danced over him. Their blue-green luminescence lit his eyes, made them look like they were glowing themselves. “‘The wise love water, the good love mountains. The wise are active, the good are tranquil–”

“–The wise are joyful, the good enjoy long life,’ was it?”

His hold on you tightened briefly.

You watched the jellyfish bob away. “I don’t think we’re supposed to choose. I thought the whole point was that we need to be both to live a harmonious existence.” The Earth was neither made purely of water nor soil, it was beautiful because it had both. 

“But what if you have to choose…” he whispered. “What if being good means sacrificing your own happiness? Wouldn’t being wise be better?”

“That depends. Smart and wise aren’t synonymous. Confucius believed that wisdom is rooted in fairness though, so if you choose to be wise then that means choosing what is right, not just for yourself but for everyone. Wisdom exists to temper goodness so that we can live a moral life. Using Confucius to excuse selfishness is, well…you know.”

Mark’s hand was colder now.

“I can’t say that Confucius is my favorite philosopher though. I shouldn’t be saying this, but,” you said as you followed the movements of a slow anglerfish above you, even its weakly lit lure would shine in the Void, “but if I had to choose between the happiness of strangers or my own, the answer is obvious.”

[Ding. Affection: 70%. Darkening: 35.2%]

***

There was a gift shop strategically positioned right outside The Deep. It was white, blue and gold and appeared rather fancy for a gift shop. Aquatic creatures decorated every corner, ranging from a school of clownfish painted onto a wall to a giant octopus holding coral-shaped baskets of stuffed sea animals. 

A twentysomething lady dressed in a white dress shirt and a navy blue apron greeted you with a practiced customer service smile. “Good afternoon and welcome.”

You nodded politely while Mark fired his own bright smile back at her. “Good afternoon. Is there something special going on over there?” He was referring to the crowd huddled over one side of the store. 

The saleslady blushed and handed you each a pamphlet. “The aquarium is doing a limited time collab with Stacy’s.”

You skimmed the robin’s-egg blue paper. Stacy’s & Co. was a jewelry company that was famous for its bracelets. A rather on the nose parallel to a certain jewelry company back in your world. 

“We have earrings, necklaces, bracelets and anklets, even keychains and accessories for pets. All are aquatic themed and I’m sure you will find something you like. We’re also offering a really good deal for ring sets, perhaps you and your girlfriend would like to purchase a pair?”

“Actually–”

You cut him off and responded, “We’d like to take a look, thank you.” 

She gestured for you to follow her to the display case. Expectedly enough, the other guests that swarmed here were couples. Everyone was fawning over the ring sets, but you weren’t interested in that. 

Instead you pointed at something in the necklace section. “That one.”

The saleslady blinked. “Pardon?” She was tempted to rub her eyes because surely you weren’t pointing at that, were you?

“That chain collar looks nice. I want him to try it on.” 

Mark pointed at himself, equally confused as the woman behind the counter. 

“It’s pretty, I think it would complement your throat nicely, not to mention your collarbones.” Though with his current getup the latter wasn’t so obvious. 

You then turned to the saleslady. “He has a pretty good neck, don’t you agree? He could model with it.”

“Um, I-I don’t–”

“Take it out please.”

Mark put his hands on your shoulders. “Now, princess, that’s sweet and all but maybe not something that’s clearly designed for dogs?”

“Have you seen the necks of some dogs? I’m sure this will fit you just fine.” You turned to the woman. “You think so too, don’t you?”

The saleslady pitched in nervously, “I’m afraid I can’t encourage wearing animal accessories.”

“Aw. That’s a shame.”

“Yes, a real shame,” Mark said, softly shifting your attention to the human collection. “How about earrings?”

“But you’re not pierced, and I doubt they sell fake earrings.”

“I meant for you.”

“Oh.” 

Mark then asked the saleslady for earrings that were suitable for everyday wear. She showed you several pairs. Most were studs, some were huggies, others were jackets. All of them sparkled. 

They were great, but honestly, you weren’t interested in getting a pair for yourself. If anything, you were busy imagining Mark with piercings. With his sense of style, it felt appropriate, but could his skin even be pierced? You thought back to what you know about Superman and his kin. They had kryptonite but the stingy system refused to share much about Invincible’s weaknesses.

Mark then interrupted your deliberation, “See anything you like?” 

“Not particularly.”

“That’s okay. Wanna go see the other souvenirs? Miss Rinna here said they got a bunch of stationery.”

Your quiet search for his kryptonite vanished instantly at the mention of stationery.

***

“You seem pleased,” he commented, amused as you two entered the Hungry Hippo. 

You hugged your shopping bag full of notebooks close to your chest, not too tightly or you’d ruin the bouquet Mark gave you. “I had a couple of stationery that was ruined. I’m still using them as scratch paper, but I can’t use them for serious writing.”

“Maybe get water-proof paper next time,” he suggested playfully.

“I never said that they got wet.”

He stiffened. “Well… I just assumed. I read somewhere that nine times out of ten, water…ruins paper.”

“Is that so.”

“Uh-huh.” He then pulled a chair for you. “Anyway, d-do you know what you want?”

You sat down and unfolded a piece of paper from your pocket. “Everything’s here.”

“You made a list. Of course.” His tone was more teasing than it was mocking. 

You handed the paper over to him and he raised his arm until a waiter arrived. Mark recited his and your orders, thanked the waiter and turned to you.

“So.”

“So…”

“How would you rate today’s social event?”

You fiddled with the strap of your purse. “It’s fine.”

You regretted your words as you can see his hypothetical ears droop. You hurriedly corrected yourself, “I mean, it’s going great so far–amazing.”

He propped his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Really?”

“I love the aquarium and the holograms were a smart way to incorporate deep sea life into the exhibit without hurting real animals, plus I got to buy some new notebooks, and I really love the flowers,” your words came out like bullets. You had real fun today, all thanks to Mark. You didn’t want him to think you were saying these things as mere platitudes. 

“So does that mean…” 

“What?”

He cleared his throat but refused to look you in the eye as he repeated, “Does that mean this won’t be our last date?”

“I hope not.”

Your reply caught him off guard because his head swung at an inhuman speed to face you. “Really?”

You held the bouquet to your smiling mouth. “Really.”

He was about to say something when his watch beeped. All that happy, puppy dog energy was nowhere to be seen.

[Ding. Darkening: 35.5%]

He hit something and the watch began vibrating. “Anyway–”

It kept on vibrating.

“That looks important.”

“No, it–” 

The watch blinked red multiple times before the vibrations became beeping again.

He looked about ready to smash the thing.

You reached over and put a reassuring hand over his. “Go.”

“But–”

“We ordered a lot. lt will be a while before the food arrives, so go.”

He sighed and gave you an apologetic smile. “If the food arrives before I come back, eat without me. I have an account here so don’t worry about the payment.”

“Take care.”

He seemed hesitant to leave just yet. His expression told you he wanted to do something else, but before either of you could move, his watch started flashing.

He cursed under his breath and rushed outside.

[There seems to be another alien intent on invading Earth.]

“I’m sure it won’t take long.”

You retrieved a pocket-sized edition of Slaughterhouse Five from your bag. One of the perks of the after-life, or this life before the after-life, was that it gave you the chance to do inventory. You barely scratched the surface of your TBR list but here the stress of real life, of rent and grades was gone. You can indulge in recreational reading without guilt.

You lost yourself in the very first line and didn’t even register the arrival of your meal thirty minutes later, not until the waiter respectfully brought it to your attention.

You thanked him but decided to give Mark five more minutes.

[Host.]

“...”

[Host!]

“What now?”

[You told me to alert you if five minutes have passed. It has been exactly five minutes since your command. The food is starting to get cold.]

You slipped the folded Stacy’s pamphlet between your pages. “And Mark?”

[Still saving the world.]

You put away your book. 

He did say to eat without him so you picked up your fork and tore into your still-hot tomato and basil spaghetti. Sweet and tangy with just the right amount of garlic and some chili flakes that added an extra kick.

You sighed contently at your choice for dinner and sipped slowly on your banana milkshake. It was inexpensive and filling compared to the other options on the menu. 

In contrast, Mark ordered a lot for himself. Chicken salad with honey mustard dressing, baby back ribs with a side of peas and mashed potatoes, cheesy pasta with extra broccoli and two sliders. 

He must have been really hungry. You felt bad for him, being a superhero sounded like a nuisance. If you had powers, you’d keep it to yourself and use it to make life easier, not worse. Like, if you superspeed, you would use it to get some extra sleep.

But Mark was too kind. His food will be cold by the time he comes back.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” Your waiter approached just as you flipped to the next chapter.

“Really sorry to disturb your reading but I would like to ask if everything was to your liking?”

“It was, yes.” You shifted on your chair.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Just a refill for my water, thank you.”

As the waiter left your table, the system dinged.

[Not that I care how you spend your free time, but how long are you going to wait for him?]

You focused on your book. “As long as it takes.”

***

Shit,shit,shit,shit,shit.

Fucking insect fucks.

Fucking Cecil.

Fucking team can’t do anything right.

Mark shoved Rex off him when the idiot tried to get him to drink. He ignored Eve’s attempts to get him to stay for the post-mission meeting and flew back to the Hungry Hippo as fast as he could. He swapped into his civilian clothes mid-air and hid the backpack someplace safe.

Three hours. He kept you waiting alone at a family restaurant for three hours. 

He wouldn’t blame you if you stayed just so you could slap him hard and tell him never to email you again. He wanted to slap himself.

Still, he needed a chance, he needed to try and explain and apologize, so even if you remained just to yell at him he would take it.

After surveying the area for any witnesses, he deemed the parking lot behind the restaurant safe and landed. He took a moment to fix his appearance, using a car window as a mirror.

The hair he had meticulously brushed and moussed at dawn was tousled by the fighting and the flying.

He didn’t have time to waste so he combed it back with his fingers and ran.

Please be there, please be there…he prayed as he scoured the tables from outside the windows.

At eight p.m. the place was packed with families from the aquarium and nearby mall, but his heart sank when he realized that you weren’t at your table.

He checked his phone. No messages. He should have sent you a quick text, but everyone kept screwing up that he didn’t have a moment to spare.

He should still apologize.

He started typing, but someone approached him. “Mark?”

“Princess?”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He pocketed his phone. “You’re still here?”

“As you can see.” 

Yes, he could see. You were even wearing his jacket.

“I was trying to look for you inside, through the windows.”

“I felt bad because there was a long line of people wanting a table so I asked them to wrap up your food and the staff were kind enough to let me hang out on the waiting chairs.”

He was speechless.

“I’m sorry for giving up our table.”

“No, no, you got nothing to apologize for. I was the one who abandoned you like a di–like a jerk.” He closed the distance between the two of you. “I’m sorry.”

You gave him a sincere smile. “All is forgiven.”

“You can hit me if you want.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Are you sure? I was horrible.”

“It was work.”

“That’s no excuse to leave you waiting for hours. I should’ve called or texted–”

“You came back, didn’t you? We’re cool. Seriously.” You shimmied your right hand, which he now noticed to be holding a pocket book. “I was going to text you that I left our table but I forgot the time.”

“You brought a novel to our date…”

“Don’t take it personally. I have a couple of fanfics and scientific journals on my phone for when I get stuck at parties.”

He shook his head, chuckling. 

Mark called for a cab and then walked you back to your building. He refused to let you carry any of the takeout bags.

“Are you sure you don’t want the ribs?”

“I’m good.”

“The salad? The sliders?”

“They’re yours, Mark.”

Truth be told, he knew you chose the spaghetti because it was the cheapest pasta, same with the milkshake, so he ordered more than he needed. He had planned to split his food with you until those damn aliens got in the way. 

He was tempted to use the “I’ll just end up throwing the food away” card again but he didn’t want to push his luck.

“I had a really great time with you,” you said, cradling your shopping bag. “I haven’t had that much fun in forever.”

“First date in a while, huh?”

“The last one was a lifetime ago, and even then, nothing comes close to today.”

His chest beamed with pride. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He mirrored your smile.

You two stood in front of the dorms in comfortable silence.

Mark didn’t want to say goodbye just yet, but he knew the date had to end at some point. 

He was about to bid you good night when you suggested, “Wanna go up to my room?”

taglist: @weponxwrites, @ratkidcalledallie, @qxuanii, @lilacoaks, @gluttonousriceflour, @phisen, @sleepyzzz3, @whaaaaaaaaat111, @ik33ponmakingc00ki3s, @lonely-entity, @noxus123, @ilovecoffe0

Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoyed our date with Mark (I designed the aquarium based on the Animal Crossing New Horizons aquatic gallery huhuhu) I'm feeling under the weather so I won't be able to answer any messages immediately. I also haven't edited this chapter as thoroughly as I wanted, so if you see any inconsistencies with the time or Mark's favorite animal being a lion instead of a hyena (it was a lion in the first draft), you'll know why. (_　_|||) bye bye for now

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire. They were lifted from the following sources:

Invincible flying from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-every-character-fate-comics/

Alternate Invincibles from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-all-alternate-dimension-invincibles-fates/

CHAPTER 11: Coming soon. Series Masterlist

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[writeyouin]

Valentine's ask! Only if you feel up for it, MTMTE Swerve, Megatron, and Rodimus (or honestly any bot you want your the one writing it) are surprised to find an anonymous Valentine left for them, except its not so anonymous because the only one that would leave something like this is the human on the LL.

MTMTE Valentine’s Drabbles for Swerve and Megatron

A/N – Okay, I didn’t want to neglect Rodimus, but I was way too eager to get this out into the world, so sorry for that. ALSO, VALENTINE’S DAY IN JUNE, SO I SAYETH, SO IT BE!

Warnings – None,

Rating – T

Swerve

Swerve reached under the bar searching for a cleaning rag. This was his favourite part of the night, cleaning the bar after everyone had left. It gave him time to process the day and to daydream about a certain human he was infatuated with. He liked to come up with different, domestic scenarios, imagining the many ways he would tell you he was truly, madly, deeply in love with you.

Swerve’s servo settled on something which was decidedly not a cleaning rag. He frowned and bent down, looking at his supply. Atop the rags was a small box wrapped in orange paper with a white bow, matching his paint job.

A present? Swerve’s processor went wild. Granted, the present could have been from anyone, or even a cruel prank from one of the many bots who found him annoying, yet there was a part of him (a large part) that was immediately excited, hoping beyond hope that this was from you.

He didn’t have to check his calendar to know what day it was on Earth. Valentine’s Day had been on his processor for far too long, though he was too terrified to do anything about it other than fantasise about a life with you.

Primus, let the present be from you.

He thinks about you all the time these days. Always wondering what it would be like if you two were together. How it would feel to press his lips against yours. Pulling you against his chassis. Comforting you when you’re upset. Laughing with you when the mood is right. Building a life with you.

Swerve hurriedly tore open the box, too afraid to take things slowly in case this was a cruel joke after all. His servos shook as he pulled out a handmade card with a picture of a heart and spark joined by a red ribbon.

‘From your secret admirer,’ written inside.

Beneath the card lay a datapad. Swerve flicked it on, finding a bunch of documentaries all about how his favourite films were made.

Swerve covered his mouth to keep sound from escaping, laughing and crying simultaneously. He was excited, nervous, and generally overwhelmed to be admired as someone as incredible as you. Granted, the card claimed to be from a secret admirer, but only a handful of bots knew how to write your language, and Swerve recognised your writing.

He carefully placed the box back under the bar where it would be safe, then ran out of the bar and transformed, nearly knocking Blaster over in his haste.

He found you on the way to your hab-suite, casually looking at your phone while you walked.

Far too excited, Swerve transformed, skidding and crashing into the wall in front of you.

He grunted but mostly ignored the pain in his shoulder-plate.

You ran to Swerve, bewildered by his dramatic approach. “Swerve, are you okay?!” You asked, resting your hands on his thigh.

“(Y/N!)” Swerve smiled at you.

You were about to ask if you ought to get a medic when Swerve pulled you towards his chassis, kissing you fervently.

He knew it was impulsive, but he couldn’t spend his whole life living in his imagination when the real you was right there in front of him.

You melted into the kiss, and Swerve’s grip tightened on you, cementing that this was reality, and not another dream. He thanked Primus that Valentine’s Day existed, giving you a reason to tell him exactly how you felt.

Megatron

Megatron scanned his messages. The first was a request to stop by a nearby port for supplies. After some research on the port, he signed his approval and moved to the next.

It was a request for new weapons material. He rejected it but didn’t hold out much hope since the request would likely be sent to Rodimus next, and Rodimus tended to agree to things left, right and center if it meant the crew would like him more.

This went on for a while with Megatron accepting some proposals and rejecting others.

After a while, he opened a message to find a very flattering image of him. It had fine hand-drawn lines and was deftly painted with watercolours.

Megatron didn’t know what to think. Typically, he didn’t like images of his likeness. They always showed him dominating his victims in war-like poses that reminded him of a painful past he would never be allowed to forget.

Megatron closed his optics as he remembered the screams of a thousand bots who had begged him for mercy, only for him to deny it, sometimes prolonging their suffering before ending their lives.

When he opened his optics again, he was still faced with the image. It made him look kind… gentle. That was something he hadn’t seen before.

Beneath the image was a message painstakingly drawn out in Cybertronian. It was obvious that the author only had a rudimentary understanding of the language. There were some grammatical errors and more than a few spelling errors, but Megatron still understood it well enough.

The message told him that it was okay to let go of the past, that it was a gift to forgive oneself and that changing for the better was something to be admired.

Megatron felt himself relax as he held onto those words. He needed them. He had no idea just how much he needed them until that moment.

Megatron took a minute to think about you, since it was obvious that it had been you to send the message. No Cybertronian would make that many mistakes in their native language, and nobody else on the ship had access to watercolours or knew how to use them so perfectly.

Why did you send this message to him? What did it imply? And why now? Deciding not to waste any time, Megatron went straight to the source.

When you opened your hab-suite door to him, you looked almost shy.

“Why?” He asked you in lieu of any formal greeting.

“I- It’s- It’s Valentine’s Day,” You replied as if that was enough.

Megatron stared at you quizzically, realising that for all the time he spent on your planet, he knew practically nothing about your culture or customs. But he would have destroyed it all once. How can you see past the monster he was then to the mech he is now?

Megatron wants to know you and more about your planet and people. He wants to be the mech you painted. He wants to be more for you.

[hazard-haze]

I have more Eddie and Volt headcanons. I can't stop thinking about them.

Mild TW for brief mentions of Self Hatred and Harassment. Nothing major or explicit but just thought it was worth a mention.

-----

-Their bar is incredible accessible. You cannot tell me they did not build that place with the comfort of any object or person with any level of accessibility needs in mind.

-Volt has given Eddie compression gloves. He doesn't wear em' (even though he should) but they are around here somewhere.

-Eddie's favorite color is orange.

-Ooooh we actually have some player ones this time, the homeowner is definitely welcome to hang out before opening and after closing (assuming the friendship or love ending)

-eventually they'd probably give them a key so, as Eddie puts it, they can "make themself useful by locking up for us" but in reality it's just so they can get in even when the 2 are in the back.

-They have all the fixings in the back or at the bar for injuries/disabilities/emergencies. Including but not limited to epi-pens, narcan, good first aid kits, juice/snacks for blood sugar, a fold up wheel chair, free earplugs/noise cancelling headphones, and cots.

-Homeowner will not be served alcohol if Eddie thinks something is up with them. Or at least they will be cut off before they can even get tipsy. Bro is not letting them drown and ignore their problems, usually Volt will end up doing most of the talking to them about whatever is bothering them.

-It's kind of obvious but the hallway closet is very much the hub of the upstairs. And honestly? Most objects hold Eddie and Volt to the same level of respect that they do the mayor, neither of them really realize it but they are pretty integral to the community

-Not a headcanon but I just thought of the funniest shit: Breaker Box Hallmark Movie AU. Featuring the Breaker Box getting shutdown for some reason and through the power of winter holiday magic and love probably it is saved lol. Would anyone read this?

-Eddie inadvertently gets so much tea working the bar. Bathsheba has been begging him to give her some gossip. Eddie refuses every single time.

-Volt cries when he see's cute animal/inanimal videos

-If they got a cat people would assume its name is like Sparky or something but no, Volt is gonna want to name it something really pretty like Eleanor or Anastasia, and Eddie is gonna take one look at it and go: "Uhhhh... Todd." "Eddie she's a girl." "So? Girls can be named Todd!" "..." "Stop assuming our cat's gender Volt!"

-I don't know if he actually would in canon, but I think it would be so fucking funny if Volt just loved calling minor inconveniences homophobic. This includes Eddie. Eddie won't stop working? "Eddie if you don't go to bed your homophobic!" "Wha? I'm ga-!" "HOMOPHOBIA!"

-Self deprecation? In my breaker box? I think not! And by that I mean Volt holds the very strong conviction that no one in his club is allowed to be self hating except for him. I mean he is a flirt, but he is also a sweetheart. He see's someone crying? Absolutely not. Gives you a tissue, tells you your too hot to be crying over anyone and then reapplies your mascara for you.

-Eddie does not play when it comes to patron safety. He will cut you off if he thinks you've drank too much. He is making sure everyone leaving at the end of the night has a designated driver (I don't know if any of them NEED designated drivers seeing as they all live in a house, but its the principal okay?). Harassment of any kind you are gone and banned so fast you won't even know what happened.

----

God this hyperfixation hit me like a truck.

I noticed most of these ones focused more on how they actually run the club. Idk why it just kind of ended up like that. Anyways I'm having so much fun with these let me know if ya'll want more or if anyone has specific hc requests because I CAN cook up more! Hope you enjoyed!

[gali-la]

i watched kpop demon hunters the other day and i have like. two things i wanna say because theyre making me cackle

1. obviously i loved it. amazing work. gorgeous. the name made me giggle first but it was a lovely movie id watch it again

2. however. before i watched it, i only saw 2-second clips being reposted, and i had NO idea what the plot was, other than it involved kpop and demon hunting. a couple gifs/clips stuck with me and led me to guessing the plot wrong:

in the end, it was the cat and the pot that convinced me to watch the movie.

before that, though, I was relatively convinced that the plot consisted of:

3 badass combo kpop artist demon hunters who are awesome at their jobs (all of them). their main job is hunting demons but they're awesome and are also, for unrelated reasons, kpop idols

1 demon cat pet who is spared from the slaughter because it is adorable (and a little dumb) and can do no wrong

1 demon bird, spared because it's too cool. look at that hat. it's definitely planning world domination tho

1 human, normal boyfriend who is supportive of his badass demon hunter kpop artist girlfriend who also gets pulled into the demon things by association but is not a hunter in the least and happily leaves all that to his awesome girlfriend and her other hunter friends. damsel in distress boyfriend who has now adopted and is a dad to the demon cat and is tolerated by the demon bird. he's okay with all of this except sometimes he sees demons much more than he wants to and they're really scary and he is not magic-y enough or mentally prepared to fight them. he didnt know demons existed until he started dating his awesome girlfriend but by god he's taking it well. he gets smushed to death by a massive cuddly demon cat while he sleeps but it keeps him safe so it's okay. the demons interrupt his and his girlfriend's dates but he skedaddles with a "good luck girlfriend i know you'll win ill have the cat walked and fed some rat souls by dinner love you BYEEEE" and when she's done he wipes demon goo from her face and gives her a kiss on the cheek and takes her to dinner (again, without interruption this time)

and yeah i love the movie but damnit this was also awesome and i want it

[rocketeeeers]

hii! this is such a sweet concept, thank you so much for coming up with it! 🩷 i'm so sorry you're going through stuff. you're not alone & your f/os love you lots! take care :D also i apologise if i'm doing anything wrong in this ask game, i'm new to tumblr (i mainly use twitter, though it's really nice here!) please correct me if so!

i'll be answering the qns with my 2 main f/o's (hikage toma prri & kobayashi kenya bokumachi), hope that's okay!

tw: mention of sh for the 1st qn

🌻 since i'm clumsy and have the tendency to sh (though i'm on the road to recovery! yay!), i tend to get injured quite often.

for toma, he normally panics when he sees the wounds and he gets really worried! he'll ask a bunch of questions on how it happened (though if it's something sh related he'd probably avoid asking since it might make me upset) while digging through his bag for his emergency supplies. he'll also probably give me some cute, colourful band-aids to distract me from the wound! for the days after, he'll take really good care of me, helping me to apply ointments and creams every day.

for kenya, he'll mask his worry behind a calm expression in order to prevent me from panicking along with him. similar to toma, he'd also grab his emergency supplies (minus the colourful band-aids). for the days after, though he's really busy, he'd make sure to send reminders via text for me to take care of my injuries.

🪷 when i'm insecure, i usually try to bottle it up, but toma can see through me really easily. he'll give me a hug and comfort me with words, reassuring me of my skills and my good qualities, telling me he loves me no matter what and that the things my head is telling me are all untrue.

for kenya, since we've known each other for quite a while, he can also see through me easily. he's less touchy, but if i asked for a hug or anything, he'd do just that. he mainly uses his words, restating all of our past experiences that disprove my insecurities, show me that he cares, that i'm worth being cared for.

🍄 i would likely shut them down when they suggest pampering me, but both of them would insist, saying that they love me and want to take care of me.

for toma, he'd plan the whole thing himself. he'd probably bring me on a drive, stopping at all my favourite places for food or shopping. he'd do everything he possibly could to comfort me, and it would work!

for kenya, he'd ask if there's anything he could do to help, but since i don't normally know the answer to that, he'd end up taking things into his own hands and planning everything out. he'd take me out on weekends and treat me to some good food, and then maybe we would go home and relax.

☀️ toma would probably get something cute and simple, but full of thought, like jewelry in the style i like, or a plush that reminds him of me or me of him! kenya would probably get something on my wishlist (which tends to be cute stuff too)

📚 to be honest, we do all of that, heheh... i'm quite a needy person!

💜 oh there's too many... these past few days i've been feeling like crap, and sometimes my only reason for holding on is them. i don't wanna go into detail because honestly? i've been blocking most of my emotions out and i don't recall it, and i feel that if i tried i might get more upset. but they helped a lot. when it feels like nobody cares for me, i have them. when it feels like i'm alone, i have them. they've helped me with so so much and i cannot express how grateful i am for them coming into my life.

🥞 my kindness and my loyalty/dedication, i believe. i'd do so much for them, and just them. i'd try my best to be with them whenever they need and more, supporting them through the littlest actions.

🍁 toma sings me songs with that warm voice of his. it's always comforting. we'd cuddle too.

kenya talks to me and either cuddles or holds my hand until i fall asleep.

💫 toma would motivate me with little things like kisses or gifts and then tell me he was so proud of me after i checked a task off. if a task required a lot of work, he'd do it together with me and we would sing some songs while doing it to get my mind off of it.

kenya would send constant reminders to me, even when at work. he'd set alarms to remind me to drink water and stuff. he'd also praise me lots when i do something, and he'd help out where he can.

🍀 toma holds my hand, giving me a physical sensation that i can focus all my attention on. he'll pass me my earplugs/earphones and find a way out of that situation as fast as possible.

kenya, well, i hc him to also easily get overwhelmed. he'd probably try to get over it so that he can calm me, but i wouldn't ever let him force himself to calm down, so we'd probably just be overwhelmed together and find a way to leave the situation together. once out, we'll just spend time in each other's company until we feel better.

again, thank you so much for making this. it was really fun to answer! i'm sorry my answers got so long 😅

🪻comfort and care f/o ask game🪻

hi there! thank you so much to those of you who participated in my last f/o ask game ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝ i had so much fun making it and i'm glad to see others are enjoying it too! i decided to make another (very self indulgent) f/o ask game since i've been going through a pretty rough patch lately and i want my f/os to take care of me (߹𖥦߹) these asks will be mental health centric (and can be quite personal), so if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to scroll past! if anyone else has been struggling as well, please remember you are so incredibly loved and wanted here! especially by your f/os! take care of yourselves ♡

so sorry for the long intro! we'll get into it now. as always, proship please do not interact!

also, this ask game is platonic/familial friendly! not just aimed towards romantic f/os! ٩(ˊᗜˋ )و

🌻 how does your f/o take care of you and/or react if you're injured? any injury applies. it could be as simple as bumping into the corner of a table and bruising your hip, or maybe something as severe as coming back wounded from an intense battle.

🪷 how does your f/o comfort you when you're feeling insecure/self conscious? if they prefer to comfort using words, what do they say? if they use actions, what do they do?

🍄 your f/o notices you're stressed/unhappy/not doing well and insists that they want to pamper you. what would that look like? do they do or say anything specific that only they would do? do they want you to tell them what you want, or do they plan the pamper session themself?

☀️ your f/o surprises you with a gift after noticing how hard you've been working lately, and they need to express how proud of you they are. what's the gift?

📚 what is your f/os love language? do they incorporate their love language into how they support you? (the main 5 love languages are; words of affirmation, acts of service, gift giving, quality time, and physical touch. though if you and your f/o have your own love language, please feel free to use that instead!)

💜 name a time (or multiple) when your f/o was your unwavering rock and solace. only if you're comfortable with sharing, what were you going through? how did your f/o support you?

🥞 what does your f/o admire about you? it can go beyond physical traits!

🍁 how does your f/o help you when you can't sleep/can't stay asleep?

💫 how does your f/o help and/or support you when you're struggling with taking care of yourself? (e.g. messy room, forgetting to take meds, etc.)

🍀 what does your f/o do when you're in an overstimulating/overwhelming situation? (e.g. in a large crowd, around loud noises, etc.) do they have any techniques to soothe you?

[hestzhyen]

Chapter 84 Legacy Posting

Oh boy, here we go dear void. Short entry this time (by my standards at least).

Editor's Notes: First Page: 対峙する二人... [taiji suru futari...] "The two face off..." Last Page: 想い乗せた一撃が届く... [omoi noseta ichigeki ga todoku...] "A decisive blow brimming with emotions reaches him..."

A Declaration

Go, Chihiro, go!

And here we have the ultimate rebuttal to Samura's stubborn insistence on solving everything by himself: Chihiro has a personal stake in all of this as the son of Rokuhira Kunishige. He doesn't have to bear the burden, but he's refusing Samrua's (misguided) kindness and taking everything on.

I do like the framing of all of this duty as the choice of the children involved. Usually there's a heavy tilt towards "children should be responsible for their parent's mistakes/burdens" or "children must choose their own paths", but Kagurabachi threads the needle and says "it's not that simple".

Chihiro chooses to honour his father's wishes. He understands very well the pain that he's taking on, and he's learning that his father isn't the infallible man he looked up to when he was younger, but he decides to do it anyway. Meanwhile, Hakuri decided to tear it all down- and it wasn't framed as him shirking his duty or atoning for his father's sins. It was the right thing to do. So far, Iori wanted to be like Samura and protect him. Her decision might change depending on how this fight turns out, but it's not going to be some heavy-handed message about how she's responsible for what he did.

It's always framed as a choice the kids are making based on what they know and believe. They aren't responsible for their parent's actions but choose to act based on the results of them. I love it. I'll admit my life experience makes me extremely skeptical of stories that try to say kids must fix the problems their parents caused- it's a strong bias I always have. So Kagurabachi framing things as kids consciously choosing to do what they can to make the world a better place is very satisfying. People are trying to say "no you don't need to, live your life" and they're saying "I want to help make the world a better place". Well, Hakuri was denied his chance, but it was a good thing in that case. Regardless, inter-generation cooperation is the way to go!

Echoes

The future is now, old man.

There's something to be said for how goddamn stubborn Samura is. It's beyond reason, right? Like holy shit you're blind not deaf, listen to all the people who care about you and want you to live instead of going on some suicidal atonement mission. Your freakin' daughter wants and needs you in her life! The little girl you promised your ex-wife you'd protect!

As a friend mentioned, Samura's mindset strongly echoes someone who's mentally ill. I'm pretty sure everyone's been down in the dumps once in their life- everything sucks, nothing's okay, and it never will be. But we get over it with some time and (ideally) support. Samura, though, is in the fucking depths. Anyone who's thought the world would genuinely be better off without them, that's him. The mind is a shitshow sometimes and it will tell some of us "hey, they love you, so stop being a burden and make their lives easier by offing yourself already". Which is a bunch of nonsense but it's compelling nonsense that feels right. Nothing really gets through that fog without treatment and a hell of a lot of persistence.

So while it's a bit annoying as a reader to see this guy dig in his heels and refuse the hope that everyone around him's trying to shove in his arms, I get it. He's guilty AF about the past and feels like he can't be redeemed- and that his presence is a burden on Iori. So if he dies and takes out the Sword Master with him then yay yippie everyone can be happy.

It's not that simple nor is that actually a good solution (which I talked a bit about last chapter). It's just the one that feels right to Samura so Chihiro will literally have to break Tobimune to stop this guy.

Which he... might have done this chapter? Maybe he just nicked or fractured it? It looks like Chihiro's will got through to Samura at least a little bit. Only breaking Tobimune in full will really stop Samura in full but maybe damaging it will give Iori and the Masumi an opening to be heard.

The Masumi!

I missed you guys too!

Not much to say other than I'm glad they're in this fight and that Ro pointed out the obvious: if Samura healed his own goddamn eyes, then the Masumi's ninja tactics wouldn't be much of a hindrance to him. But he wants to remain blind (symbolism!) and so he can't see what's really important. But Ro's got a more accurate measure of him now that one of his sunglass lenses is broken. Really nice touch in the art this chapter.

One MORE Thing, Jackieee

Is that Chihiro's "aura", as the kids say?

Samura trying to spare the kids is noble, yes. Gone over that a bunch. And Chihiro's rebuttal is basically an emphatic let us get hurt.

Parents often try to prevent their kids from experiencing the same problems in the same ways that they did- abuse, war, etc. They generally want their kids lives to be better than theirs were.

But.

If those parents who had rough lives don't get help and work on their own issues, they will just pass the trauma on in a different way. Like here: Samura tried to spare Iori, but he just reinforced her trauma of loved ones leaving/abandoning her. He needs ALL the fucking therapy and to give a massive apology to her- then commit to working on his issues.

Because as sympathetic as he is, as understandable as his actions and beliefs are at this point, they're still wrong. He's doing wrong by Iori, Inori's memory, Chihiro, Uruha, the Masumi, even Kunishige's memory at this point. What Chihiro's trying to get through to Samura here is, in my mind, the idea that it's better to live with the pain and stay with what you find hope in than give it all up and assume it'll improve other people's lives. Just fucking live, bro! Iori needs you even if you've got a mountain of grief that makes you want to die. She needs you as you are and who you can be, not who you think you are. Share that pain with her so she can understand and help you.

Obviously this isn't advocating for parents to treat their kids like therapists or act like emotional vampires (been there, it screws a kid up). But being open that you're not okay is okay. Letting Iori know you've got a bad past that you need to overcome is okay. Letting her find ways that she wants to help is okay. Share the past and prevent a warped future in truth. Because right now Samura's just sending Iori (and the other young people who care about him) down a different fucked up path than the one he was on instead of truly creating something better.

Okay... hoping for glimpses of Hakuri and Uruha and maybe even Azami next week, but not betting on it. Take care of yourself dear void- you deserve it.

[avaxbacot]

i’ve seen some parallel of luffy and law being compared to garp and sengoku, and yeah their interactions and dynamics were pretty similar. you can say sengoku treated rosinante like his son (he said it himself), and even though it doesn’t make him a “grandfather” for law (not that rosinante himself was a “father figure” for law, law referred corazon as his benefactor/savior only, not someone that he looked up as a father), there’s still a connection between law and sengoku through rosinante.

and now i’m thinking “wow sengoku was such a fraud”

i’ve seen garp getting his slander enough and he deserved it, i think sengoku deserved his lashing too because i wasn’t seeing enough, not helping that i’ve been seeing a lot of marine propaganda on twitter lately for some weird reasons (i can understand if people like some marine characters but the tweets sound like actual world government propaganda, i don’t know if it’s a satire or what but yeah some people are actually serious lol)

from the doffy-law-cora flashback, we learned that sengoku found rosinante as a kid and he adopted him, and later rosinante turned into becoming a marine. i’ve seen some takes about how rosinante should be a revolutionary instead, the reason i’ve seen is because he’s the opposite of his brother that obviously loved being a celestial dragon and wanted to gain all that glory back, but in the end of the day rosinante became a marine, an opposite of doflamingo who was a pirate. 

and it got me thinking…. i feel like there’s no scene where rosinante even said or thought that the celestial dragon was in the wrong side of history, he never acknowledged “yeah i was born a celestial dragon and they’re all monsters”, he only ever referred doffy as THE monster specifically, he even said that his parents were kind people (i mean he’s not wrong), and don’t get me wrong, rosinante was a good person (okay hot take here, he’s indeed a good person but he’s not the kindest either, he’s pretty fucked in the head too lol), but the only time he made a reference to his CD root was when he mentioned about the will of D being the enemies of gods, and that’s it—and to note law himself wasn’t aware that the “gods” were meant to be the CD, he just found out doflamingo and rosinante were one 13 years later.

so yeah, rosinante was a marine commander, sengoku claimed that rosinante had a strong sense in justice so then he became a marine, but i mean we didn’t even know the details of it, like in the end rosinante still worked under the government that served the CD, the group he was a part of but then abandoned him. rosinante sure was not like doflamingo and definitely grew up to have compassion to others, but he never explicitly said he was completely against the CD as a whole either, most of his anger towards doflamingo was personal, he was younger than doflamingo that he might understand less about what’s  going on in their childhood, he was just sure that he didn’t want to be like his brother and chose a different path. i can see that he still had a little bias, but i didn’t mean in it in a way that rosinante still thought it was okay to have slave when he grew up, he just believed becoming a marine was the right path because he grew up seeing sengoku as his role model, it never really came through him that the marine was still the institution that worked under the CD.

i am also 100% sure that sengoku was the one who actually convinced rosinante to take a path as a marine like he was because he believed it was the true “justice”, just like how garp did to his son and grandsons. remember that garp, sengoku, and tsuru were the legends of the marine, the three of them were long time friends who had been through so much together and you could see they tried to get their family into the marine: garp tried but he failed, tsuru was confirmed to have a granddaughter who was a marine (maybe her child was also a marine), and sengoku had rosinante as a marine. sengoku taught rosinante his views and as a kid rosinante believed the marine was the justice, why not? sengoku saved him and raised him like a son, it was a noble job, unlike his brother, he would also become one because sengoku made him believe it was the right choice.

then we learned that garp didn’t like the CD, he didn’t even want to be an admiral because if he did he would have to work directly under them. it got me thinking, since garp and sengoku (also tsuru) were friends and it seemed like they actually shared the same views and values, it meant that sengoku didn’t really like the CD either right? like who the hell in their right mind—especially with how prideful they were about the true justice—seeing a slavery in front of their eyes and thought “oh yeah it wasn’t a problem since the ones who did the slavery was the noble i worked for”? be for real. but sengoku actually took the admiral position and then became a fleet admiral, so he did work under the CD directly. we never knew how he actually felt about it, but if he also shared the same values and beliefs as garp, was he not a bit ashamed? he might have conflicted feelings about it too maybe?

ooppss, sorry forget that he never questioned the government wrongdoings lmao.

all those decades working as a marine and even reached the highest position, he never thought to change the system at all, just followed orders that were given, and the conclusion he got before retiring was “yeah i’m tired of this shit, i’m out”. but he….. didn’t completely out, did he? he was still working under the marine as what… some senior inspector general or something like that. if i were him i would be just completely out tbh especially on that age, like there’s no reason for me to still be connected with the marine, and don’t tell me someone as influential as him couldn’t escape the marine because the world government wouldn’t let him, if kuzan could do that i thought it wasn’t a problem, sengoku could definitely retire and be out of the marine for good. did he still think he might have a chance to change it ? he couldn’t even do that as FLEET ADMIRAL. or maybe he just liked still being involved with them? you are near the graveyard just fucking retire old man, go to some nice island in south blue, get a new hobby that is not war crime.

then i remember about rosinante again. rosinante had told sengoku about his mission to cure law’s disease and it made him to stop spying the donquixote family in awhile. we already know what happened next, with the ope ope no mi, doflamingo killed rosinante, and law ran away.

i believed the event of the ope ope no mi was the turning point for rosinante. when law asked him if he was a marine, he lied “I’M NOT A DAMN MARINE” for the reason that we learned later he didn’t want law to hate him. he was also aware that he would be an enemy of everyone if he stole the ope ope no mi, including the marine, the institution he worked for, the institution he once believed was justice. but in the end he chose to betray it for a sick annoying kid he didn’t even get along with, just because he cared about law, and of course rosinante grew to love law. i also believe, at this moment, rosinante finally realized how flawed and unfair the system was, after 6 months trying to find a cure for a sick child, seeing he got rejected and even insulted because the propaganda about the amber lead that was spread by the world government, he genuinely felt hurt for the kid, he’s ready to betray not only doflamingo but also the marine, because he knew both sides had failed law, and he didn’t hesitate to do the right thing after he realized he wasn’t actually on the “right” side as he always thought he was.

but even after that event, sengoku, who seemed to be really sad over his son’s death,  didn’t even do anything regarding that? if he actually cared and loved rosinante, wouldn’t he search for a kid that rosinante tried to save? he was an admiral at that point, he had the power and the connection to do that. but nope, he did nothing. and then i think maybe it was for the best because if sengoku actually found law and raised him, he would also make him a marine, especially with having that ope ope no mi power, there’s no way the world government would let go of law. but still, it just made sengoku look like he didn’t even try to do something as what he valued for.

and don’t get me started with how the hell he couldn’t do anything about doflamingo being a warlord. okay maybe he really couldn’t do anything since all those secrets doffy knew about mary geoise, but really? after all that he still kept working in that corrupt institution without even trying to change a bit of it? rosinante, his son, whom he raised, didn’t even hesitate to leave the marine and indirectly disobeying his dad’s wishes just to do the right thing, but why it was so hard for sengoku to do the same thing? maybe sengoku was right, rosinante indeed had the true justice in him but it wasn’t just about being a damn marine. 

i would give sengoku a credit that he didn’t capture law and let him free, he also told law about how he didn’t need to find a reason why rosinante loved him, i still think it was the most beautiful thing to say and law needed that. but beside that, he’s just as fraudulent as garp, maybe that’s why they are besties. i know i know, these characterization was actually not unrealistic, it is actually very realistic for garp and sengoku, a lot of people in authority thought they did something right or tried to change the system from the inside just to end up doing nothing, and it what makes them interesting as characters. but i will still call them a fraud because i can, this is what agenda piece for right?

[jollmaster]

Hiya! this time I have a question abt Briar, she actually one of my favs from Asileverse! :DD Anyways my question isssss What does Briar think of her paternal and maternal grandparents? Does she sometimes wish she could meet Matilda and Roy due to them residing in Eden? Does she miss Judith even though she's never met her?

hiiiya again @xstarrydawnx! I'm so glad that Briar is one of your faws, I also love this adorable gremlin :D

of course, Rosie and Alastor tell her about close relatives whom she didn't see in person for different reasons!

both mom and dad agree that their mothers were wonderful and extremely loving women, but daughter definitely SHOULDN'T imitate their actions and some life decisions

c'mon, Matilda left home in sixteen with a musician whom her father couldn't stand, Judith voluntarily went down to Sheol being pregnant, knowing it would kill her

Alastor has a lot of sad/funny/stupid stories mostly about mom

he lost father at the age of six, and hasn't a lot of memories of him, but the ones he has are generally good

Briar listens, sighs and even regrets a little that Roy and Matilda are in Eden: she would like to see them, because dad remembers a lot of good (however, she's sure that grandparents wouldn't really like parents' festive table in honor of acquaintance lol)

Rosie, on the other hand, has ABSOLUTELY no memory of biological mother (which is logical, Judith died a few hours after giving birth): in her worldview, the word "mom" refers not only to Judith, but also to those women from the quarter who fed, cared for, played and raised her

it's okay for Rosie to tell stories from childhood like "my eldest foster mom told me a lot about mom Judith because they were friends, and then we went with that mom with flowers to the woods, and then—"

Alastor seriously wonders how many moms wife's had (seven or eight? Rosie doesn't remember exactly)

fortunately, Briar has a maternal grandfather who still remembers Judith in person: maybe she isn't miss grandma, but at least thanks to grandpa she has an idea of who Judith was

Mordecai absolutely adores this cannibal fawn; yes, he jokingly threatens to eat her when Briar behaves badly, but this is a common family joke; her behavior is very similar to Rosie's as a child, so granddad is used to it

in addition, Briar is one of the reasons why Mordecai FINALLY relented towards Alastor, whom before the birth of granddaughter he regularly threatened to cook like venison for dinner

maybe this was just a joke too—

neither Alastor nor Rosie are sure if Mordecai was joking or not (he's well-skilled butcher), and it's better not to test fate once again

+ little bonus under the cut! 🩷

Briar knows that grandpa Roy was a great guitarist, and she has a dream to become the same (of course, things doesn't work out right away)

she has a rather strange way of playing the guitar, but hey, she's just learning!

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs

Part 5 - No one is safe from you

Summary: This is part five to Alleyway Affairs.

The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: Explicit

WC for part 5 - 9.9k, total - 42.5k+

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, oral sex (both receiving), p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, on his knees for you in more ways than one, in love & its a disaster, additional tags posted on ao3

tw for chapter 5: graphic depiction of death, assassins killing people, etc.

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

hope it's okay I tagged you... :) @babypeapoddd, @joyful-enchantress, @expensivepussysworld, @dr-acula121

☾☼

The city sleeps under a yellow full-bodied moon. The lanterns wheeze in a yawning breeze, the wind combing its fingers over your figures as you leap from roof to roof. Astarion has improved in his stride, the fear of falling lessened by the thrill of flying through air, fluttering behind your fleeting form.

You are a third of the way there, the path etched out like a nightmare singed in the mind after waking. You pause to catch your breath, and Astarion takes the moment of reprieve to reorient himself with his surroundings.

“Who wants this one dead?” He queries offhandedly while swiping a speck of dirt from his trousers.

“Drake.”

He cocks a brow. You sigh.

“Lord Kallaway made a blood oath. He wanted to manage some of the brothels under Drake’s domain in exchange for political racketeering. He’d ensure financial and social contributions made in Drake’s favor,” you offer, stretching your arms up toward the sky to nullify the ache in your chest. It doesn’t ease it.

“So that’s what he wants.” Astarion gathers, hand on his hip. “Seems a bit risky to be a public figure with all those dastardly deeds he’s committed.”

“Willful ignorance is powerful if you weaponize fear,” you mutter back, gaze transfixed at the landscape before you, “Lucious didn’t fulfill the pact. Instead, he stole the majority of earnings the brothels brought in. He squandered it too, so it’s too late for bygones to be bygones.”

“I see…” Astarion steps toward you. He sweeps a thumb over the side of your face, tucking a stray hair back behind your ear. “I’m surprised he’s being tame in the order of execution.”

Your breath catches in your lungs, if only for a moment. The moonlight is coalescing in his white curls. Your brows crease, disapproval dipping the corners of your lips.

“Everything he does is with reason,” you swallow, “though if I hadn’t agreed, he’d have it done in a way that sends a more brutal message.”

“I could take the lead on this,” Astarion offers, letting his hand drop from your face. His simple touches have increased since the other night, whether that be a slide of his hand over the small of your back, the caress of your fingertips as you passed by each other, or the drag of his knuckle over the side of your cheek.

Most of the time he didn’t seem conscious of doing it. Yet in the rare times that he does realize, he always pulls back, careful of minding the distance, tempering himself. You let him do either, not sure of how to proceed in the precarious state of your relationship.

Everything seems to have remained the same, if not for these little touches, if not for the way his tone softens when calling your name, or that his gaze appears fuller, lighter, or that some early dawns he asks if you’d lie beside him, if only for the sunrise, if only before you go.

“It’s alright,” you meet his eyes, “I’ve dealt with these types before.”

☾☼

Nine

Lucious R. Kallaway

There is a seance in the way you cloak yourself in the trench of night, the way you hide in the harrowing eyes of insatiable shadow. Lord Kallaway sleeps in succulent maroon silks, all tucked in tight, yet languorous and limp, all smoothed out forehead and drooling mouth.

His room is a museum of lush indulgences, from the bejeweled upholstery to the velvet drapes, from the plush of imported carpet to the oil paintings of his likeness.

Assessing the room, you note the beams that stretch out across the high ceiling. You clench the rope in your fist. The conversation you held with Drake stokes to life in your mind like a fire.

“Dove.”

“What is it?”

“Make it look like he did it himself.”

“But—”

“If you won’t, I’ll get someone else who won’t be as gracious, and I know how much you really don’t like that. I myself admit others can be a touch too messy. Too grotesque. But it needs to be done…. You want that scroll, don’t you?”

Astarion touches your elbow. You shudder out of your thoughts, refocusing on the plan at hand. Dread is like a tide pulling back across the shore, building and building, until it will soon devour all in its path.

You can’t let it. You need to focus. You need to do this.

Your feathered step does not disturb the man out of his slumber, and with a hint of grave humorless concern, you doubt anything could wake him.

You swing the rope over the beam.

It pools over the other side.

You make a noose.

Astarion is watching your movements, watching the way your body operates as if devoid of any thought, of any feeling. Yet, even in the dark, he can sense the presence of your dread as if it were lingering over your shoulders and guiding your quaking hands.

Lord Kallaway stirs, but only to let out a broken snore. Your mind is slipping up to the ceiling, hovering there, far away enough to let this occur. Your body is an instrument of demise, it positions the chair, it approaches the snoozing man as if possessed.

Despite this… part of you needs to know. Needs to know he’s guilty… Needs to know for yourself that he hadn’t followed through with his debts.

The home he resides in is quiet. No attendants, no family, no pets. He lives alone.

No one will hear him scream.

You hold the blade in one palm, intent not to use it. When you seize his shoulder, Lord Kallaway startles awake in an instant.

“What—” he begins, delirious and drowsy boned. When his eyes catch sight of your obscured figure, he squeals and shuffles up the bed, noting the knife in your hand.

“Don’t scream,” you remark, tilting your head, “You know why I’m here, Lord Kallaway.”

He shakes his head, vehemently denying, “No, no, please—” the words are jumbled, tumbling out of his mouth, “I’ll give him what he wants, I’ll pay!”

You give a swift inhale. You know that even in his desperation, he is lying.

“Lord Kallaway,” you state, trying to subdue the man’s panic, “I can make this quick if you cooperate,” your voice darkens, “I’m one of the few who won’t resort to torture.”

“What do you want?” He contends, scrambling at the nightstand where his gold, sapphire and ruby encrusted rings lie, “I can give you more than he’s offering. I can give you all that I have—”

“You can’t,” You murmur, “Or else you would have already paid.”

“Please,” he begs, holding out the jewelry in his hands to your chest, “Please,” he lifts himself up onto his knees, slobbering with tears, shuffling over the bed to you, “You know my soul is already damned. You know what will happen to me! PLEASE! Have mercy on me!”

“I am,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek.

You step back, producing a flame in your hand. It illuminates the space about you, including the rope, including the chair, including Astarion, leaning against the wall with an unreadable expression.

Lucious eyes widen with realization.

“No!” He cradles his face in his hands, “I will suffer for eternity… oh gods… oh GODS!” He bellows into the bed, and a part of your mind that is drifting up at the ceiling reels in at the despondency of his voice.

“Lucious,” you murmur, “you made a deal with him knowing you’d never fulfill it. You had to have known the debt you’d owe.”

The man snivels into the mattress. The sight of him is like picking at a healing scab. You turn your head away, your fingers half clenching, your sight cast up to the ceiling. You feel as though you are observing yourself from overhead, the screeching and cawing thoughts in your mind unable to completely ensnare you yet clawing at you all the same.

Astarion steps forward.

“Why don’t we do him in darling? Though playing with my food is fun, I am not always in the mood for such hysterics.”

The man’s heaving sobs are half muffled by his mattress, his head buried in his blankets.

“No,” you counter, hand held up to halt his approach, “I’m not playing with him. I need him to do this.”

“I don’t think he will listen,” Astarion rebuffs, but you silence his retort with a look.

“Please,” You feel the bile burning in the back of your throat. You don’t want to do this. But you know it must be this way. You clamp your eyes shut, then reopen them, “give me time.”

You attempt to find the man’s eyes. When you latch onto his bleary gaze, he stops in his breathing.

“Do you want this to be done by force, Lucious?” You state, and his stare swivels from you, to Astarion, and then back to you. He shakes his head minutely, wiping the snot of his nose on his sleeve.

“Neither do I,” you say, while weighing the blade in your other hand, the man transfixed as you do so.

“I don’t want this to be messy. I don’t want to hurt you, Lucious,” you insist, calm and placid, the flame produced in your other hand lambent, casting yellow streams and shadowed boughs over the bend of your nose. Your voice dims like the sky before a storm, and you lean in toward the man’s face. He shrinks far back into himself.

The words are as sharp as the blade nipping the tender flesh beneath his chin, “Because I know how to hurt you. I know how to make it last. I know how to make this part the worst part. But you don’t want that, do you, Lucious?”

Lucious quivers, the syllables stuttering out from his lips, “N—no…” he gulps, then steadying himself with any last dignity he can muster, readjusts his posture.

“…No.”

“Then stand up and walk to the chair,” you order whilst pocketing your blade and beckoning him to his place of ruin.

Wordless, Lucious slides out of his silk cocoon. He is in nothing but his sleep clothes, the regality of his stature peeling away like a second skin. He won’t look at Astarion. He only looks at you. His cheeks are wet with rivers of despair. He tries to keep his chin high.

“You don’t have to do this,” his words are crumbling cities in the wake of his quaking frame, his teeth chattering as if he were freezing, “Y-you don’t have to make me do this.”

You bite your tongue, steeling yourself again the wave of guilt washing over you from his words. You open your mouth to reply, but Astarion speaks before you can.

“She hasn’t done anything to you, you ingrate,” Astarion grits out through a clenched jaw, then tsks, “You’ve done this to yourself.”

Your eyes flicker to Astarion. He doesn’t need to hear the words to know what you say.

Yet… Astarion can’t yet understand what lie ahead for the man before you both. It is a fate worse than centuries of torture…

Your attention turns back to Lucious. You take him by the hand, and he lets himself be guided toward the chair. He climbs up through his sniffles.

“You don’t have to do this.”

His hands tremble so violently he struggles to place the noose around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” you break eye contact, no longer able to bare the guilt weighing down upon you, no longer able to look this man in the eye knowing you are responsible for delivering him to his doom. The apology leaves you so sudden, so distraught, that Lucious’ eyes broaden, and his hands still at the rope around his throat.

He knows you mean it.

You hear Astarion inhale a ragged breath.

They both do.

“Lucious,” your hand befalls the man’s, your gaze unwavering, “don’t struggle, or else it will be prolonged. Close your eyes.”

I don’t have to do this.

Lucious does as instructed, sucking in his lips, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Imagine somewhere far away,” you lull, voice like a candlelight’s glow, warm, honeyed, “Do you have a place in mind?”

I have to.

He nods, and his tremoring hands ease down to his sides.

How many lives did you save?

Does it counteract the ones you took?

Should this not one day be your mirrored fate?

“That’s good,” you soothe, “keep it in your mind… and remember to breathe...”

He gulps in one last full, swift, gasp.

He kicks the chair.

The shadows swallow up your breath.

You can’t watch, so you don’t.

However, that doesn’t mean you don’t hear it.

The bang of the chair plummeting to the ground, the stretch of the rope and the squeeze of his throat.

But… it is not at all quick.

He struggles, like you warned him against, and he gargles and oscillates, legs kicking and hands scrabbling at the rope, fingernails frantically digging into the fibers as if deciding a moment too late that he mustn’t go out this way. It is grueling, those prolonged, continuous whines and strangled wheezes. They perpetuate like the wailing of the wind outside the stained-glass windows, whistling then dispelling with a silent whimper.

You wait, eyes shut, until no sound resounds about the room but the stressed sway of the rope, swinging back and forth from the weight of his limp body.

When you blink open your eyes, it is a moment too soon.

The belly of the floor bursts beneath Lucious’ body in tendrils of a black blaze. Cinders crackle and hiss in the air, as smoke bellows out and engulfs the room. The bowels of hells are lurching up like that of a ravenous wolf. It snaps its jaws and engorges itself upon its prey, seizing the leg of Luscious’ soul. As it does, Lucious’ phantom screams. You try to cover your ears to cease the sound, try to close your eyes once more yet it commands you to listen as it howls like claps of thunder, it demands you to see as it stains the back of your eyelids in streaks of violent violet.

The scorch of Lucious’ spectra is akin to dosing flesh in corrosive acid, it is the odor of bubbling, blistering skin, and the bloated choke of ash burns in your nostrils and swells in your lungs.

You know it means to completely untether his soul from his body, and as it does, Lucious’ unbearable shrieks and unbound laments are pried from the slack of his corpse, the covenant of damnation an insatiable sadist. It goes on, until it is full, until it has captured yet another to feast upon in a place where time does not pass, where time does not end.

After, there is nothing left before you besides the dangling body of a dead man, and a perfectly intact room.

Astarion heaves in a temoring breath, and you partially come back to yourself. His hand is wilted over his heart, his eyes vast with unprecedented horror.

You nearly topple over, barely catching your weight on Lucious’ headboard. Vomit is sure to boil up from the pit of your stomach, but you stifle it by clamping down your nails so tight into your fists that they pierce the fabric of your gloves. You sink them in until they break skin. It is then you begin to count down —five, four, three, two, one, five, four, three— the pain easing you back to motion, propelling you out the window and up to the roof.

It isn’t until you have left Lucious’ abode and are far up leaping over roof tops. Under a low-lit moon, Astarion speaks.

It happens in a flurry of movement, his hand wrapped firm around your wrist, anchoring you to the spot. You spin around in a daze, finding his gaze fastened to where your blood oath mark resides, hidden underneath the sleeve of your cloak.

“Is that what will happen to you if we fail?” He chokes out, dismayed. Your mind has yet to have settled fully back inside your head. It is floating above in the sky. You nod numbly.

He shakes his head, refusing to accept this reality, sick with the knowledge he has attained. He takes your hand in his, his thumb strokes your palm yet pauses when he notes the tears in the fabric.

Your name leaves his mouth. It sounds like the mist veiling the valley peaks, it sounds like getting lost inside the woods. It sounds like despair.

“That is the price you were willing to pay for me?”

You take in the anguish of his expression. You want to deny it. But you can’t.

I was willing to do anything for you.

I still am.

Your silence is answer enough. He crumbles as a tangled breath escapes through his teeth.

“Gods,” he curses, stumbling back as if you’d struck him. He swipes over his mouth, his irises a swash of diluted crimson. He says your name once more, but this time it is feeble, teetering out, half breathed, half uttered.

“I won’t fail,” you try to assure him, and his eyes never waver from yours.

“No,” he fervently agrees, for he has no choice but to believe you, as the alternative is too horrible to consider, too unbearable to contemplate, “we won’t fail.”

☾

The night runs red down his jaw, the rush of adrenaline pulsing hot in his chest, the benevolent creature cowering in his fist. Astarion sinks his fangs into its vying veins and drinks to his heart’s content.

The blood blooms his pupils wide, consuming the whites of eyes. The flavor will have to suffice, not nearly as decadent nor delicious, not nearly as heavenly iniquitous as the taste of her.

The fox’s body becomes limp.

His becomes infinite.

However, the timeframe is shorter with these modest meals. He can feel himself wither throughout the days as they pass by, his vision static stars and his reflexes a tad sluggish, a beat slower.

Despite this, he keeps delaying the act until it’s too difficult to ignore. Now and days, there is a guilt in feeding, one that he’d conditioned himself to forget those centuries ago. This grief pulls taunt like an arrow in a bow, threatening to release, threatening to pierce him deep.

It is as deep as the way she looked at him that night, recoiling into herself, withdrawing into the places he can’t reach, can’t yet know.

He can’t forget the way her eyes fell away from his, like rose pedals trickling onto the bed and falling in his lungs, that expression prickling thorns, twining around his unbeating heart.

She was afraid.

And yes, there was a time he would have reveled in that debauchery of fright. Oh, how he used to brew in delight at the whimpers of pathetic pleas, used to dance in the phantoms that were encased in his victim’s gaze. It was as if he were a harbinger of death, and… there was power in it.

And during that time, power was God.

He could become all he had been stripped of, could embody that of a being without the need to hide, who need not beg nor weep, who need not sob or grovel into the dirt.

He had become cruel, for if he wasn’t a god, then he was the dog, snapping its jaws, without a will of its own, lurching against its leash for a master that did not preach mercy, did not know regret.

Yet now, with no master, with no collar, with no need to assert dominance to feel less weak, then what becomes of the beast?

He sets the fox down onto the pavement. His gaze befalls the stick of blood upon his hands.

Did he watch his body concave under the starve of shame?

Did he become an animal aimlessly roaming the streets to temper a ravenous thirst?

He doesn’t know.

Perhaps with the ascension…

He would have become a plump, pompous, and petulant god. All alone in his palace yet surrounded by his spawn. They, like his dogs, would howl when he commands, would bite when he decreed.

Yes. He would have it all.

But then… he would have nothing.

Would she have still taken this oath for me then? Would her soul be in jeopardy still?

The mere thought of the oath evokes recollections of Lucious’ soul, causing Astarion to hunch over. He palms at the brick wall to keep him upright.

That won’t happen to her.

And no. Of course, she wouldn’t have taken the oath… but what good does it do to fixate on what could have been? Yes… perchance she’d be safer, albeit… much farther… gone from him… and he would be…

Alone.

The possibility of eternity without her would have been a torture he’d have submitted himself to unknowingly… The price of ignorance and bliss would have come at the cost of his heart, at the expense of his soul… and even something as fickle or small as the fox lying dead at his feet… had a soul.

Oh gods… I can’t bear to know the cost she could pay… I can’t fathom that she… she wagered hers for me. And all I had done in return was punish her for trying to protect me…

Even worse than that fate, is the knowledge that selfishly… he wouldn’t have let her run far from him. No. He would have claimed her as his consort. He would have plucked her from the sky and shackled her to his side…

Would that not be the same as damning her soul?

Yet this anguish to have her with him never leaves him, despite trying to brush it aside, or firmly dismiss it, or shove it away, or run from it, or attempt to kill it— even if the hells were to drag her to its depths, I’d fall into the abyss —

Ever since he witnessed the perils of Lucious’ death, he has become paranoid at the same occurring to her. It is why, regardless of trying to maintain a safe distance prior and trying to pave the way for forgiveness, he can’t seem to keep his hands off of her, can’t seem to stop wanting to kiss her, and hold her, and protect her, even if before he was the one to perpetuate her pain —

Astarion smears the blood from his lips. He collects himself as best he can, then traverses the path back.

Several weeks have passed, and plans for the next marks have been made… even their place of residency changed. The dilapidated state of the building’s entrance remains in a state of purposeful reconstruction, but the top floor is preserved and internally pristine. It isn’t as opulent as the private sweet at the inn, with its lack of décor and stored riches, yet, she seems lighter here, less on edge.

And for that reason, he prefers it.

His movements quicken as he scales the side of the building. He stops at the second-floor window and slides in with ease, shutting it behind him.

Climbing up the stairs, he listens intently to any sound that may give away her presence.

Yet… none do.

Pushing open the door to their shared room, he finds it empty.

His heart drops.

Hells, where is she?

He calls out her name.

No response.

He bolts out the door, combing the place for any signs of life. The eerie quiet concocts a potion of foreboding, the kind that trickles his skin in beads of sweat, and he doesn’t realize he is holding his breath until he discovers the opened hatch leading to the rooftop in the hallway.

He rushes up the stairs, taking two at a time.

Up here, the view pours into his eyes, the weaving pattern of homes in the city like that of tesserae in a mosaic.

His attention diverts, and there, with a sigh of profound relief, he finds her curled up atop a bench, fast asleep.

Had she been waiting here for me?

When he reaches her, he takes a moment to memorize the way her eyelashes fall over her eyes, the way her nose crinkles as a faint draft causes her to shiver. She balls tighter into herself, arms wrapped around her waist, her knees tucked in.

There is a twinge of pain in his chest.

She looks in pain even at rest.

He kneels and gathers her in his arms. He lifts her up, her head lulling against his shoulder.

He carries her carefully down the stairs, down the hallway, and to the room. He lays her onto the bed, as gentle as possible, then turns to leave to close the hatch.

“Astarion,” she mumbles, nearly delirious in her exhaustion — really, when was the last time she slept? — and latches onto his shirt. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Yes, my dear?” He whispers in jest and squeezes her hand.

She responds back so softly he thinks he imagines it.

“…I love you.”

His breath catches. The roses and thorns in his lungs and in his chest simultaneously bloom and clench. His brow furrows.

Why?

How?

She always has this way of undressing the soul.

His thumb sweeps over her forehead. He swallows.

“Forevermore,” he promises, even though he knows that she doesn’t hear it, her breathing settling into that of drifting across the sea, her hand limp in his.

He steps back, the rising sun stretching its limbs and sneaking in past the drapes. He tiptoes over the strand of light, then firmly tugs the drapes closed, and retreats out of the room to shut the hatch.

After he has fully rid himself of any remnants of blood, and after he is clean, he returns to the bed, and envelopes her in his arms, pulling her near.

He can hear her heartbeat as if it were his own.

One thing is beyond any doubt.

I can’t lose her.

♦

Ten

Octavia A. Dixon

Donned in her most quaint attire, a lone woman attempts to conceal herself amongst common folk, despite the drip of her pearl earrings and the slide of her jade bangle. Her sharp features are beset in a severe disposition as she twists the bangle around and around her thin wrist.

The filed nails of her other hand tap, tap, tap an incessant rhythm into the corner booth, tucked away from the crowd currently swarming the bar. Each clink of glasses, each howl of laughter, each pluck of a lute’s strings makes her dig her filed nails into the wood, until little etchings are left under their wake. She unsticks her blouse from the dampness of her skin, rolling her shoulders back with a crack.

The crumpled note shoved in her satchel is smoothed out in her mind, the ink as black as the trepidation bloated in her belly.

I have information on Drake Kane, Lady Dixon. You were right about Lord Kallaway’s suicide. It reeks of foul play— I’ve met with some girls from The Vixen’s Inn, most of them denied speaking to me. However, I secured a source. She is willing to talk about who her true employer was…. and who it is now.

If you’re interested, meet with her and I at the Elfsong Tavern.

You’ve been traversing into the Lower City often enough to know where it is located, correct?

The specific date and time are stated below.

Octavia shifts in her seat. She is here—admittedly early, despite the fact that she got lost twice in her pursuit finding the damn place— but where are they? Will they be showing? Was this too good to be true?

As the thought enters her mind, the entrance to the inn opens with a bang, and a pair come through. One with the unmistakable build and height of a man, with perusing eyes and expressive brows, the other a woman, frail and thin, curled in on herself, undeniably young yet with the body language of someone weathered and aged. They speak to one another as if dealing in secrets, the man covering his mouth and the woman leaning in to listen.

This must be them.

Octavia abruptly stands, heart thumping wild in her chest. She does not wave them over, does not need to, as they have already noticed her, are already approaching.

She settles herself in her seat as the strangers find her table. The man is quick to offer her a handshake, his lips curling upward into a suave smile. His voice shares the same upward lilt.

“Good evening, Miss Octavia,” he says, and at the siren song of his tone her hand finds his, as if it has a mind of its own.

She swallows thickly, her eyes unable to leave his roguish yet undeniably handsome face.

“Oh, yes, the pleasure is mine,” Octavia replies, then drops her hand, which had been enfolded in his for a moment longer than necessary, “Do take a seat. I am assuming this is…?”

Octavia gestures toward the young woman, whose round eyes and pretty face were assuredly her selling feature. The young woman’s gentle eyes flick to the man’s like that of a docile deer, easily frightened.

He pats the young woman’s hand, then turns his attention back to Octavia.

“Yes. This is her. Regrettably, I doubt in this current environment Phoebe will be doing much talking. Perhaps we can rent a room to further discuss in private?”

Octavia fiddles with her bangle. The prospect of moving somewhere away from the public would no doubt be a bad idea for her safety. However, she had come all this way. She needs this information if she wants the publication’s full attention. Bribery did not work. They bound themselves to journalistic integrity, and if this could ensure her evidence from a reliable source… they would have no choice but to listen.

The Uppercity is depending on her.

The man touches her wrist, and she jolts out of her thoughts.

“If you’re concerned with your safety, I could always wait outside the door,” he offers with dip in his brow, “though I may be able to offer my own intel in addition to hers.

This perks up Octavia’s ears. She sits up straight in her seat, then gives the man a short shake of the head, “Oh… well in that case, I would fancy to hear it, plus, I trust this will not take too much time. Shall I pay for the room?”

“No need at all, darling,” the man calmly halts her hand, “I’ll pay. Give me a moment.”

Octavia watches him depart, then refocuses on the timid woman before her.

Octavia leans in across the table and whispers, “Is this okay with you?”

Phoebe nods in response, a frail creature of few words. Sympathy plumes up inside Octavia’s chest. The life this unfortunate thing must have endured. It is quite pitiful, really, if she dawdles on it too long.

The man returns with a rusted room key. Octavia half wishes she wore gloves when receiving it from his hands.

“Let us head up the stairs. You can follow me,” he beckons, and Octavia stands, spine straightening and shoulders held back.

With all her mustered-up courage and routine grace, Octavia trails after him, hand finding the stairwell. Phoebe lingers close behind.

The man, whose name she had recalled as Astra from the letter, holds open the door for her with a poised smile. She nods at him, then enters the room, hastening to unlatch her satchel and fumble for her parchment, ink pot, and quill.

The door shuts behind her, with a click of the lock. 

She sets the materials down on a desk at the end of the room.

“I was told you have information on Lord Kallaway; would you mind telling me how familiar you are with him?” Phoebe requests with her back turned, dipping the quill into her ink pot, and writing out the date and name of her interviewees.

A roar of laughter erupts from downstairs, followed by the thrum of a lute, and a pounding of a drum. A rhythmic beat of feet meeting the floor and people singing bursts through the walls of the room. Octavia flinches with irritation. She neatly spells out her question on the parchment paper, despite every thump causing her quill to pierce the paper and bleed ink between the letters.

“Very familiar,” Phoebe replies, yet Octavia finds her voice to not quite fit the petite woman. She had mused it to sound as skittish and tentative as the woman looked. Instead, it seemed… austere. Fierce.

Octavia peeks over her shoulder at the young woman. Astra has his arms crossed, back leaning against the door. He directly meets her eyes, and for some reason, Octavia blushes, and averts her gaze back to her parchment.

“Is it true he was operating some of the brothels in the Lower City?” Octavia asks, her back turned once more as she dips her quill into the ink, saturating the fine tip.

She writes the same question in her paper.

“Don’t you work with the press?” Phoebe retorts, and with the suddenness of it, Octavia’s hand jolts, “why resort to speaking to me if you already know everything?”

“Da—Phoebe, no need to be so severe,” Astra interjects, but Octavia sets her quill down and turns to face them both.

“It’s okay, I know you are coming from a place of fear,” Octavia assures, “I understand coming here is dangerous. And I appreciate it,” she takes a step closer to the other woman, feels a clench of condolence in her gut, “I do not currently work with the press. Consider me a private investigator.”

“You mean, you have no connections?” Phoebe inquires.

An elated escalation of mirth booms from downstairs. A twanging of a lute, a wailing of a refrain.

“None concretely made. They will not listen without an eyewitness account, and well, you are that,” Octavia guarantees.

“Do they know you’re here?”

The crowd below is joining in, rejoicing in knowing the lyrics to the tune, their voices rising and rising in octave.

“No, I came of my own accord.”

“Does anyone know?”

Someone hollers with delight. A glass shatters.

“No, and I swear, your confidentiality is of utmost importance—”

“You’ve made a dire mistake, Octavia,” Phoebe remarks, and before Octavia can register it, the pain eclipses her body like the crescendo of a song.

The evening imparts upon her the consequence of good intentions, and she becomes like that of the inkblot in her parchment.

☾

Astarion often finds her here on the rooftop terrace of their temporary residence, gazing forlorn up at the stars. These evenings where waiting is the only strategy to have before the next mark tend to leave her restless. There, she resides, sat atop the balcony ledge, much to his distress, and takes a swig from a bottle, then sets it down beside her. 

The bottle of wine is a quarter of the way empty. Her vigilance is of the same account, jerking out of a frigid thought as he settles down beside her. He does so gingerly, eyeing the bottom view as if it were an ocean of sharks, and she hmms in mild amusement.

Her smile is warm like the fluid that ran down her throat. It, albeit always a bit cautious, is all the more infectious. He repays it in full.

“I still can’t believe you went with the name Phoebe,” she jests, quirking a brow at him.

The wind swishes through her hair like a glissando. Her voice has the same effect. He rubs his chin in mock deliberation, “In my defense, it does sound like such a demure, defenseless name.”

She tilts her head, musing, “Have you known plenty of Phoebes then?”

He contemplates, whilst setting the bottle to the floor behind them, so that he may sit closer to her, “Not a single one.”

She laughs, and it is a rare, enchanting melody.

“I guess it was better than being conspicuous,” she prods him with her finger in his ribs, “Like Astra.”

He smirks, whilst grasping at her finger.

“I thought that to be very clever. What if I had forgotten my false name? I had to choose something like my own, you see. I’m not as adept at remembering names as you are,” he replies, tapping her head with his finger, and she brushes it away with a roll of her eyes.

“You’re indeed very clever, you just can’t trust your tongue,” she remarks, her gaze glittering with amusement.

“Oh, you’re very right my dear, I can’t trust my tongue,” he leans in, stare dipping to the plush of her lips and admits, “…unless it’s in your mouth.”

Her breath hitches. Her gaze skimming from his mouth to his stare, but then she leans away, a moment too soon. Her smile is faint, fleeting. She rubs her eyes.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Astarion notes, a twinge of yearning still flickering like a flame in his chest.

She counters, while diverting her attention to the scenery before them, “You haven’t been eating.”

He frowns in response, mirroring her posture.

“You didn’t feed on Octavia,” she mentions, “and that was a couple weeks ago.”

“I wasn’t hungry at the time,” he assures, but when it comes to her, his usual gifting of telling lies unravels as soon as it leaves his mouth.

She gives him that really now?  look that he’s grown far too accustomed to.

“You looked like you could consume her… and you didn’t. Any time you leave to feed… you return shortly after. You’ve become clumsy… you’ve been acting slow…” she trails off, and he huffs.

“I’m offended at the very notion of that. My reflexes are second to none,” he pledges, yet she doesn’t acquiesce.

“You seem paler, which I didn’t even think was possible.”

He leans into her space with a mischievous smile, “It’s flattering that you pay such close attention to me, my dear.”

“Astarion,” she reproaches, and he shifts back. His hands are all animated as he speaks, as if he’d forgotten he is three stories above the ground.

“Now, now, don’t Astarion me. Must everything have a reason? Must you always pick up on everything?” He complains, and she instantly interposes.

“So, you admit there is something wrong—”

Astarion’s voice overlaps hers, “Have I mentioned how ravishing you look right now? It’s quite something—”

“Is this because of me?”

His grin dissipates. He turns away from her seemingly omniscient stare.

“No,” he reiterates.

“No?”

Another breeze slips its fingers over their forms. Astarion clenches onto the ledge, his hand bumping hers. He won’t say another word. It’s dangerous when she gets him talking – it’s near impossible to evade her.

“Astarion,” she says, and his name from her lips is akin to pouring himself into mornings that never come, “Whatever the reason, it hurts me to see you like this.”

He swallows, then sighs—but it is cut short when she rests her arm on his lap, her wrist upward, her palm open.

“It doesn’t have to be from my neck,” she murmurs, “we can try like this, can’t we?”

His brows rise, and he’s about to take her arm and place it aside, but then he catches her eyes. Her gaze is fretful, imploring like the very pull of his instinct to drink.

Must you look at me that way?

It makes me want to do anything for you.

But the burden of guilt swarms inside his gut.

He intakes a drag of air through his nostrils. He places his hand on hers.

“I won’t,” he states.

“If it’s from my wrist, I’m sure it’ll be okay,” she reassures, but he contends.

“It’s the same.”

“I won’t react like I did before.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I really do think I’ll be alright—”

Her name tumbles from his lips, defeated, immediate, followed by “I can’t.”

She recoils. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I can’t hurt you again. I don’t want to make you cry again,” Astarion elucidates, “You were afraid of me… and I… don’t want you to fear me. I want you to feel safe with me, like how I feel when I’m with —” He exhales, his tone a touch more tender, “with you.”

“You do make me feel safe,” she replies, intwining their fingers, “I wasn’t ready then. But I am ready to try like this now…, but only if you want to. I won’t ever force you to do something you don’t want.”

His head lulls back as he stares at the sky. If his heart still knew how to beat – it would be pounding against his chest.

“You have no idea how much I want it,” his adam’s apple bobs, “how much I yearn for you,” his attention slips to her, and how darling she is perched there beside him, how lovely, how enrapturing, “to taste you is to taste my demise and my salvation.”

She inches closer, too close. Her words are but a whisper.

“I’ll count, like you told me to. Then you stop.”

His chest clenches. This ocean of desire has become a typhoon.

She untangles their fingers. She raises her wrist to his lips.

“What if I can’t stop?” He responds, his cadence thick.

“You will,” she nods, biting her lip. He wets his own.

His breathing becomes ragged.

How he wants to devour her.

“Five,” she commences, slow, and he moves as leisurely, sinking his fangs into her wrist, listening to her gasp. He begins to suck, and she momentarily forgets to count, until he mmms into her skin as a reminder.

He drinks, and the flavor is akin to the dawn’s embrace.

Warm and full, the trees rustling, the crickets chirping, the spring water glistening, the wind whistling, and the morning mist pebbling on his skin –

“Four.”

It tastes like the embodiment of her — free, flittering across a cerulean and yellow sky, and suddenly he’s not afraid of heights, suddenly he is up above swishing through swashes of clouds, dipping through rays of gold –

“Three.”

Another pull of her blood into his mouth, and every endorphin sings, every vein coursing with electricity, every bone feels heavy, yet his chest is featherlight –

“Two…”

When had she become melded to his side? When had he clamped down on her wrist and gripped her thigh?

“O-one…”

And with each drink he can feel it rolling down his body like ripples of waves, can hear her heartbeat thump in his skull, can taste the heat building between her thighs, his hand clenching and unclenching over her thigh, then sliding nearer to the place that calls out for him so sweetly, the lust luscious and the burning boiling hot –

He wants all of her, wants to drink from her, wants to touch her, wants to imprint himself upon her, wants to know all her surreptitious senses and make them sing with desire for him, wants to –

Her hand clutches his atop her upper thigh, and he wrenches his fangs from her wrist. His chest is heaving, his body a cord begging to be strummed.

His eyes latch onto hers. He opens his mouth to apologize – but she extinguishes it with her own.

The smear of her blood is on her lips, yet she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stop, and he hums at the back of his throat, the taste and feel of her mouth on his divine, so much so it sizzles up his spine and he forgets control, forgoes restraint –

She nips his lip with her teeth, and he gasps. Her tongue finds his, twining and writing poetry with her kiss. His hands are caressing her cheek and the underside her jaw, tasting her deeper, and her hands are grasping at the front of his shirt, then sliding over the bulge at the front of his trousers.

“Hah,” he pants, hips nearly bucking up to meet her all too teasing touch. She pulls back from his lips if only a hair breadth away.

“Can I touch you?” she whispers, and he nearly whimpers in reply, his brow furrowing, simultaneously intoxicated on blood, lust, and a third thing he always struggles to articulate…

“Here?” he replies, his kiss stippling down her chin, suckling at her neck, yet she doesn’t cringe in fear, doesn’t wince.

He can hear the smile in her words as she promises, “I won’t let you fall.”

At the mention of falling, his eyes blink open in realization, and one hand lurches out to grip the side of the ledge. She laughs.

“Hells,” he mutters, his staggering panic at the sight of the distant drop to his right competing with the strain in his pants. The lingering savor of her blood still blooms on his tongue like the moon in the black sky.

Heights can never deter her, however, as she leans in once more, until he’s lying flat atop the mercifully wide ledge. She has him straddled beneath her thighs.

“Are you afraid?” she questions, crawling over him, her eyes twinkling like the stars overhead.

“Yes,” Astarion admits, yet makes no move to get up.

“Do you want to stop?” Her expression shifts into one of concern, and she motions to get up, yet his hands grip at either side of her hips, preventing her from leaving.

“No,” he retorts, his voice strangled in his throat, yet evidently certain.

She eases back down onto him, and he wheezes through his clenched teeth, the press of her clothed sex onto his crotch making his head lull back and his eyes squeeze shut.

She grinds down against him, rocking back and forth, her palms falling over his chest. The friction is not enough yet altogether too much—

Her repeating hmms of lip-bit suppressed moans sear down to where he needs her most.

“Please,” he utters, his fingers digging into her hips, despite himself, “It’s torture.”

She pries away his fingers and he reluctantly lets her, then sits up. The loss of her makes him feel feral.

But then, her fingers are in the waistband of his pants and his undergarments, and she’s tugging at them —

He lifts his hips to aid her, and she succeeds in yanking them to his mid-thigh, his cock springing free. The cold press of concrete on his backside makes him hiss, the whish of cool air making him shiver. Her hand, wet with her saliva, wraps around the base of his cock, and the warmth that was so suddenly stolen from him is encased in the soft of her palm.

“Ahgh,” he groans, hips surging forward, her name teetering from his tongue.

She leans down to murmur into the shell of his ear, “You’re safe with me,” her rhythm remains melodic, deliberate, “Just focus on my fingers,” he twitches in her hand, “on my voice…”

Her hand pumps up and down, up and down, and he listens to her labored breath, all eager at making a mess of him…

He pants, feeling as though his eyes will roll to the back of his head at the sensation, her hand snug and soft, so good…

His hand enfolds hers, and urges her on faster, more, faster, to wrap her fingers tighter, harder, just like that, yes—! as he moans unabashedly loud into the night, his hips careening higher, and higher. It is building and building, like fangs sinking into skin, like the night turning to the morning sunrise—

Yet then, her hand abruptly stops.

“No—” he startles, the loss of her touch surely a new form of suffering, “Please,” he begs, as his hips raise in futility, “D-Darling— please— don’t stop—"

But it is not her hand that encompasses him, it is her mouth —

“Ah!” Astarion gasps, his body set aflame, the warm wet of her mouth and the swirl of her tongue over the head of his cock nearly enough to make him weep. Her fingers curl around his hips as she presses her lips to the underside of the tip, and each and every peppered kiss is maddeningly diaphanous. He arches his back, his breath shuttering and his chest fluttering at the affection of her gesture.

He means to catch sight of it, so he rises onto his elbows, but then she is gripping over his hips, endeavoring to hold him steady as she meets his eye and begins to bob her head up and down his shaft.

Her name seems to shatter past the clench of his teeth as she takes as much of him in her throat as she can manage, and it’s enough to swing his head back and see celestial cities behind his eyelids.

She hallows her cheeks, sucking firm, and Astarion’s moans rumble through his chest and out past his parted lips, his hand diving into her hair, gathering it in his loose fist to keep it from cascading over her face.

And he does try, desperately, not to force her head down, but it’s so fucking hard, it feels so good, it feels like he’s delving into velvet, like he’s drinking her blood until he’s pitiably drunk –

He feels her moans humming over the base of his cock, and she’s so exquisite, so perfect, and by the gods she’s taking him so deep like such a good fucking girl, until there’s tears in the corner of her eyes and running down her cheeks, and he said he didn’t want to make her cry, but he can’t stop —

And then it’s there, flooding through him like rapids in a river, drowning him in a senseless sort of pleasure, akin to the sweet release of dying, where everything is cast in a vast garden of white, the kind of death he’ll only ever experience with her —

“I’m going to—” he pleads in warning, but his hand is still weaved in her hair, still clutching the strands, “you’re going to make me—!”

Little does he know, this was always her favorite part, even better when he watches, so her pace doesn’t let up, it only quickens, and her moans persist in vibrating over his shaft, and she’s peering up at him with those half hooded eyes, and it’s all he can take before he’s climaxing, his hips jolting forward and his cock pulsating as she drinks every last drop.

When it’s over, his hand descends like a leaf from her hair to his side, his body vibrant with the vivid gold of an afterglow. He chases his breath while admiring her drag her thumb over the drips on her chin to her tongue.

 He lays fully back then, a hand over his eyes as he smiles with pearly whites and pointy fangs.

“Hells,” a bubble of laughter forms in his throat at the absurdity of receiving oral sex atop a gods damn balcony ledge, “two centuries old and yet you manage to be my first for many experiences.”

She gives a soft laugh, still catching her breath. His chuckles, however, become a swift inhale as she delicately cleans him with her fingers, then helps yank up his undergarments and pants. He looks at her through the slivers of his fingers.

“Is that your way of saying you find me special?” she jokes with a sleepy smile, all sanguine and sweet. Astarion pulls her down to lie on his chest and kisses the top of her head.

“Is that your way of wanting me to tell you you’re special?” He replies, easing into night’s yawning breeze and the way her hair tickles his nose.

“Mmmm,” she responds, her arm enclosing over his waist, “Maybe.”

He chuckles, and then they sink into the silk of the night’s solace.

A long lull of silence ensues, and he thinks he could remain here forever, if not for the sun’s return.

Perhaps an hour or so has passed, and he ponders if she’s fallen asleep, and how best to carry her downstairs to the bed, when she whispers.

“Astarion.”

There’s something there in her voice that lacks any of its prior humor.

“Yes, my dear?” he coos, his eyes having fallen closed, his fingernails combing through her hair, his body in harmony despite the height of where it lies.

 “…I love you.”

He becomes very still beneath her.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, she continues, in that same careful, sincere tone.

“Despite everything that came before, and everything that will come.”

He answers quietly. “You say that like you’re saying goodbye.”

“Maybe I won’t get to,” she half rises, and finds his gaze, “so I need you to know.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he firmly contends, yet she shakes her head.

“Nothing is certain,” she sighs, whilst gazing at the horizon. She then looks back at him and takes his hand in hers. She places it over her heart, and its beating is like that of freshly fallen snow, like newly blossomed pedals in spring, “except for how I feel for you.”

Tears prick his eyes. He rises and she shifts to sit on his lap. His hands caress her face.

“You already know, don’t you?” He whispers, gentle, and searches for it in her eyes, “how deeply in love I am with you.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears.

Her lips quiver.

“I never want us to be apart again, so please,” he kisses her wet lashes, and then tucks her head beneath his chin, his arms wrapping around her, “don’t speak as though we will be.”

☾☼

Your right hand is on his shoulder, his left resting on your shoulder blade. Your other hand is clasped in his.

“Feet together, then right, then close, feet together–” you instruct as your bodies dance across the bedroom floor.

“Darling, I hardly need guidance on how to do a simple waltz,” Astarion sardonically comments, though he undermines it by misstepping again, nearly stomping on your toe. Your nose scrunches, and you quirk a brow.

“You’re obviously very much out of practice,” you dotingly mock, then inhale once more, “feet together, then left, then close—”

He missteps again, then offers you a coy, wolfish grin.

“Maybe if we had music, it would be easier to keep rhythm,” he remarks, a stray curl falling over his forehead. You sigh whilst swiping it back into place.

“The masquerade ball is in a month or so. We must look the part,” you argue, and he rolls his eyes and leans in.

“I don’t recall in all my life a time where enacting a murder meant including a dance,” Astarion quips with a scowl, and you close the distance by purposefully bumping the tip of your nose with his.

His attempt at suppressing a smile fails terribly so.

“If we are assuming the identities of our next marks, then we have to know how to dance if asked,” you reason, and he sulks in response.

“I’m only agreeing to this because of how devastatingly gorgeous I’ll look in that suit you got me,” he gloats, then pouts, as if mildly irked that you are no longer paying attention to him now that he is finally following your lead, “…and of course, I’ll want to see how utterly captivating you will look as well.”

You don’t respond, still too focused on watching his feet. His hand tilts your chin back up so that you must meet his eyes.

“Is it customary to look at your feet during a waltz as well?” He teases, with a rise of his brow.

Your eyes narrow at him, yet the corners of your lips perk up, a betrayal of the annoyance you’ve been combatting the entirety of this lesson.

He would throw a fit if I called this a lesson.

“Astarion,” you scold, “I know you know the steps… or would it better if I count the beats?”

The mere mention of counting makes him hmmph, and you swear, if he could blush, he would be doing so.

“Don’t mention counting unless you want a repeat of the other night,” he cautions with the kind of smile that crinkles his crow’s-feet and makes the scarlet of his irises glint with mischievous intent.

A heat plumes up your neck and settles in the apples of your cheeks.

“I’m being serious!” You exclaim, and he huffs out a haughty laugh.

“As am I,” he retaliates, then leans in to kiss you. You turn your head so that his lips press to your cheek.

“Astarion…” you warn, but then his lips are trailing down your jaw, and his arms are encompassing you close, the waltz be damned.

“Don’t we have to pretend to be married too?” he hums against your skin, parting his lips and sucking at the underside of your jaw, “should we consummate our marriage as preparation?”

You open your mouth to reply, but then his lips are trailing to the pulse point beneath your ear.

You feebly search for the words you wanted to say… before you lose the chance to…

“Our next mark…” you mumble out, your breath catching with every kiss and suckle on your neck, subconsciously noting how even now, he never uses his teeth there anymore, “…I-I think I—”

“Yes,” he mews, his knee wedging between your thighs, “tell me what it is you think…”

You inhale, and let your eyes fall closed.

“I think I should go alone…”

A beat.

His knee falls as he pulls away from your neck and holds you by your arms. There is sliver between his brows, a disapproving dip in his mouth. He awaits your explanation, without a reprieve of his own reply.

“It’s…” you try to say, yet the words are tethered to your tongue. You’ve been struggling to tell him for the past week, yet now, when the time has come that you have no other choice but to be vulnerable… but to tell him about this…

You can’t.

To confess the past would be to resurrect the dead. You used to go about your life like you didn’t exist, a phantom lover passing through others in fleeting reassurances. If he knows, will his gaze still turn toward you? Will he still playfully rest his chin on your shoulder while pulling you close?

Will he return to you?

That humiliation was like bile; yet you kept yourself purging.

Why did you keep yourself urgent for others who used you?

Why did you let yourself be belittled?

He’s not like them.

They only wanted your sex. Only wanted the flesh. Only wanted the part of you and gave up the whole and what happens if he knows that---

They’ve all… had their share.

How can you let yourself be seen when you know what you are?

How can you hope for a garden when you are the weeds?

He says your name. You’d gotten lost in the chasm of your thoughts.

Astarion’s white brows are knit together; his head slanted.

“It’s nothing…” you shake your head, stepping away from him, “I thought you’d enjoy a night of rest, but… it’s better you go,” you give him a half shrug.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” he states, stern yet patient, “what are you not saying?”

“Nothing,” you offer him a faint smile, and something inside you dies a bit at the cowardice of it, “it’s nothing.”

☾☼

A/N:

Confession time... the montage of kills ended up being too long. I have written currently 16k+ in counting, and that's way too long to post in one chapter. So, that to say, expect the second "part" very soon from now.

We are nearing a very big reveal, and then we will be entering the final arc of the story. Please let me know if the change of POV was okay, or if you prefer strictly reading from the reader's point of view.

Thank you so much for leaving a heart and commenting. I try to reply to every comment. It means so much to me, and keeps me going <3 (that, and my undying passion for Astarion lol).

[dimeadozencows]

Now that things in The Amazing Digital Circus are starting to ramp up, I decided to post my pet theory on what kinger's deal is;

CW: this is sad.

Before anything I should clarify that I 100% believe that kinger was one of/the lead programmer behind the circus, and that it was originally intended to be a sort of medical virtual therapy for severe mental trauma victims and people dealing with memory loss

(I'll be honest I'm not a part of the theorizing community for this show, so that could've already been confirmed or debunked and I could look very stupid rn, but that's a risk I'm willing to take for my take on this)

The reason I believe that it was built specifically for trauma victims and help with memory loss is because the adventures built/interpreted by Caine are either attempts at very lighthearted fun (episode 1, 2, and 5) or depict realistic aspects from the humans lives (episode 4 for gangle, and episode 3 for kinger as I'm about to explain)

The lighthearted ones would be for the trauma victims; an activity completely detached from reality, that they enter the circus for a few hours a day or a few days at a time for, then leave.

And the ones that include familiar and realistic parts of the participants lives are for the people with memory loss; a low stakes environment where some things are very familiar- allowing mental muscle memory to come back slowly.

Kinger must have been dealing with young-onset dementia or alzheimer's, and was hoping that his work on this virtual therapy might help stop or slow down his illness. He might've felt like he was doing something good that could help others like him too, this must have been a passion project.

He looks out for the rest of the cast like a father, Maybe before the circus he and his wife wanted to have children, but he was scared that he wouldn't be able to be there for them, not fully. So he was doing this for both of them, and their theoretical children

He and his wife entered the game together, and everything went wrong. They couldn't get out.

He had doomed himself, the love of his life, and their future together.

The high stress environment worsened his illness and the guilt from what he had done to his love ate at him from the inside. He couldn't be there for her the way she was for him.

His wife abstracted. This place he helped create and brought her to had killed her. In his guilt ridden mind he must feel as though he was her murderer.

It's ironic, isn't it? This place he was so sure would be what would fix him, make everything okay for them both, for their future children, ended up being what destroyed it all.

Tl;dr: kinger was one of/the lead programmer behind the digital circus, it was a passion project of his because he thought it could help him with his early-onset memory loss, and make him a good future father and a better husband. When he and his wife got stuck inside the circus his illness got worse, and without his support, his wife abstracted, leaving him broken and guilt ridden in his lucid moments